A message in the woods

A piece of bark from the paper birch, Betula papyrifera, snagged in a twig on my path in the woods. © BCP 2010

Same woods, different day. New path.

Today I chanced upon this perfect piece of birch bark, snagged on a twig. It got me thinking, and remembering.

Did you know that you can peel the layers of such a piece of birch bark, carefully, v-e-r-y  slowly? And that, finally, you come to the softest, most pliable piece of pale pink bark that makes a writing surface as smooth as the finest vellum?

When I was young, a thousand years ago, I used to hunt for such a perfect piece of bark on the ground in the woods at the camp where I spent my summers. Once located, I would take the bark to my cabin, and, when I had free time, I would painstakingly peel away its layers until I got a beautiful piece of paper to write on.  Then, using a fine-nibbed fountain pen, I would write a letter home to my parents, telling them about my experiences in the woods. I like to think I thanked them, although to be honest, I don’t remember.

Years later, I repeated the process, only I sent letters on birch bark to my daughter at her camp.

She knew why I did it, too.

Today, in the woods, a perfect piece of birch bark, just waiting for a message.

Maybe the fairies will use it.

© BCP 2010

A walk in the woods

Cool, green and shady, with magical restorative powers. My walk in the woods after the rain. © BCP 2010

After a busy week in the Big Smoke, what could be more restorative than a walk in the woods? A walk just after the rain stopped….and before it started up again, in torrents.

Glistening trees, dripping leaves, verdant woods as far as the eye could see in every direction. Listening carefully through the soaking verdure, birds calling, chittering. Their world goes on, rain or no rain.

Shhh. A twig snapped. Was it a bunny I scared? Something bigger? Maybe one of the squirrels I heard chattering out a warning to me earlier?

Who knows? The woods have their secrets. I’m just passing through.

© BCP 2010

It’s snakegrass, not a snake in the grass, in my yard

Snakegrass, otherwise known to many as horsetail (Equisetum hymale), is an ancient non-flowering plant. © BCP 2010

Wow. Out with my camera in my backyard after the rain again, and look at the strange stuff I found!

I knew we had what the kids called snakegrass on our slope heading towards the swamp, but I have to admit, for some reason I had never looked at it that closely.

Gently pushing aside the myriad maple and beech seedlings that are quickly turning into saplings, and making my way through the Triffid-like understory of purple-flowering raspberry bushes (click here to see that post), protecting my camera from the dripping foliage, I made my way into the spreading stand of snakegrass to give it a better look.

An invertebrate something or other sits atop a stalk of Equisetum in my backyard after the rain.    © BCP 2010

The first thing I noticed was that there were some intriguing invertebrates making their home on the tips of some of the stalks. Lots of snails, and some critters that looks like the wormy part of the snail. (At this point, don’t know what, exactly, they are.)

Leaving the naked pink wormy creatures aside, a really close look at the tips of the snakegrass nearly made my eyes bug out. At the tips of the stalks are a veritable garden of cone-like structures — in diferent colours and shapes. The look like something Alice might have seen when she fell down the rabbit hole. Curiouser and curiouser!

I had no clue about this abundant vegetation growing so luxuriously in my backyard, so I let my fingers do the walking through wikipedia. This strange plant is actually Equisetum hyemale, an ancient non-flowering plant most commonly called horsetail. (It’s scientific name derives from the Latin for horse, equus, and the Latin for bristle, seta.)

When I say ancient, it’s no hyperbole. Here’s wiki on the subject:

“Equisetum is a “living fossil“, as it is the only known genus of the entire class Equisetopsida, which for over one hundred million years was very diverse and dominated the understory of latePaleozoic forests. Some Equisetopsida were large trees reaching to 30 meters tall…” (Read the rest of the Wikipedia entry here.)

The most fascinating bit, I think, is that these plants are non-flowering. They spread via spores and botanists now consider them to be closely related to ferns.

The extremely odd, cone-like structures at the tips of some of the upright green stalks are actually spore-producing bodies called strobili. The spores are borne under sporangiophores  in these strobili.

Another common name for Equisetum is scouring rush. Before there was steel wool, or Maytags, for that matter, these rushes were dried and used for scouring, or cleaning, dirty pots. Seems the stiff stems contain silicates that give them a rough texture. They have even been used as a kind of  sandpaper to smooth wood. (Try that the next time you’re caught in the woods with a wood-working project to finish and no medium sandpaper around.)

