Limbo. According to Webster, “an uncertain or undecided state or condition”. It’s that time of year when Jack Frost still rules. Nature still sleeps. But the ineffable march of time demands that it will not be long before Jack loses his icy grip. The Spring Equinox is a mere month away. In the midst of single digit temps, the bright yellow nubs of daffodils are beginning to push up through the melting snow. When I crossed the Hudson three weeks ago it was frozen from bank to bank. This week it was partially open. Large chunks of ice floated south with the tide. Intrepid flocks of mallards still braved the cold waters of the Sawkill. A roadside rest on the frigid featherway north. New life, born in darkness, will emerge into spring daylight. Sows and their cubs will leave their dens to forage and explore. As the days grow longer Nature will waken and Jack Frost will leave the scene. But for now he rules. In limbo.
Ice blue skies. And a month-long roller coaster of temps that skidded from sub-zeros to the mid-20s and back. Winter.
I crossed the Hudson yesterday. It was frozen solid from bank to bank. On my return I spotted two flocks of mallards numbering about 50 each. They had found the only two areas of open flowing water on the Sawkill. And were swimming in them. These birds are insane.
Years ago the ice on the Hudson was so thick that large blocks were sawed from it. These were sent by steamboat downriver to cool the iceboxes of New York City. Iceboats raced each other under sail at lightning speeds. Speeds which could have competed with many of today’s power boats.
Meanwhile, the Hideaway sleeps. Mother bears are nursing their cubs by now. As are other critters their forthcoming spring issue. Winter birds are enjoying the bird feeder. And turkeys peck away at their cast-off seeds. An occasional squirrel wakens briefly to pursue some illusive wintertime dream. An acorn. Walnut. Or mushroom. The rare mammalian insomniac.
The fish have sunk into their winter torpor in the deepest, darkest reaches of the pond. What a life. One wonders why they bother.
ADDENDUM:
Speaking of ice, three days ago the Catskills were visited by a significant ice storm. A massive area of the Hudson Valley/Catskill Mountain region was left without power. Fortunately, our propane generator kept us in light, power and all of the other amenities except the Internet. It actually became necessary to warm up our reading skills and become reacquainted. Be that as it may, after four days of single digit temps, the ice remains firmly attached to the trees.
A surprisingly beautiful early winter. Clear blue skies have dominated the last two weeks. It’s a quiet time. The world seems to be in a state of serene limbo. The trees are asleep, their bare angular limbs a reminder that this will not soon be over. The vernal equinox seems far, far away.
Our first snow fell last night. Its icy remains lay entangled with the winter grass until the sun rose high enough to melt it away. And the pond has developed a glassy skim of ice eight nights in a row. And melted by noon. Only to repeat the same process until the ice becomes thick enough to survive Jack Frost‘s frigid assault. Poor Jack must wonder why the gods of winter have burdened him with this Sisyphean curse. Or perhaps Old Jack is a just slow learner.
To our surprise, mallards have continued to visit the pond until much later in the season this year. Perhaps warmer climes have left the feathered freeways open longer . On the other hand, mallards are not the smartest of the avian species. Who else would fly for days to escape the cold only to arrive at a destination plagued by heat, hurricanes and coastal floods. Notice that owls have developed the wisdom to stay home.
We’ve returned the bird feeders to their usual winter stations. We leave the birds on their own during summer. Then there’s plenty of forage. Winter is different. The weather can cause severe hunger. So the avian cafeteria is always open. Adding a little spice to our day–or night– an occasional bear will drop by, assuming it’s open for him. We’ve found more than one feeder strewn up the driveway–the unfortunate victim of such an errant assumption.
Deer have been quite active. Especially a spike buck and a young doe. They seem to have made our yard their favorite snack bar. In fact, they have sauntered into the front yard as I type this. A test of my veracity. Here is my proof. Courtesy of my lovely bride.
Tonight a waxing gibbous moon will share the skies with the Geminid meteor shower. The last and one of the brightest meteor showers of the year. Our small moon and these visitors from far, far away will light the Catskills all night. Until early sunrise.
Dark. Dark and gloomy. Winter has blown in to begin her rein in a wet, angry mood. Autumn has left the scene, trailing the torn remnants of her once beautiful array. A few leaves stubbornly maintain their grip. Others skitter away in the wind. The dead detritus of a Summer past. Only a thick carpet of golden leaves betrays her passage.
11-18-21
Well, as they say in Texas, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a while and it will change.” Winter has changed her mood. She brought bright cloudless blue skies with her today. Skies so blue they almost hurt the eyes.
