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What the Macoun Field Club did in 2020-2021

 September 12, 2020: A perfect day to get back into the field

Under blue skies, a restless breeze, and hints of colour in the landscape, eight excited children, half of them completely new to the Macoun Field Club, headed out on a field trip to the Club’s nature-study area. It soon developed that their common interests were focused on snakes and water. Roaming across the big maple woods, we encountered 15 Garter Snakes and laid hands on 11 of them. Two were just babies, recently “born,” the new girl Alma informed us, from eggs that had hatched inside the mother snake.

We halted for lunch on a broad rock ledge overlooking a marsh, and from the watery edge the children retrieved the skeletal remains of a large Snapping Turtle. Putting the two halves of the carapace back together, Rob measured its former length as 14 inches (35.5 cm) — a big turtle, when you realize that the tail and head would each have been about 8 inches long, for a total length of about 30 inches (75 cm).

The group poked around the main stream that drains ponds from the Sarsaparilla Trail (Pond I) all the way down. They walked its edges in search of Leopard and Green Frogs at its midpoint (“the culvert”, between Ponds III and IV), waded into the marshes of Pond VI, and splashed over the watery terraces below the last beaver pond, Pond VII. Although Water Snakes were reported, none were seen for confirmation by the adults in charge, who hung back on dry land.

September 19, 2020: And a perfect day at Pakenham

Today was for the older members (teenagers, high-school students), and we walked straight in to a favourite Pakenham beaver pond where we have camped before. Our group was joined — rejoined — by well-remembered former Macouner Julia Ellis, who needed some specimens for her Aquatic Ecosystem course.

While grubbing around under water Julia bumped into a melon-sized, jelly-like globe, which, she was told, was a freshwater bryozoan colony. The tiny animals are filter feeders, and their individual homes lightly pattern the surface. The colony will produce overwintering cysts, and disintegrate as the ponds start to freeze.

At lunchtime we solved the problem of social distancing at our meal-time campfire: we multiplied them, so that each family group had its  own. Some families achieved distancing by taking turns at cooking.

Asters and goldenrods enlivened the trailsides, and the woods were still richly dotted with late-summer mushrooms. Garrett found himself a Painted Turtle, and Rob, a mixed flock of small birds, part of the great autumn migration. Jeremy fell asleep in the sunshine, and awoke refreshed. And Julia filled out her course requirements on a Macoun Club trip.

 

September 26, 2020: “This is my paradise”

This must have been Indian summer, following a frosty week, with temperatures of 25º and 26º C. Asters and late Goldenrods were blooming in open places, and Herb Robert in the forest. A passing Monarch glided back and forth just overhead several times, then beat its wings and went up over the forest canopy, heading south. Rambling off-trail, we found crowds of brown puffballs and clusters of small, pink globes — Wolf’s Milk Slime — on rotting logs.

Everyone was finding Garter Snakes, several of them being young-of-the-year, just five inches (13 cm) long. We graduated from catching everything in sight to following these animals as they went about their business. The last one surprised Alma by disappearing down a tiny hole right in front of her.

We heard Spring Peepers and Eastern Gray Tree Frogs calling from within the forest, and around the “Woodland Pond” (Pond IX) netted and released Leopard and Wood Frogs. Under a chunk of rotting wood, we found an Eastern Newt. Mostly, under logs, we found large numbers of invasive earthworms (Aporrectodea turgida), which destroys humus and duff. The forest floor had been stripped of leaf litter by another species, Lumbricus terrestris.

In our Study Tree Woods, new members Aliya and Alma each chose a mature Sugar Maple for their own. Alma’s has a den cavity high up, originally made by a Pileated Woodpecker but apparently used by other animals. Zahra checked her Silver Maple and found a Gypsy Moth egg mass on the trunk, and a growth of Bearded Tooth fungus inside the central cavity (her father had to lift her and her little brother up to see).

