Spring in December

It’s definitely winter here in Western New York, it's December 27th, yet here I am, high on a hilltop being buffeted by sweet, sixty degree winds. Why does the air smell so sweet on unusually warm winter days - is it perhaps more oxygenated for some reason? I am not sure but I do know that the aroma is lovely, even if that loveliness is perhaps accentuated a bit by a mind addled with a touch of spring fever.

It smells like baking pies out here. No, that’s not quite it, not actually baking, but cooling atop a stove, as smelled from a room far at the other end of the house. But the air not only smells sweet but clean too, like clothes that were hung outside to dry. Maybe all this is just my brain’s reaction to fresh air after spending so many days in a row inside, but I don’t care, I am in high spirits as I explore my woods on this wonderful day.

I feel so good I feel swept up with the breezes, like I could fly, such is the whimsy of spring fever. With my mind and senses acute, I roam the forest noticing things I might not have otherwise. I spy a tiny hummingbird nest built in the fork of a skinny branch. Then I spot another. And yet another. So miniature and cute, they stand out as bits of triangular solid among thin branches silhouetted against the sky, easy to spot now, but something you’d never see when they’re actually in use hidden deep in the leaves of summer.

Now I stumble upon a stand of black birch trees. How unusual, I don’t ever recall seeing black birch bark before. Yellow (golden) and white yes, often, but black? No. I’ll have to do some research when I return home to see how rare this is. But, for now, I just appreciate seeing something new.

The forest is alive with squirrels dashing to and fro. I imagine they are taking advantage of the warm weather to stock up on nuts revealed by the melting snow. The snow is sprinkled liberally with them, mostly beechnuts. I also spot clusters of wild grapes and wonder if the squirrels like them too.

Now the sound of rushing water down deep in a ravine draws me; I head there. This stream, a mere trickle in the summer, now gushes with thick, brown, unstoppable water coursing towards it’s meeting with the larger stream further downhill. I know this stream intimately but now it’s almost unrecognizable. It has filled its banks and more – the water has crept partway up the hillsides and, with its newfound might, it has moved some of the larger dead trees well downstream from where they originally fell.

Gone now are the numerous little tinkling waterfalls I enjoyed last summer, obliterated by the muddy torrent. Of course, next summer, there will be brand new tiny waterfalls to fall in love with, courtesy of the reshaping power of three feet of rapidly melting snow.

A cold mist trails the streamwater downhill while on the hillsides, a curtain of fog shapeshifts over the remaining snowpack. You’d never know that there was sunshine and blue skies just above this ghostly scene. I really like the contrast of these two worlds knowing that I can inhabit either within a few hundred feet of each other. The eeriness of this ravine microworld is reinforced by two decidedly different air currents being felt at the same time; a wintry chill emanating from the water and snow mingling with the much warmer ambient air. It’s like being in the arctic and the tropics at the same time.

I climb out of the ravine back into warmth and sunshine. What an absolutely delightful day it is! Of course, I am well aware that winter will be back soon enough – about three more months of it yet to go. Nevertheless, I am reveling in this short break, intoxicated by the sights, sounds and smells of spring in December…

--->Killarney Part VII to be posted soon.

Killarney - Part VI

Morning. The rain has finally stopped but it’s still cold and dripping outside. I dress for it - long underwear, rain slicker, etc. and off I go. I am hiking in from the south terminus (or start) of the legendary La Cloche Silhouette Trail (doesn’t the name alone spark the imagination?) The trail in full is about 63 miles in length over extremely rugged terrain and generally takes experienced backpackers 7-10 days to complete. I will only be hiking in as far as I can go to leave enough time to make the return trek back to camp before dark.

I begin the hike at brisk pace, my energy level high due to being relatively sedentary the last two days. Quickly I find myself in a misty valley between two towering and craggy quartzite cliffs that resemble fortress walls of old castle ruins - very impressive. Though I’ve hiked this portion of the trail a number of times before, I’m later in the fall season this time than ever before and all the leaves are off the trees - this is the first time this magnificent scene has been fully revealed to me - it’s like a completely new trail! And as happens often in magical places like these, I am humbled and amazed by the sheer beauty of nature.