The trees have gone to sleep. Trees do sleep, you know. A dormant salute to Jack Frost’s frigid impending arrival. The ledge and Overlook Mt. are now clearly in view. Another of Winter’s perks.
Overlook Mountain
Our lawn guy will soon be here with his big mower. The yard will get its final trim of the year. The grass carp will hold their last grassy bacchanal as the mower kicks the final remains of the yard into the pond. The bass have already sunk to the deepest darkest areas of the pond. Already into their long annual winter torpor. What a great life.
Other critters–burrowers, tree dwellers, avians, and those who brave Jack Frost’s chilly bite in crevices and caves–have already settled into their winter homes. Nourishment requirements and metabolism will drop to a minimum. Some heartbeats will slow to as little as 8 bpm. New life will arrive in darkness.
Squirrels have long ago gathered and hidden their last acorn of the season. They’ll spend hours next Spring seeking them. Free entertainment for human critters. Chuck, our cleverly eponymned groundhog, has again moved under our porch. Whether with or without last winter’s paramour is yet unknown. Stay tuned.
Deer have been plentiful and active. The rutting season is at its peak. We found a small buck in quiet repose in the front yard as we returned home from errands today. Perhaps he was resting from a little overzealous rutting. Unfortunately, he escaped into the woods before I could ask.
We suddenly seem to be the last stop on the feathered freeway south. Two pairs of Canada geese and two pairs of mallards have dropped by during the last week. All noisily bathed with great gusto, filling the air with flying water. As is their wont, they left no tips or notes of thanks.
Five intrepid turkeys have loitered around the house lately. Perhaps in anticipation of fallout from our forthcoming bird feeders. Or awareness that inflation has upped the price of a fully dressed supermarket turkey. And they realize that they‘ve suddenly become price competitive. I’ve captured some of their cousins below. In full voice.
Tonight is a special night in the skies over the Catskills. A full moon in total eclipse will sail overhead. A blood moon. So called by the Algonquins because of its red color. The works of Nature’s sunray magic. The red light of that moon will bathe the Catskills tonight. And slowly dim before sunrise. Taps.
Sad times around Hideaway Pond last weekend. Twenty years ago the world changed. Forever. Brilliant sapphire skies ruled on Saturday. Grim reminder of the day the towers fell. Small white clouds drifted slowly south. Tears.
One might wonder. Do the Hideaway critters sense that something has changed? Animals can do that, you know. Sense an approaching storm. Fire. Mourn a lost mate or member of the herd. Dogs will lie on their dead master’s grave. Grief is a cruel companion.
But the critters move on. Riding the irresistible pull of instinct and the seasons.
The humming birds still sample the sweets of our hanging begonias. Turkeys peck their way across the yard. Turtles sun pond side. And herons still purloin our poor star crossed fish. A sharp shinned hawk has made a home in the hemlocks near the porch.
Autumn, in her brilliant garb, will soon assume the stage. Hummingbirds, herons, robins and other summer birds will set their compasses south. While cardinals, blue jays, finches and sparrows stay north and brave Jack Frost’s icy bite.
The fish will sink into the coldest, darkest areas of the pond and descend to their seasonal torpor. Metabolism and nourishment requirements will drop to near zero. What a great life.
Sows (female bears) will soon begin to look for a winter lair. There they will have their cubs. Nourishment requirements will sink to a minimum and heartbeats to as low as 8 bpm. A mother bear will occasionally waken to tend to the cubs. She will nurse them through the winter.
Male bears will find a lair for hibernation. They will follow much the same sleep pattern as the female. Though they will occasionally emerge to forage. Bad idea to wake a sleeping bear. It pisses them off.
Bears will occasionally leave the cave to tend to their hygienic needs. And to keep the cave tidy. Bears have fastidious potty habits. However, given their low metabolism and minimum nourishment requirements, this involves little effort.
Critter activity has increased significantly in the Hideaway. A large doe has been making evening runs to graze on our front yard.
A young spike buck surprised us on Sunday. Totally oblivious of us. It fed in the back yard and obligingly posed for pictures. Spike bucks will enthusiastically engage in rutting. However, there is no indication that the length of a buck’s spike is an indication of his buckhood.
We were surprised and pleased when a beautiful six point buck visited two days ago. He drank from the pond and snacked on last spring’s peony greens. Rutting season is on the way. His magnificent rack will be his weapon of choice during impending contests. Contests with other bucks for the wily charms of some comely young doe. Bucks travel a wide range and usually move on. So we were surprised when he arrived behind the porch while we were having dinner that evening. He grazed for a half hour. Then turned and faded away. It was too dark to take pictures. So we relaxed and enjoyed the show. No cover charge.