As the afternoon grew very warm, we abandoned our more ambitious plans and loafed about the woodland fringe of Pond IX, counting frogs or dozing in the sunshine, as suited each one of us. Alma voiced her feelings: “This is my paradise.”

But even in paradise . . . there were mosquitoes, enough to be a nuisance at times. Rob, who captured several to identify at home, reports at least three species: Aedes vexans (this includes the many really tiny individuals), Aedes trivitattus, and one that got away but raised an itchy bump on his normally immune skin.

October 3-4, 2020: Birds in the autumn wildlands

The forests had coloured up wonderfully, making it a special pleasure to renew acquaintance with the wild places we know. When we reached a favourite lunch place, clamouring flocks of Canada Geese were passing over, heading south. As we finished eating, flocks of geese came over, going the other way. We knew they were from different populations (Arctic geese going south for the winter, local geese going north for the afternoon) but joked that they’d been turned back at the US border.

Thirty crossbills swept by in a chittering group, and smaller flocks of blackbirds crossed over the pond. We heard both Red-winged and Rusty Blackbirds singing. There is something about this time in autumn that brings a resurgence of song. A Blue-headed Vireo sang a phrase or two, Chipping and Swamp Sparrows sang a few times, and in the morning a Song Sparrow sang for hours. We heard a Ruffed Grouse drumming, too.

Our plan was for “solo camping under supervision.” Upon reaching an old, familiar shoreline, we spread out into half-a-dozen private sites, each member or family group making its own cooking fire. As dusk came on, the wild, rattling calls of Sandhill Cranes rang out; a pair crossed the southern sky, wings lifting and falling in ponderous beat.

Great Horned Owls called to each other in the small hours of the morning, and at dawn flocks of Ring-necked Ducks swept by, wings whistling. After a few light showers, a Raven known to Rob and Peggy by its peculiar features flew by. They know it from years of acquaintance on its home range, 15 km to the west, and it seemed to know them, calmly flying directly overhead in this time of peril for wild birds — hunting season.

And there had been shooting off in the distance, most of it target shooting, some perhaps someone hunting for grouse. At dusk and dawn there were gunshots far off in the south and northwest. In mid-morning a lone Canada Goose splashed down, calling and calling; along the shore we found another goose lying dead in the water. It had been there a while, and we wondered it they’d been a pair.

October 17, 2020: The swamp impenetrable

With a warm, sunny day and a population cooped up too long by Covid fears, the Greenbelt parking lots were overflowing with cars and our Study Area trails thronged with people. It is now widely understood that outdoor activities are just about the safest things you can do, and walking trails is one of them. Unfortunately, the Greenbelt trail system was not built to handle so many family groups, each trying to stay a safe distance away from the others.

We avoided all this by going off-trail at once, down into our favourite ash and cedar swamps. There we examined a few boulder-sized ant mounds. Shallow digging did not reveal a single ant or (their food source) root aphid. These insects had evidently burrowed deep into the interior for the winter.

The swamps were more watery than had been expected, and generally obstructed by newly grown and extensive thickets of Glossy Buckthorn, and after an hour we retreated from them. There had been interesting lichens, fungi and plants, but we climbed up to dry land for lunch. After eating, we edged northward along the swamp’s margin.

One of this zone’s special features is a deeply rotted log that has persisted from the time of the original forests. Even lying dead over soggy ground for 150 years, the base is about 90 cm in diameter. The annual rings are about millimetre-size, and if the tree grew that slowly throughout its life, it would have lived to 450 years old.  The log is 82 feet (26 m) long, but it doesn’t end at the tree’s top; the top had broken off leaving the small end 60 cm in diameter. The entire, living tree, therefore, would have been about 150 feet tall, double the height of the modern forest canopy.

Eventually we landed on a dry wooded slope filled with sunshine, and settled down to enjoy the peacefulness of the place.

