The crunch of packed snow is reassuring as I cross over chapel pond, stories of trucks being driven over frozen lakes adding to my confidence in the tensile strength of ice. Admittedly, those stories ended in the tucks falling through the ice, but I try to not think of that. Seeing the shanties of ice fishing enthusiasts on the drive over, however, did make me question how anything could survive the winter freeze in a still body of water. Did fish hibernate through winter? Can they breath in their isolated world? Did they ever freeze solid? To me, it seemed a stroke of luck for aquatic life that the density of water does not react traditionally to temperature.
In fact, water is most dense at 4 degrees Celsius, unlike most substances that constantly increase density with falling temperatures. This means further cooled water will rise to the top, eventually freezing solid, forming an insolating layer between the denser, warmer water and the outside freeze. This layer of ice slows the exchange of heat between the body of water and atmosphere, keeping deeper waters liquid all season. In this capped world, food and oxygen are also trapped, but in lower quantities. Many fish, therefore, enter a state of reduced activity. A notable feature of this reduced state is the slowed metabolism, which allows a small amount of food to go a long way. This also allows some species of fish trapped in ice to keep themselves safe, producing a type of antifreeze in their bodies until the spring thaw!
While this smaller body of water has seemed to avoid the rush of ice fishing, Lake Champlain bustles with activity as groups try their luck for Northern Pike, Lake Trout and even Salmon, fooling their prey with rare food sources in the bleak winter season.
As I journeyed back through the Jackson Property, I see the familiar trees from the identification game we played only two weeks before. On the same trail, I notice lots of differences from our last trip. There is more snow, similarly icy but definitely more prevalent. Coming off of some of the leaves of the trees are small icicles, and the weather is definitely a little colder, though the skies have cleared up some since our earlier visit. I walk through the grove of great red oaks (Quercus rubra), with white pine (Pinus strobus) and american beech (Fagus grandifolia) spread throughout.
As I am walking back to my chosen location to sit and observe, a tree I remember from last time catches my eye: the scots pine (Pinus sylvestris). I remember these specifically because of their vibrant red-orange bark towards the top of the trees making them very distinctive. Though I did research into why exactly the pines get their color, I was unsuccessful and instead found information on their flakey bark and how it creates a good environment for insects, especially pine moth larvae (Lepidoptera spp.). Among the pine species, the scots pine, the red pine, and the austrian pine are the species that are most often targeted by moths because of the shelter their bark provides, among other things. Young pine moths, especially in early spring, feed extensively on the shoots and the bases of the scots pine branches. This can continue for 2-3 months, until eventually the needles turn brown and the branches die, causing obvious damage to the trees. In addition, you can see locations where the pine moths infest the trees because the trees will ooze lots of sap from those areas, giving the appearance of candle wax dripping down the sides of the trees. Though I looked and saw some evidence of this in the form of sap on the trees, it is impossible to know whether or not this was caused by moths without any closer inspection.
As I continue on the path, I reach my location to observe, at the edge of the lake looking into the trees and the late afternoon sun. Overhead I can hear birds and I identify a group of annoying gawking crows (Corvus spp.) flying overhead. Finally I sat down to observe the lake and the trees. The water was partially frozen and the different thicknesses are distinct. I’ve always had the childhood dream of skating on a frozen lake in the backcountry somewhere, but this lake has nowhere near thick enough ice to skate on with the recent warm weather and there’s the issue that I don’t know how to skate…
When our class dispersed into the Green Mountain National Forest for a few minutes of solitary observation, I found myself drawn to the waters of Sucker Brook not far upstream from the Falls of Lana. In part it was the sound of gently flowing water that drew me to its bank, but it was also the incredible sculptural forms of ice that partially covered its surface. The clean-white blanket of icy snowfall had several large holes that I could see, producing open skylights for the babbling brook below. The running water had melted the edges of this frigid cover to produce beautifully sculpted forms which even featured the added interest of dangling icicles. The contrast of bright, smooth ice and dark, energetic water below was something I could have enjoyed for much longer than our allotted 10 minutes.
View looking downstream from a bridge cross ing Sucker Brook in the Green Mountain National Forest
I sat down and looked at the life growing around me. There was a towering Eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis) to my right which I was soon to stand and lean against once I realized just how cold snow-covered ground can feel. To my left was a rock cap fern (Polypodium virginianum) jutting out from the side of a small boulder, a species which, like myself, is attracted to the geologic outcrops that occupy the forests of the eastern United States.