With approach of rutting season, Summer will step aside. Autumn, with its blaze of color will arrive. And stay until her beautiful gown shreds and falls to the ground. Winter, with its beautiful icy palette of grays and whites will then blow in on the winter solstice. And much of the sylvan world will sleep. Small critters will arrive in the darkness.
With arrival of the equinox, the world will begin to waken. Critters will leave their dens and blink their way into the bright sunlight. Small buds will appear and explode into a verdant celebration. And Spring will arrive trailing her beautiful vernal array.
The Hideaway will again become a hidden green cocoon.
Steamy. Hot and steamy. It’s mid-August. And except for an occasional rain-soaked outburst of wind, it’s been that way for a month.
It’s a mildly melancholy season. Summer settled in during late June. And, for all of her beauty, she’s beginning to take on an ambiance of quiet weariness. One can almost sense Autumn’s cool zephyrs in the far, far distance. The birds have completed their annual launch of a new family into the sunbaked skies. Cicadas sing in the trees–the ominous harbinger, during my wayward boyhood, of the impending conversion from bare feet to books. The pond warms and the fish grow more lethargic. Dragonflies hum on. And on.
Yet, for all of that, the Hideaway has been a busy place. Small critters–woodchucks, chipmunks, squirrels, field mice scurry about doing their usual business. Oblivious of the heat or the month. Shari’s “Bunny”, so called, though he’s now mature, very adroit, and quite a raconteur as “bunnies” go–includes himself in the ruckus. .
Our three neighborhood does were joined last evening by a young “spike” buck. Though they ignored each other, they shared the bright red wardrobe of summer. As will be the case until they begin to change to their winter gray in mid-Autumn. The does grazed quietly at their usual evening haunt near the ledge. The buck waded as he grazed at the pond edge near the porch. They all faded into the darkness as the sun set.
A great blue heron has visited daily. He flies from location to location. The pond edge to the island and back. He’ll do little to reduce our piscatorial inventory. The grass carp are too large and the bass too many to suffer major damage.
I’m betting that few readers of this blog have heard the cry of a wild great blue heron.
For those who have–or have not–voila’.
A waxing crescent moon will soar over the Catskills tonight. This time it will share the sky with a special guest. The Perseid Meteor Shower at its peak. They have shared the ancient night skies for billions of years. And will do so for billions more. This small moon and the cosmos.
Rain. A virtual Bangladeshi monsoon assaulted the Hideaway during much of early July. A shy sun occasionally peaked its timorous head from behind the clouds. Barely long enough to reduce the deluge to a fading golden dapple before a spectrum of dark grays returned. The storm gods were pissed. They amped up their dangerous lightning and banged on their angry tympanies. Day and night.
But peace and tranquility have finally returned. A quiet sun now warms Hideaway Pond. Sadly, its rays are filtered through smoke blown cross-country from drought driven fires that consume the western landscape. Global warming. Mankind’s gift to the planet.
Speaking of that, critter action has been low during the month of July. Sows, as mom bears are inelegantly called, are apparently keeping their furry little charges close to home. Deadbeat boars are already on the roam. We’ll see more bear action as summer wanes. Too quickly, I fear.
Three does, a mother and two of last year’s fawns show up like clockwork every evening. They graze on the strip of grass that lies between the edge of the pond and the ledge as I write this. Their red coats glow in the semi-darkness.
We were jolted from our breakfast a couple of weeks ago when an eagle took flight about 30 ft from behind the porch. It had apparently dined on some small critter, a field mouse or chipmunk, for its own breakfast. Critterdom is a self service world. And size matters.
A heron visits us on an almost daily basis. It often flies in and flairs out directly above the house. Like living under the final approach at JFK. Well, sorta. It will take its fill, become airborne and set its compass for home. No doubt dropping a small gratuity into the pond as it leaves.
And speaking of fish, the dragon flies are back. They torture the bass with their sadistic little game of death daring dives barely out of snapping range. The carp observe all of this with sanguine indifference.
A sad conclusion to the story of our little Carolina wren. She returned this year to build another nest in one of our hanging begonia pots. Our having not seen her for several days, Shari climbed up to check the nest. There were three small eggs, one of them broken. They had obviously been abandoned for days. We assume that she was taken by a predator. For all of her beauty, Mother Nature has her rules. C’est la guerre.