Blessed with towering, several-hundred-year-old trees that create a forest canopy over my backyard, I am further blessed with a living aviary. I consequently spend most of my time out in the yard looking up, trying to catch a glimpse of my feathered friends through the dense foliage.

But on this rainy day, the birds were hiding out somewhere, undoubtedly waiting for the torrent to slacken before going out to hunt for their next meal. Without much of a reason to look up, I looked down to see what I could see. It was a look that paid off.

Seems like a lesson there for me, eh?

This image shows the various forms the cone-like strobili take in the reproductive stalks of Equisetum. Spores are formed in the strobili.  © BCP 2010

Going squirrely in the big city

Eye to eye with a grey squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis), in Ashbridge’s Bay Park, April 1, 2010. © BCP 2010

I was having my wake-up coffee yesterday and reading my morning paper — the Science section in Tuesday’s New York Times (the July 5th edition  — it gets delivered a day late via The Globe and Mail. Long story)  — when I began to read an article that goes to the heart of what this website hopes to be — an exploration of where the natural world smacks up hard against the urban environment.

It was an article written by one of my favourite Times‘ columnists, Natalie Angier, concerning the phenomenal urban success of the Eastern grey squirrel, Sciurus carolinensis. Grey squirrels are prolific and adaptable. And depending on your point of view, either utterly adorably fascinating, or damnably annoyingly rodenty.  In my family, there are more of us who see grey squirrels as charming, hilarious circus performers. But the one member of my happy gang here in the Beach who sees a grey squirrel and starts to think Uzi? Just so happens that person wears the biggest boots in our clan.

Don’t be confused about by the name, by the way. That pair of black squirrels that you see racing around the tree in your yard, chasing each other in crazy, unending loop-de-loops? They’re grey squirrels. Aren’t they just so cute?

Here’s part of what Ms. Angier of the Times had to say about these surprisingly intelligent mammals this week.

“The Eastern gray tree squirrel, or Sciurus carolinensis, has been so spectacularly successful that it is often considered a pest. The International Union for Conservation of Nature includes the squirrel on its list of the top 100 invasive species. The British and Italians hate gray squirrels for outcompeting their beloved native red squirrels. Manhattanites hate gray squirrels for reminding them of pigeons, and that goes for the black, brown and latte squirrel morphs, too.

Yet researchers who study gray squirrels argue that their subject is far more compelling than most people realize, and that behind the squirrel’s success lies a phenomenal elasticity of body, brain and behavior. Squirrels can leap a span 10 times the length of their body, roughly double what the best human long jumper can manage. They can rotate their ankles 180 degrees, and so keep a grip while climbing no matter which way they’re facing. Squirrels can learn by watching others — cross-phyletically, if need be. In their book “Squirrels: The Animal Answer Guide,” Richard W. Thorington Jr. and Katie Ferrell of theSmithsonian Institution described the safe-pedestrian approach of a gray squirrel eager to traverse a busy avenue near the White House. The squirrel waited on the grass near a crosswalk until people began to cross the street, said the authors, “and then it crossed the street behind them.”

You can read the whole article in the Times online, here.

In the meantime, I’m going out back to watch the squirrels.

© BCP 2010

A pair of fawns in the Madawaska Valley

A white-tailed deer fawn catches sight of me on a Madawaska Valley cottage road on Saturday, July 3.    © BCP 2010

Well, I didn’t find this lovely white-tailed deer fawn (Odocoileus virginianus)  in my Beach backyard, although I have plenty of colleagues and friends who live just a little further east, out towards the Scarborough Bluffs, who do, in fact, have deer nibbling at the low branches in their backyards. I guess that’s a mixed blessing for avid gardeners.

To see this particular fawn, I had to be out and about in the byways of our beautiful province, as I was over this past weekend. Lucky me, to find myself in the Madawaska Valley, surely one of Ontario’s most blessed corners.

As I was making my way down a quite heavily used cottage road, I happened upon this fawn above and its sibling. (With the long lens on my camera I couldn’t get both of them into the same frame because of the distance apart they were standing.) Apparently both the fawns and their mother have been seen quite often around. (I didn’t get a glimpse of the doe.) It’s not that they have no fear of people, as you can see in the two frames I have put up here.

In the frame above, the fawn has just seen me. Then, in the frame below, the fawn’s startle response. Ack! Leave superfast! Little fawns have no doubt whether to fight or take flight.

With a flash of its white tail, the fawn takes off to the safety of the deep woods by the side the road. © BCP 2010

© BCP 2010

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