Yellow goatsbeard at the Quarry

Yellow goatsbeard (Tragopogon dubius) gone to seed. A study in perfect symmetry. © BCP 2010

On the run today. Such a perfect glorious fall day — please see Today’s Quote! — that I can’t bring myself to sit at the computer and do what’s necessary to create a longish post. But I did want to put up this picture of a yellow goatsbeard (Tragopogon dubius) I found a week or so ago at the Quarry.

Yellow goatsbeard, aka western salsify, is considered to be an invasive weed in Ontario and British Columbia, as well as most U.S. states.

It may be a bad old weed, but looking at its perfection of design, who could argue that it isn’t beautiful in its own right?

© BCP 2010

Après le déluge

After the flood waters receded yesterday, I took this photo of the web in my front yard. © BCP 2010

I’m never sorry when it rains. In fact, I almost always love it. Yesterday, we had what the weatherfolk call a “rain event” that was more like the draining of some celestial bathtub than it was a typical rainstorm. The rain was coming down in sheets, not drops. More like the all-out torrents that Vancouverites are used to than what we usually get. I took pity on my poor child — who, refusing to either wear a rain coat or carry an umbrella, was doomed to an afternoon of being sopping wet — and drove him to the subway in the downpour.

And wonder of wonders. By the time I got home from the 10-minute trip, the sun was splitting the stones. I had my photo op. I ran in to get my camera to take a photo of the web that’s been a fixture in my front garden for some weeks. I see its owner when I come home at night. He (she?) hangs upside down in the centre of the web when not busily reweaving broken strands.

Never been a fan of spiders, despite the zoology degree. Had to take a look at a few close up in one of my mandatory courses, Invertebrate Zoo, but even then, didn’t really feel sympatico.

I’ve been trying to get over it, trying to get comfortable with the resident of this web that I see every day.

I’m not looking to be best friends, or anything. Besides. When I say hello to the spider, he/she never answers back. The birdies almost always do.

© BCP 2010

Autumn idyll in the Madawaska Valley

A paddle into Labrador Lake rewarded me with a spectacular early colour display. © BCP 2010

As much as I love observing nature in the city, sometimes there’s no substitute for getting out of it. And when that feeling takes over, I usually take off to one of two places: Algonquin Park or the Madawaska Valley. They’re the two places where I feel the most alive, where I feel the most at one with the universe. Where I get out of my own skin and  begin to blend in the with trees, the rocks, the water, and all the living things that exist in the spaces in between.

This past week I made the long trek  north and east to the Madawaska and was wonderfully rewarded for my efforts. The hardwoods were just beginning to  change.  Here and there, sugar maples were blazing a fiery red while the white birches were glowing a soft ochre.

I wanted to feel completely surrounded by the beauty, so I paddled — the only way in — into Labrador Lake, a tiny but almost perfectly circular lake that bears no human mark. There, in the middle of the lake, I had a 360-degree experience of autumn’s majesty. My only regret is that I don’t have a camera lens with a wide-enough angle to capture the sensation of being surrounded by water and trees.

Above is a photo of a little piece of the shoreline at Labrador Lake, taken from my canoe. You can see that it was a bit overcast, but the grey skies didn’t dull the foliage display.

The cabin at Joe’s Pond looks harmless enough on a bright sunny fall morning. © BCP 2010

On a sunnier day, I took a walk to a little pond known locally as Joe’s Pond. No one seems to know who it was named after. There’s a cabin at the pond that might have been used in years gone by, but for a long time now it has been abandoned. The cabin, now quite bedraggled, is not too menacing during the daytime, but I think I’d give it a wide berth at night.

Whenever I’m on these trails, I’m always looking over my shoulder for bears. There’s no doubt that there is the odd bear in these woods — they’ve been seen, after all — but it’s much much more likely to see a white-tailed deer in the bush than any other quadruped.

On this visit, however, I saw neither bear nor deer. A few birds — some flycatchers, I think. But mostly the pond and woods were quiet. I did see one female duck,  a mallard I’m pretty sure, busily scooping up subaquatic vegetation in the shallows by the shore.