We continue to hear the night chorus of coyotes in the nearby woods. And at least two barred owls get into a nightly argument as darkness falls. I’ve stolen some of their voices and placed them below.
Coyote Pack
Barred Owls
A full “thunder moon” sails over the Catskills tonight. So named by the Western Abernaki Algonquians because of the prevalence of thunder storms at this time of year. Like the sun, it will shed its light through the blood red filter of western fires. Somewhere an Algonquian weeps.
Spring bowed graciously out of the Hideaway last night. A week of typically warm, beautiful weather preceded her flowery exit.
Just in time to stand aside as Summer came sizzling in. Hot. As in very hot–and humid. The overhead fan on the porch sufficed until early afternoon. Then we reluctantly closed the windows and turned on the AC.
The heat hasn’t deterred “Harry” the heron from his daily run on our ill starred fish population. “Harry“, so named by my lovely bride, comes in large, medium and small sizes. Or so I’ve noticed. I suspect that there may be several “Harrys”. With perhaps even a “Harriette” among them. No sexual intake gap here.
This is probably a blessing, as it keeps the bass alert until the dragon flies arrive. Whereupon they will spend the summer leaping fruitlessly at their fleet prey. Perhaps within that delicate and colorfully winged little body lies the heart of a sadist. And that knows that bass are not the smartest critters of a pisces persuasion.
The grass carp are in piscatorial paradise. A guy came with his big John Deere mower today and rendered the entire property to a cut that would bring pride to the most avid marine recruit. This process throws copious amounts of grass into the pond. A semi-weekly grass carp bacchanal.
Three does graze every evening like clockwork on the strip of grass between the ledge and the pond. Their red summer coats blaze against the grays and greens of the background. A doe and her fawn have run through the same area several times since the fawn first joined sylvan society.
A bear dropped by yesterday. He was not attracted by our delightful company and avoided us. A black bear with a beautiful healthy coat shows little detail from a distance. This makes it difficult to photograph, As in this case. So what you get instead of a black bear is a black blur. Please bear with us.
The Carolina wren that occupies one of the hanging baskets appears to be feeding her young. Though she’s only feet away we keep our distance to avoid disturbing her new family. Two other hanging baskets have been furnished with nests, but have become unused. Perhaps the wrens didn’t like the neighborhood. Another more grim possibility is that a predator has taken them. A red tail hawk with a lean and hungry look has been in the area. Mother Nature plays no favorites.
A pack of coyotes regularly yip and yowl their night time way through the adjacent creek bed. It seems to be one of their chosen paths from place to place. I’ve stolen their voices and placed them here. Be careful. They bite!
CoyotesCoyotes
An occasional buck, aloof and regal in demeanor, will stroll through the property. Bucks are beginning to develop their seasonal antlers. A “velvet” coat will cover and nourish their “rack” as it develops. After the velvet has served its purpose, it will shrivel and fall off. The antlers will then become the buck’s weapons as he squares off against competition during the rutting season. The winner will then claim his prize. Sort of a cervidaen singles bar.
Even as I write this, two young bucks have entered the yard and begun grazing on the newly cut grass. Each head is adorned with spikes about three inches long. Thus they are called “spike bucks”. Antlers first emerge as small nubs, or buttons. And their owners are called–you guessed it–”button bucks”. Underwhelming, but we all have to start someplace.
As the bucks were grazing, two turkeys ran through the yard and disappeared into the woods.
Mother Nature, for all of her pragmatism, has choreographed an interesting afternoon. A fitting entre’ for the Hideaway’s slow slide into summer.
Somber gray skies have loomed over the Pond for the past week. And a light northwesterly wind has blown in a soggy front. Tamar, goddess of weather, is in a glum mood.
The leaves have lost their spring iridescence and begun to show the dark green hints of approaching summer. The Hideaway has become more hidden.
Forsythia, lilacs, and the crabapple tree have come and gone while the rhododendron and azaleas are on the way to horticultural heaven. Shari just brought in a single peony, the first of the season. One of a patch that grows near the rapidly spreading wild iris. It will go into a bud vase to decorate the dining room table.
An eagle circled high over the pond a few days ago. It perched for a few minutes on the highest branch of the tallest tree next to the pond. Regal in its brief visit, it surveyed the area and fled. Slumming, I suppose. Effete snob.
Not to be upstaged, a large red taii hawk dropped in a day later and took station in a low hemlock next to the pond. I suspect that both harbored a yen for one of the large grass carp who lurked temptingly beneath the surface. However, even a bird of this stature would probably have found a fish of such size difficult cargo.