October 31 – Nov.1, 2020: Adventuring into rough, broken country

Older members of the Macoun Club hoisted packs and set off into the wilds of Lanark County, down the tenuous thread of the mainly single-lane California Road, and turned into the woods at an unmarked place known to the leaders, Rob and Barbara. When we sat down for lunch, we had to choose our ground carefully because rains have been frequent for months, and every bit of moss was a sponge; winter had taken its first bite, and there was ice in shady places.

But there was also sunshine, and patches of warmth. After we had set up camp and gathered firewood, Rob led along the deeply indented south shore of Willis Lake: he wanted to see the beaver dam a half-mile back that has raised the lake to within a foot of flooding the road. It was rumoured to be 10 feet high.

Our way was rich with matters interesting to naturalists: a beaver’s feeding platform, a wide patch of Trailing Arbutus, perched wetlands, frozen Chanterelles and Black Trumpet mushrooms. Whole hillsides were deeply covered with moss, and many slopes were obstructed by windthrown trees. Again and again we picked up deer trails and, after following them a little way, lost them. Rock faces rising up in the forest barred our way, and frost-broken rubble made for treacherous footing. But we broke out within sight of the great beaver dam.  It might be as much as five feet high, but only one foot of the top was showing above the high water of the dam below. The California Road could be under threat from a beaver dam a mile downstream, if the beavers prove ambitious.

(A licenced trapper is already on the job. Rob and Peggy have met him. But the road still floods.)

Starting back, we broke out of the shadowy forest to stand on the granite cliffs overlooking the lake, in the full glare of the lowering sun. The marshes that surround the lake were golden, the sky and water blue, the granite grey with lichens. Two silent Ravens flew over.

We made three separate supper fires for six campers, right by the water. As night fell, we saw first the reflection of Mars in the east; then the full moon rose sharply. Coyotes burst out yipping and howling, and fell silent. The whole night was silent, except for a rising wind in the pines, and the occasional patter of shrew’s feet on the leaf litter.

Morning brought thickening cloud and eventually rain; we were out before lunchtime.

 

November 7, 2020: Yet another wonderful autumn day!

After the leaves had fallen, after the first snow, a stretch of warm, sunny weather set in. Expecting the Greenbelt trails to be even more crowded than they were two weeks ago, we went all the way out to Lanark County to be on our own. One of our leaders, Barbara, invited us out to explore her hundred acres of forest, field, and wetland.

We split into two groups for the morning. In Barbara’s group the children took the lead once they were in the woods, ascending a little streambed and then making for a brightening in the forest — which brought them out at Barbara’s house again. A more directed march took them down to the creek, where they waited for Rob’s group.

Rob’s group, meanwhile, was crossing the 15-acre field lying south of the house, and began finding deer scrapes along its margin. These are places where a territorial buck has pawed away at the leaf litter and grass, and planted an emphatic hoof print in the bare earth.

From the corner of the field, Rob led across a wide, trackless cedar forest and Sugar Maple grove to the hill above the creek. While some ate lunch there, others poked along the marshy shore below. Two boys saw a White-tailed Deer bounding away, while a third found the empty shell of a large Snapping Turtle. Dragonflies — “meadow-hawks” — were seen.

In the afternoon, Barbara led the group across the beaver dam into the farthest reaches of her property, a rising, rolling, open hardwood forest. It was just a very pleasant place to ramble, sit down and rest, and enjoy the autumn sunshine and woodland odours.

 

November 14, 2020: A sunny, silent day in the woods

Most of the birds that go south have gone; some of the northern species have arrived here. We have already seen Snow Buntings and Pine Grosbeaks — but not today. Apart from a few Chickadees and two Woodpeckers (Downy and Hairy), we neither saw nor heard any other birds. And not a squeak out of a Spring Peeper, either. It was just too cool for amphibians or crickets.

Instead, we ambled around sunny, wooded hillsides examining the distinguishing characteristics of trees. We started with Hop Hornbeam, with its shaggy, vertically peeling bark, Jack Pine, which has tightly closed, curved cones, and the birches, White and Yellow. Eventually we settled on Butternut, and thereafter pursued every specimen we could find. We encountered 15 trees, all of which had been tagged and waypointed by leaders Rob and Barbara many years before. Twelve of these 15 trees had died and fallen down, suggesting 80% mortality in the course of the past 30 years.