Rock cap fern (Polypodium virginianum)
Looking upstream, I saw a massive boulder that was a few meters across. It reminded me of one of the first field trips I ever took for a college course, during which we waded out into the Middlebury River to collect data and calculate streamflow. Venturing upstream, we came across massive boulders that could not have been moved by the current discharge of the channel, providing a perfect opportunity for our professor to remind us of the dichotomy of geologic time: either mind-boggling slow or mind-blowing fast. Over a stretch of thousands of years, there is bound to be a flood that is capable of causing such geologic change. Similar to David George Haskell’s “Earthquake” chapter from The Forest Unseen, it is a reminder of the connection between time, geology, and the forest ecosystem. Though Sucker Brook was peaceful as it gently flowed under the ice that day, time hides its true potential.
Making a journey to Silver lake, I become part of a story, part of the history of the Green Mountains. The ground is frozen, covered in fresh snow and ice, and protected by the Vermont National Forest. I wonder who has ventured through these woods before me, and who will come next. The Green Mountain National Forest has changed drastically over the centuries. The evolution of the land and climate has taken place at the heart of the Western Abenaki tribal home. Creation of the national forest was spurred by extreme land use beginning in the early 1600’s. The landscape became tarnished, leaving the once thriving natural habitats, hydrology, and vegetation behind. Long term and unsustainable logging practices where a key factor in the creation of the the Vermont National Forest, which was founded in 1932. The Green Mountain National Forest encompasses 400,000 acres, in which over 2,000 historical and archeological sites are documented.
The dark character of the Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) lies in stark contrast to the light ground. Ever since I can remember my family has spent time hiking in the North Carolina State Park, and each summer when we return Mt. Mitchell and to the crisp waters of the South Toe River more Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) are victims of the Hemlock Woolly Adelgid (Adelges tsugae), an invasive species from Asia. The beauty of these hemlocks gives me hope and a glance into the past- -of being carried on my father’s shoulders through the once healthy Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) of North Carolina.
The woods are quiet and the path is on a slight incline. I hear the Falls of Lana hidden just beyond the bare trees, carrying Sucker Brook. I walk on the same land that the US General Wool crossed in the 1850’s, the general who gave the falls their name. Llana, wool in Spanish, remembers the General Wool and his explorers who ventured about Lake Dunmore many years ago. In the summertime these falls are vibrant and colorful, now it is subdued, white snow and dark waters lie upon various types of bedrock including Cheshire Quartzite, Forestdale Marble, and Moosalamoo Phyllite. I think about General Wool and the men who accompanied him, wondering when they stumbled upon this site and what they recorded when they came.
As we embarked on our walk through the Green Mountain National Forest, the amount of green that was present surprised me. Tall Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) surrounded us and their canopy limited the natural sunlight underneath. The ice that covered the Hemlock trees’ contributed to the satisfying aesthetic beauty of the forest. During our walk, I stood in awe before a massive tree that had fallen and lifted its roots from the ground. There were several other trees that were positioned similarly, mostly pointing in the same direction. Evidence suggests that this was caused by a microburst of wind, though it is hard to believe that wind is capable of uprooting massive trees. Further research tells me that microbursts aren’t common in the Northeast, and they take place more in the South and Midwest, so the mystery remains unsolved.
Our walk begins to parallel a river and I decided to sit on a rock on the riverbank. The soothing sound of small waterfalls and trickling water fill the air. As I sat, I admired the natural spontaneity that occurs on the surface of the river. The water flows swiftly through tiny cracks and crevices created in the rocks and ice. Closer to the center of the river, the water is calmer and is crystal clear, revealing the numerous rocks and fallen branches. The trees on each side of the river are slanted slightly, hanging over the water. I suspect that this is simply because they are growing on a slanted surface but I wonder if it is more complex than that.
I am intrigued by the shining icicles and I ponder the process in which they were created. Icicles are created when the temperature is subfreezing, but sunshine causes snow or ice to melt slowly. An icicle begins with a few water droplets and grows as water trickles down and freezes at the bottom. Similar to last time, I am unsuccessful in my search for animals. I hoped to see at least animal tracks in the snow, but it appears that my location was not a popular spot on the river.
The forest clears and I step into a wide-open space, white snow covering the floor and shrubs poking up from beneath. I step out onto the pure white snow and a hollow crunching sound emanates from beneath my feet. Ice: I must be standing in a wetland area. My friend and I proceed more carefully to the center of the wetland, where he immediately finds a tree partially gnawed through by a beaver. While he is marveling over that, I sit down and look at the open area, an amphitheater showcasing the huge magnitude of biological processes happening just beneath me.
As dirty and as unappealing as most wetlands look, the water in them is some of the cleanest on the planet. This is primarily because of plant uptake of water. The huge number of plants, ranging from small ferns like cattails to larger, wooded trees like tamarack (both of which I could identify) mean a lot of water is being taken up by the plants. With that water come nutrients and other substances absorbed into the water molecule. The three major nutrients plants need to survive are nitrogen, phosphate, and potassium; thus, these are the primary components of fertilizer. If a wetland is situated near an over fertilized farm, the plants in the wetland are going to be able to help mitigate the amount of excess fertilizer that could find its way into drinking water supplies, or otherwise sensitive areas where a nutrient imbalance could throw off an entire ecosystem.