How blessed we are in this country to have so many special places like this, with our endless woods and thousands upon thousands of lakes and ponds. It’s good to remember now and then.

© BCP 2010

Joe’s Pond, another tiny bit of heaven in the Madawaska Valley. © BCP 2010

Pond damselfly at the Quarry lands

A pond damselfly rests on a leaf in the Quarry over the weekend. © BCP 2010

Over the weekend, I was parked in the little parking lot that surrounds the shops of the Quarry, at the intersection of Clonmore and Gerrard St. East in the Upper Beach. While there, I happened to notice that the air was alive with what I always think of as helicopters — the giant dragonflies that seem to appear out of thin air in the fall. My business done, I decided to take a walk in the fields behind the shops to see if I could get a better look at the dragonflies, and possibly identify them. Ignoring the signs warning that parking for the purposes of dog walking was strictly forbidden  — after all, they didn’t say anything about parking for the purposes of taking pictures — I made my way down a bit of an enbankment into the Quarry lands.

Squish, squish. Argh. Wet feet. In my enthusiasm to go running after the dragonflies, I didn’t put two and two together. . . where there are odonates, there’s gotta be water nearby. I have to say in my own defence that the huge field — a veritable wild garden of golden rod, bushy asters, yellow goatsbeard, butter-and-eggs, white sweet clover, bird’sfoot trefoil and New England asters this time of year — didn’t look swampy in places…

Oh well. I had quite an adventure — even a bit of a scare — that  I will describe in another post. For now, though, I can report that while I wasn’t successful in getting a picture of any of the helicopters, I’m pretty sure that they were mostly 12-spotted skimmers (Libellula pulchella) and common green darners (Anax junius). I intend to go back as soon as I can to try again.

In the meantime, I did find a pond damselfly that was willing to have its picture taken. My beautiful electric blue friend is a bluet of some sort, possibly a Hagen’s bluet. I don’t think it’s possible to get an exact ID in the field, as close examination with a loop or magnifying glass is required to see some of the anatomical features that distinguish one species from the next.

My book on odonates (Field Guide to The Dragonflies and Damselflies of Algonquin Provincial Park and the Surrounding Area, 2008) says that bluets are typically mid-summer fliers. But since it’s written for the highlands of Algonquin Park, where the nights get cooler more quickly than they do here in the big city, perhaps that restriction doesn’t apply. I saw what were clearly bluets at Cherry Beach a few days ago, too, so perhaps they fly longer here in the relative south.

If anyone has a better idea what my damselfly specimen is, please let me know!

© BCP 2010

Mmmm — mint by the shore at Ashbridge’s

Hoary mountain mint (Pycnanthemum incanum) growing at the water’s edge at the bay last week. © BCP 2010

On at recent walk at Ashbridge’s Bay, my local park on the north shore of Lake Ontario, I was busy looking at all sorts of flowers — golden rod, sweet white clover, the chicory blooms hanging on valiantly into the beginnings of fall. And then I stumbled into a patch of greenery right by the edge of the water that had this wonderfully pungent green smell. I had to think for a moment to figure out what the delightful aroma was. And then it hit me. It could only be mint.

I took photos of the plants in the patch, then came home to identify them. I started by trying to match up the tiny whitish-lavender flower heads in my wildflower guide (National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Wildflowers (Eastern).  It didn’t take long to find a photo that was a close match to the lovely delicate flowers I’d seen. And when I saw the plant’s common name, I knew it had to be right. Hoary mountain mint (Pycnanthemum incanum).

My guide tells me that this plant’s genus name comes from two Greek roots: pycn (dense) and anthos (flower), which aptly describe its crowded flower clusters.

Going through the guide’s description, I made further comparisons.

Height: from one to three feet, check;

Flowering: from July to September, check;

Range: Ontario included, check.

Hmm. All good. I think it’s a match.

I’m going right back to the beach to smell it again.

© BCP 2010

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