Thinking of trees made us think of Porcupines. We found fallen branches of hickory and oak with wilted, shriveled leaves, which Porcupines had cut down back in September for the nuts and acorns. We found young Sugar Maples that had much more recently been peeled of bark here and there; one had been peeled for 30 feet, from uppermost tip to the ground. And eventually one of these animals was spotted, high up in the tallest White Pine tree around.

November 29, 2020: Where are all the Porcupines?

In years past, say during the 1990s, there were so many Porcupines in the Macoun Club Study Area that we were assured of finding them every time we were out. Indeed, we would come across a half-dozen on a typical day. But in recent years, it seems more usual to see just one in the course of a day.

Today, therefore, we set out on a search. We kept an eye on the treetops, because that is where Porcupines feed, and on the snow underfoot, for tracks. It soon became apparent that in some deciduous forests that used to harbour Porcupines, all the big, hollow trees had fallen down and rotted away, leaving no suitable den sites. Shelter is important for Porcupines in cold weather (below -12ºC), so woods without such sites are no longer suitable habitat.

Returning to the place where a Porcupine had chewed away the bark of a small Sugar Maple, we found that the snow had forced the animal into its den, in a small culvert under the road. But there must be more!

Finally, Rob, who remembers where the Porcupines were most numerous in past decades, led into a coniferous forest. Before long, we discovered one of these animals up in a White Pine. Its tracks led farther into the woods, with three more Porcupines up in other trees. Their tracks led to a partly uprooted tree, which provides the protection from the weather.

We had a second focus, too: geology. One of our members has a school project and was keen to see the three types of rock that occur in our Study Area. On higher ground we came across a block of Ordovician limestone that had been heaved up on edge either by a moving glacier during the Ice Age, or by a falling tree that had wrapped its roots around the rock. The sedimentary layers were plain to see, chemically eroded to varying degrees, as was a large, rounded hole where the calcium carbonate had been dissolved away while the rock was still in the ground.

Downslope we found sandstone bedrock from the Cambrian period. And on top of them all sat a huge boulder of gneiss, dropped here by the glaciers that had brought it down from the north.

December 5, 2020: How do you find a Porcupine?

Last weekend we searched a well-remembered cedar woods in our Study Area and found five Porcupines in the space of an hour. Today we took a little longer, and found four more. How do we do it?

When there is snow on the ground, we look down and watch for tracks. But last week’s snow had entirely melted away. Instead, we looked up, scanning the treetops. “I never knew there were so many squirrel nests!” remarked more than one of our group of seventeen. Even a big, woody burl high up in a maple tree fooled someone. (That same burl has been fooling people for 30 years.)

Some of the smallest children, being closer to the ground, perhaps, began to notice “porcupine peanuts,” as we call them, under likely-looking conifers; then we’d move back and forth while peering up. Thus we found one in a tall White Pine, and another in the thick foliage of a White Cedar.

But the easy ones were up in leafless deciduous trees. Though perfectly safe, the one in the hickory seemed to become nervous, and backed its way down the small branch it was perched on, and up another that must have seemed sturdier.

In the course of our searching, we passed through our Study Tree Woods, and two new Study Trees were chosen. But farther on, in the wider reaches of our Study Area, Alma came upon an absolutely irresistible Study Tree. It was something of a contortionist, going up, down, and sideways. And it’s growing in a lovely spot, too, in a close-canopied cedar woods on a slope with limestone outcroppings.

December 21, 2020: Porcupines galore!

Snow has come and gone several times, and now lay on the ground in just a few places. Yet we need snow in order to track Porcupines to and from their dens. Despite these unfavourable conditions, we set eyes on more than a dozen of these animals, and were able to follow their trails twice. Around noon, one Porcupine had gone out and was up in a Red Pine, and another had come down from a White Pine and was found at home. All the rest were up in their feeding trees (or had taken refuge from a noisy bunch of Macouners coming through the woods).