The theme of this hike as remembered later will definitely be water. Not the lakes and streams I will pass but the water that is coursing everywhere, even trickling and babbling from the most unlikely of spots, like high up on the cliff sides after 24 straight hours of rain. In places, even the trail itself has become a creek. Today’s challenge will be to avoid stepping in water above the tops of my waterproof boots – not an easy task with the thick mat of last night’s leaf blowdown hiding puddles and hollows like hidden trap doors.

The rain may have stopped overnight but the wind is still blowing impressively. Each gust starts as a far-off roar, sounding similar to a distant waterfall, but with the difference being that the din gets closer and closer until you are suddenly awash in it, hair blowing back, wet leaves slapping you in the face and cold wind finding its way into every nook and cranny in your ‘windproof’ clothing. Nevertheless, I barely notice the frigid gusts, I am just so thrilled to be on this trail with its whole new look and feel - there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now!

Soon I am fully soaked from head to toe (I did manage to find a couple of those hidden puddles that were deeper than my boots are tall and the soggy vegetation and wind took care of the rest.) I slosh to the brink of what I have dubbed Acid Chasm on previous trips. A stream running from higher elevation Acid Lake to Lumsden Lake below has cut a steep slot through solid rock like it would have taken pure acid to do it. But given time, just regular ol' H20 can cut though anything, and time is something it’s had plenty of to do its work here.

Several waterfalls drop the water down the chasm to the lake below. Full time waterfalls are rare in this hardpan landscape; water runs off so fast in steeper places that waterfalls dry up quickly and where the terrain is more gentle, water has had eons to smooth rock faces making flumes or gentle rapids more likely than waterfalls.

Easing my self carefully down the slippery smooth sides into the chasm, I reach bottom where I am able to admire these elegant waterfalls at eye level. In addition to the cascades, there are strikingly colorful lichens coating the rocks. Nowhere else have I ever seen lichens so brightly-hued, I call this special area the Killarney Painted Rocks. There is no shortage of lichens here in Killarney, it’s a hardy form of vegetation that can endure extremes of cold and drought, but here in this chasm they have taken on beautiful colors, perhaps due to the consistent presence of moisture. Do you know what a lichen is? It’s a fungus and an alga that have taken a ‘lichen’ to each other.

Part Seven soon!

Killarney, Part V

After my pleasant visit to the Killarney village, I return to the campground. It’s still windy, rainy and cold but I’m not ready to be cooped up yet. I put on my rain slicker and go for a stroll to visit my favorite campsite. Upon arrival, I immediately feel pangs of regret that I'm not camping here. The view is simply stunning, it sits on a bluff high over the water with an unobstructed view of the lake and mountains beyond. One of the best views of any campsite in any campground I’ve ever visited. When staying here, I drain this view every night ‘til I can see no more. I think to myself that since no one’s camping here this week, maybe I’ll wander over each night at sunset and drain the view anyway.

Tonight, the view is much different from when it is clear - the mountains, mantled in thick mist, look delightfully mysterious and foreboding. And each powerful gust of wind sends a wake skittering across the surface of the lake – I can literally ‘see’ the wind!

By now, the unrelenting driving rain has me soaked through and through despite the slicker - I sure wouldn’t want to be backpacking and camping out in those mountains tonight! As the cold and wet penetrates to my bones, I change my mind about draining the view and simultaneously realize I haven’t brought along my headlamp to find my way back to camp anyway. I leave while I can still (barely) see the way.

Given the weather, I decide that tomorrow will be a lowland hike since everything will be wet and slippery even if the rain has stopped. The trail I’ve chosen will be perfect for a soggy morning, a meander thru misty, ethereal forests of hemlock, aspen and white birch. I fall asleep with visions of rainforests floating through my head.

Part VI soon...