The carp is, in fact, a redoubtable foe. Beneath the placid surface of the pond, perpetual conflict rages between it and its fleeting food source. The illusive marine vegetation. The carp is the general victor.
Neither the eagle nor the hawk can match the fishing prowess of the great blue heron. One of whom has just flown overhead and landed at the back of the pond as I write this. It will fish the edges of the pond until it has had its fill. Noblesse oblige.
On the other end of the scale, the hummingbirds have been busy patrons of our hanging baskets. And two Carolina wrens are building nests in the begonia pots that hang on the porch. As with last year, the wrens will probably win the contest for pot space before the fledglings fly. And the forlorn remains of the begonia will struggle back to health by mid-summer. Given lots of water and Shari’s TLC.
A family of coyotes whined their way through the stream bed near the house one night a week ago. Their eerie cry a warning call to scurrying nocturnal critters.
Coyote Pack
Our first fawn of the year made its spotted appearance yesterday morning. It followed its mother on a romp through the front yard. They returned for an encore last evening. And a buck grazed by an our ago. They’re now clothed in the striking red garb of summer.
Our dinner was interrupted a couple of evenings ago by a very large bear. Somewhere in the 350-400 pound range. He clearly had his mind on the bird feeder he had massacred a year ago. And strewn its sad innards up the driveway. He briefly meandered a few feet from the house. Finding the feeder no longer there, he left in apparent disgust. I have attached a picture, taken a couple of years ago, of the bear of interest. An apparent repeat offender.
Local critters have emerged from their various winter shelters by now. Except those who have been left behind by the years during winter. One wonders if they’re missed, these furred family elders. Or mourned. We know that geese will mourn a lost family or mate for years. Dogs have been known to lie on a lost master’s grave. And we see videos of how elephants will loiter over and mourn a fallen family member. Do all critters do the same in their own way? Victims of predator critters? Or the evil homo sapiens? Errant drivers? What about old Walt Weasel lying in flat repose out there on the center line of Rt 28?
Fickle Spring weather around the pond for the last month or so. Dark days. Racing black wind born clouds, low hanging fog and rain. Or clear cold flawless blue. And sun.
Leaves have burst their winter bonds and turned the Hideaway into a green cocoon. We’re almost hidden from all but the sky.
Hummingbirds are back!
And a Carolina wren has been exploring the empty hook on which a basket of tuberous begonias hung last year. We suspect that it’s the wren who nested and raised a family there. Shari picked up four baskets of begonias today. One now hangs on that hook in hopes that we’ll have a return tenant this summer. Rent free. An homage to single mothers.
Avian visitors are sparse compared to last spring when wood ducks and hooded mergansers were daily visitors. Still, we get almost daily visits by geese and mallards. Some of the geese go onto the island. A few loiter at the spot where one of them lost her nest to a nocturnal raider a few years ago. Same goose? Could be. Geese will mourn a lost family or mate for years. Bird critters fly in an alternate universe.
Speaking of birds, our duck and bluebird houses remain desolate and unclaimed. Avian upper crust are perhaps too effete to bother with our humble abodes. Humiliating.
Turtles have discovered the dead remains of a desiccated fallen tree on the island. About two feet of it extend into the pond. They’ve commandeered it as a sunning alternative to the lawn. Best they enjoy it. It will be gone with the next cleanup. Or after the log totally decays. I said nothing of speed
A very small woodchuck dashed out from beneath the porch a few days ago. A good hint at what Chuck and his marmotan paramour have been doing down there all winter. Having stressed our cerebral sinews to name Chuck, “Chuck“, we now commence the momentous task of giving this poor little critter an equally unique moniker.
Wild iris, a freebee from Poseidon. have thrust their green leaves up a good foot along the edges of the pond. They’ll bloom in a month. Ok, “Poseidon” is overdoing it a bit. But it’s wet. And our own little “ocean”. The “Hideaway Sea”. Fantasy is my “super power”.
Therein, fish are awake and active. Soon the dragon and damsel flies will return. Designed by the piscatorial gods to frustrate the most athletic of their finned fiefdom. A buzzing swarm will settle a few feet from the surface. And remain there until the first cool hints of autumn.
Deer make their daily visit, reluctant, yet, to shed their dark winter coats. Though they do look shabby. Embarrassingly so if you ask me. That aside, they’ll soon be proudly wearing the bright rust red of summer. And so it should be.
The Hideaway is a joyful verdant green. The crimson maples celebrate in deep burgundy. And azaleas are in bloom. Mother Nature has wakened and donned her beautiful vernal array.