We used our Study Area’s hiking trails to get to where we were going, and then probed out of the way places for the objects of our search. The occasional patches of snow revealed the passage in the preceding 24 hours of other mammals: Red and Gray Squirrels, Snowshoe Hare, Coyote, Fisher, and Raccoon.

Birds were seldom seen or heard: a couple of Chickadees expressing interest in lunch, a few Pine Grosbeaks (up in the treetops), and a flock of 150 Canada Geese flying north. This is just what one would expect of the local population. They had spent the night on the Ottawa River, flown south to breakfast on farms where corn was spilled in the harvesting, and were now on their way back to the river. They’ll stay in Ottawa until there is too much ice on the water and too much snow on the land. Then they’ll go south.

We finished up in the Study Tree Woods, dropping by to check on our trees. Of hers, Lillian says (in the Little Bear article she promptly wrote up): ” It’s a small Spruce tree with a height of two-and-half lengths of my hands. I was very worried someone would step on it, so I placed three big sticks around it. It is healthy and in good condition for the approaching snow.”
 

January and most of February, 2021: No activities permitted under Ontario’s public health laws

February 28, 2021: Still more Porcupines

We didn’t set out to see Porcupines, but when we first set out we found that the trail we’d meant to take was overcrowded with people fleeing pandemic confinement. Turning in another direction, we started across a frozen lake toward trackless forest on the other side, only to realize that our snowshoes were sinking through a snow crust into six inches of slushy water over ice. (In some winters, rain soaks into the snow, and the weight presses the top of even good solid ice down into the water below.)

By the time we made our third start, in the opposite direction, it was noon, and yet we had a distance to go before reaching a place that provided both firewood and sunshine. We found it on the shore of an empty seasonal pond deep in a forest, and roasted sausages.

After lunch, we strapped on our snowshoes and turned in yet another direction. Rob, breaking trail, led to some Porcupine dens he’s been watching all winter. On the way, we encountered old deer tracks crowding around a fallen maple  tree — the deer had had a feast of fresh twigs.

We weren’t expecting to see any animals, as they are nocturnal, but as we approached one of these dens, the Porcupine itself was spotted, high up in a tall Red Oak. It had been feeding on patches of bark, from the top to the bottom. Rob suggested it had come out to soak up some of the spring sunshine. Its trail led back to a very large, hollow Basswood tree.

Two other dens were in hollow logs, and we were able to see these Porcupines by beaming sunlight inside with a mirror. Both animals turned their backs on us, presenting a mass of quills. Their well beaten trails led to White Cedar feeding trees — and the fresh tracks of Fishers showed that these fearless predators had been checking out the possibilities.

March 7, 2021: Late winter in the Study Area

The snowpack, about 18 inches deep, had become crusted enough to bear the weight of smaller animals, but not Deer or Humans. We all wore snowshoes and sank in only partway. With a week’s worth of tracks underfoot, we gained the impression that the deciduous woods were just full of Gray Squirrels, and busy with Fishers and Coyotes. There were signs of Porcupines — small conifer twigs cut and dropped — but only once did we hit on Porcupine tracks. We followed the trail to the den, tucked under the roots of a fallen tree. It was a very poor den, open to the sky, and we looked down on the animal at arm’s length.

Down in the cedar forests and swamps, Deer tracks and trails were abundant. Under a Balsam Fir the snow was littered with twig tips. Close examination showed that the tiny, crowded pollen-cone buds had been eaten out. Or if these were absent, the end-buds. These are an important fall-back food for Red Squirrels when the previous year’s seed-cone crop has been poor or had failed.

It was cold in the deep shade, and we made for a sunny Black Ash swamp for lunch. Sweeping between the bare tree boles the wind had thinned the snow and allowed the ice below to form. But we had trouble in crossing a willow swamp, for there the thickets had let the snow lie deep and fluffy. The first two or three snowshoers passed over safely, but under the feet of the next, the disturbed snow broke down and let her into the water below. The snow, falling into the water, turned to slush and turned stiff as wet cement. The sunken snowshoe had to be dug out (using another snowshoe as a shovel). Luckily, the air temperature was only -7ºC, so the slush did not freeze hard, as it would have in the depths of winter.

March 13, 2021: Early spring in the Study Area

Since last week, the snow shrank before a powerful thaw — Rob saw temperatures as high as +18ºC. A couple of cold nights then froze the compacted snowpack hard out in Lanark County and for this trip he recommended against snowshoes. But he had misjudged: the Study Area snow was still soggy under a crust, and he was literally breaking trail once more.

We followed the same general route that had proved so good last week, and saw many of the same things. But the thaw had exposed a few rocks, and inveterate rock-turner Niccolò found the year’s first ant, feebly moving. We also visited a swamp-ant mound (genus Lasius) by walking over the ice, but that colony must have been deep in the mound’s core.

Crows were active and noisy in one direction, and a Pileated Woodpecker in another. We all stood under the tree the woodpecker was working in, trying to figure out whether it was opening the tree for food, or excavating a nest cavity. It is that time of year.

 

March 20/21: Three field trips in a weekend

Rob was tapping his trees again, and welcomed three sets of Macoun Club families in succession. Each group helped gather in firewood and to tip the sap from the metal pails on the trees big white buckets, and had a meal over their own campfire.

There was time, too, for explorations into the surrounding forests: to vernal ponds, not yet flooding; to wooded hilltops; and to visit wintertime porcupine dens, now vacated.

On the second day, a small anglewing butterfly alighted on the snow, but took flight before anyone could get a camera aimed at it. There were Robins where the forest floor had opened up, and Red-shouldered Hawks screaming from the trees where they nested last year. The last group, visiting in the evening, heard the first Sandhill Cranes calling from the distant marshes on White Lake.

April 2: Roaming the snowless woods

With two groups of five, we explored the lands across the road from Rob’s home. One group visited the nearby Porcupine dens, empty since mid-March since the animals are no longer confined to their shelters. The other passed through an old sugar-bush, getting to know Leatherwood shrubs and seeing signs of other wintertime animals, such as Coyotes and Pileated Woodpeckers. We heard Dark-eyed Juncos singing a little, and lifted our eyes to see what had caused a big shadow to flicker across the forest floor (a Turkey Vulture). Both groups converged on an agreed-upon lunch place — a vernal pond still too cold for any frogs or aquatic life to be active — and made separate, distant lunch fires.

After eating our fill, the two groups moved in tandem, making first for a remarkable wetland noted for its old-growth Cedar trees and rare lichens. These trees are probably 300 years old, judging by annual rings and inch-thick bark. They lean and curve and sway in ways that young trees, growing up in sunlight, do not. Beyond the swamp deciduous trees appeared on higher ground — big Basswoods 160 years old, and a few old Sugar Maples with long, columnar trunks supporting heavy crowns, 50 or 60 feet to the first branch. Finally, Rob lead through a screen of trees to the shore of White Lake itself. Two Wood Ducks flew up, whistling, from a sheltered bay.

(It should be noted that Deer Ticks are active now; last week one attached  itself to the member of a Macoun Club family that went out on its own.)

From April 3rd and April 8th to May 22nd, June 2nd, and June 11th: varying levels of lockdowns, “Emergency Brakes,” and Stay-at-Home orders in Ontario

April 3, 2021: At last — first frogs! First snakes!

And first Woolly Bears. The snow has been gone for a week or two, and it is likely that caterpillars and even overwintering snakes have been nosing around a little before we found them today, but Rob lives within hearing range of the breeding ponds of several species of frogs, and has been listening in vain. But in mid-afternoon a silent pond he had led a single Macoun Club family past in the morning began to ring with the powerful calls of tiny Spring Peepers. That was the crowning delight of a wonderful day.

Alma’s first thrill had been a Woolly Bear caterpillar slowly crossing a much-used dirt road, and she rescued it from being crushed by the pickup trucks and strings of ATVs roaring up and down the track.

We made a lunch fire in a narrow valley on the headwaters of Indian Creek, sheltered from the light but chilly wind, warm in full sunshine. The stream rushed through a dozen gaps in an abandoned beaver dam and spread out into a marsh; beyond that lay a small lake.

On the hilltop above we discovered our first Garter Snake of the year, and Alma slowly walked up to it and lifted it from the ground. “It didn’t even musk me!” She examined it minutely, determined that it was probably a male, and physically just about perfect. Releasing it and letting it go on its way, she followed at a distance it did not find threatening, and so watched it exploring the uneven ground, poking its nose into one little hole after another, but never finding what it was looking for.

From a higher vantage point, we could see that most of the lake was still covered with leaden-looking ice. Two Fox Sparrows flew up into a pine tree — transient migrants on their way to the northern half of the boreal forest.

Most of April and all of May, 2021: No activities permitted under Ontario’s public health orders

June 12, 2021: Amphibians and caterpillars at Pakenham

Rolling logs at Pakenham is sure to produce a salamander or two, and that is what Lemuel found — two Red-backed Salamanders. Later, at the waterfall on Indian Creek, he netted a small Wood Frog. And at day’s end, Rob drew attention to what looked like “a lump of mud” on a boulder sticking out of the creek — a basking American Toad that seemed to have melted down onto the sun-warmed rock.

Birds were singing all day, especially Scarlet Tanagers and Red-eyed Vireos, a Hermit Thrush and several warblers. Lemeul, first to reach the creek, met a startled Great Blue Heron.

But the dominant life form — dominating our awareness, and the now-suffering forest — was the Gypsy Moth caterpillar. Last year’s eggs hatched about a month ago, and the caterpillars are well-grown now. Having stripped aspens and oaks, they are moving into the pines. Sometimes so many needles have been bitten off and fallen that the ground underneath looks like a freshly mown lawn. In places the oak and poplar branches are bare; in others the sound of caterpillar frass falling on leaf litter is like the patter of drizzle. Everywhere caterpillars are dropping down on silk threads, and swarming up nearby tree trunks. We escaped them only under the narrow path of open sky along the creekbed. Where they also fall into the water we saw that neither frogs nor fish will touch these fat, wiggling “worms”: they’re also mouthfuls of long stinging hairs.

June 19, 2021: Off to the races!

We had a full turnout today, reaching the mandated limit of 10 people (counting members, leaders and parents). It took us half-an-hour to walk down the California Road, hearing a Northern Waterthrush singing from a swampy hollow, and seeing Wood Lilies in bloom.

There were also Gypsy Moth caterpillars, bigger now, dropping down on us from the trees and crawling across the dirt road in search of a new food tree. The shrubs of the undergrowth, from Beaked Hazel to Sweetgale, were riddled with the holes they’d eaten.

We ate lunch by the shore of Willis Lake, where the warmth of the sun tempted three of our number to plunge into the water. A Common Loon cruising along the far side gradually swam in close to have a look. Later, when the shivering was over, a Black Bear was sighted moving among the trees of the far shore.

At our lunch place, and along the road out, we kept finding “giant”millipedes (Narceus americana). Each member managed to have his or her millipede form a ring round a finger. The ripple of hundreds of gentle feet tickled as the harmless creatures slowly explored hands and arms. Suddenly we were inspired to put them to a race. Alma kept nudging hers, and not surprisingly it stopped in protest. Lemuel had to herd his to keep it going straight, and Felix maintained the finishing line. (Lemuel’s millipede won.)

 

June 26, 2021: Notes on the passage of time

This was a quiet day, with few people out on the Study Area trails, and few Macouners out on what had been forecast to be a weekend of heavy rains (we didn’t see a drop).

We made a tour of our Study Tree Woods, with Rob Lee reaching back into his memory for one story after another, and newcomers seeing things for the first time. Our Study Tree Project was set up 30 years ago. Enough time has passed for the roots of once freshly windthrown trees (in this case Solange’s fallen White Ash) to have rotted away, and the earth they pulled up to have settled into a smooth, mossy mound. The hollow the earth came from became known as “Rebecca’s Study Pool,” which fills with water each spring, and sometimes hosts Fairy Shrimps. Mound and hollow will last for centuries, to us an identifiable part of the forest’s micro-topography.

Ten years ago, someone battered Ainsley’s roadside Sugar Maple sapling with a heavy club, crushing the cambium layer and killing the inner bark. After a couple of years, the outer bark fell away, revealing bare wood surrounded by new bark and wood growing in from the edges. As we passed by Ainsley’s tree today, Rob remarked that the wounds have completely healed over. Someday, perhaps, all trace of this wound may be effaced by the ever-thickening bark, if the tree survives its first hundred years.

Meanwhile, a Red-eyed Vireo sang and an Eastern Wood Pewee called, and a couple of Eastern Gray Treefrogs trilled in the forest. Orange-slime Slugs (Arion subfuscus) were gliding around in the renewed humidity, mosquitoes were few, and “face flies” (non-biting Black Flies) were barely noticeable.

July 3, 2021: Return to the California Road

We tramped down the winding dirt road a little more quickly than we did two weeks ago, hearing this time the singing of three birds that are typical of the upland maple forests: Red-eyed Vireo, Ovenbird, and Scarlet Tanager. The flamboyant Wood Lillies had finished blooming.

We got to sample the first red raspberries and currents. Lemuel, turning over each leaf of a roadside Common Milkweed , discovered two small Monarch caterpillars. We were not troubled this week by Gypsy Moth caterpillars, however. Though we found a few crawling about, great numbers have died from fungal and viral diseases running rampant through their population.

We left the road, skirted a marsh, and settled in our familiar spot for lunch. In vain we searched the far shore for the Black Bear seen last time. The lake, too, was empty — of Loons.

But there were fish, and suddenly one was flashing oddly. Lemuel leapt to his feet: “It’s a snake with a fish!” It turned out to be a young Water Snake, hardly bigger in the body than a pencil, though longer. Out in the open water, it had seized a Golden Shiner by the tail. Wrestling it to shore, it sought a place to drag it out of the water. Lemuel hovered over it for 15 minutes as it tried one thing and another, and different places along the shore. Finally it succeeded in shifting its grip toward the front end of the fish, and worked its jaws over the head. Just as it had its meal almost all the way in, a second little Water Snake darted in and seized all that was left in sight — the tail. But the first one had the best of it, and swallowed the whole fish.

 

July 10, 2021: Loon meets balloon

Last week we were content to look into our favourite wild, little lake hidden in the Lanark County woods. This time, one of us took to the water on a mission of investigation.

At noon a Common Loon had slid in to a gentle landing out in the middle, and it stayed there for an hour, tacking back and forth every few seconds. It was preening, making sure its waterproof coat of feathers was well oiled and tightly arranged. From time to time it raised a shower of water with its wings.

Presently, we noticed a strange object slowly approaching the swimming bird. We couldn’t make out what it was, but the thing appeared to be man-made. At one point it disappeared, as if the Loon had pulled it under. Fearing that it was a piece of fishing gear adrift, our best swimmer was dispatched to deal with it. Samantha returned with . . . the remains of a burst balloon and yards of pink ribbon. It had fallen out of the sky.

While we were discussing this, the Loon popped up right behind us, making its own investigation. Loathe to come out of the very pleasant water, Samantha hung on to a clump of sedges and let schools of minnows nibble at the skin of her forearms.

Meanwhile, her mother went off into the woods and returned with a bag of Chanterelle mushrooms, a delicacy for the family table.