Many wetland plants are able to absorb even more toxic substance, including generally toxic metals such as cadmium and lead. Woody plants, like the tamarack, are able to hold these toxic substances for long periods of time. However, herbaceous plants and macrophytes tend to absorb more water in a shorter amount of time. With this knowledge mitigation and prevention strategies could be implemented in high risk contamination areas, like factories, mines or farms.
I slowly come to the realization that plants are perhaps the most tough, robust, and successful organisms on earth. They sit in the cold, frozen ground, perhaps filled with toxic chemicals that humans inadvertently put there, and survive to grow and multiply when spring timidly reveals its head. I sit in my huge puffy jacket, thinking about my cold toes and how good fresh water is going to taste when I’m home. Perspective.
Pausing for breath after jumping a patch of thin ice, I take a moment to inspect my surroundings. The frozen wetlands are beautiful and still, seemingly devoid of life, and I snap a picture. Turning around to inspect the woods nearest to me, I notice a significant portion of a dying tree to be missing. Though it has shed all leaves or needles, the whorled limbs suggest it is an evergreen, likely an eastern hemlock given their prominence in the area. The cut seems similar to that of an axe, but neater and rounded, and I remember that wetlands are often created as a consequence of beaver dams. Excited about this discovery, but pressed for time, I make my way back towards the trail only to jump as I see a small rodent dart from one ice covered pile of sticks to another. The encounter with beavers confirmed, I hastily researched their habitats and lifestyles upon returning to campus.
As it happens, beavers do not hibernate during winter, instead spending the colder months with family in a warm lodge, the protected home built in the deeper waters of their flooded wetlands. Closer inspection of my casual photo reveals several of these lodges, though I did not understand their significance earlier. These lodges and other beaver activities are nothing short of amazing. Not only are they the animals to most shape their environment besides humans, they are also capable of constructing insulation from mud and sticks. Furthermore, the underwater exits from lodges keep them hidden from predators while allowing their users free-movement, even as ice coats the top of wetlands. These tunnels also lead directly to a “pantry” of sorts: piles of sticks and other foods held underwater for hearty winter eating.
The dams that create their habitat in the first place are also clever in their construction, as beavers fell larger trees with precise aim to serve as a base for smaller harvested branches. This process has the multiple uses of feeding beavers cambium and soft inner wood, creating the environment for their lodges by flooding wetlands and killing trees nearby for the benefit of other species that require dead, standing wood.
As we disperse to select personal observation areas, I feel that there is no spot that looks more or less appealing than another. Eastern hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) are ubiquitous in this section of the forest, and I choose my spot simply because there is a rock from which to sit and observe. What I don’t realize at the time is that this rock adds a point of interest to the Wessels, “Pillows and Cradles” reading.
Covering the rock is a layer of moss supporting the growth of a hemlock sapling. This confuses me considering that Wessels discusses the growth of hemlocks on “nurse logs,” not plain rocks. He describes these logs, usually hemlocks, as the ideal facilitators of moss growth due to their rate of decay. While he states that hardwoods, such as “maples, beeches, and birches” (Wessels 121), decay too quickly, it seems implicit that a rock experiencing no biological decay would not promote moss growth either. I wonder whether an old hemlock has decomposed over many decades on this rock to the point where the only remaining evidence of its existence is the moss that persists. The snow on this slope only exposes the moss partially, and perhaps there is a sizeable layer of moss that can’t be seen on this rock. In any case, I question if these saplings will be able to grow without a connection to a nurse log or to the soil.
More numerous on this rock is a type of fern I have not observed in my previous trips to the TAM. With some research, I identify this as a common polypody, or rock fern (Polypodium vulgare). Seeing this plant makes me more cognizant of the specific conditions of this forest. The Vermont State Parks website describes the plant’s habitat as “abundant on moist shady cliffs, rocks…” which is a near exact description of this habitat. Furthermore, the abundance of hemlocks with a smattering of paper birches (Betula papyrifera) in this forest demonstrates the specific necessity of shade-tolerance in this environment. Hemlocks dominate because they are extremely shade- tolerant trees, while the birches, shade-intolerant, require perfect conditions (an ample amount of light) to thrive in this forest, and are less numerous as a result.
I realized this morning, as I plotted out my route, that a theme has been developing as a subtext to my journal entries: I went West the first week and encountered trees within 100 paces of my door; I ventured South a week later and was soon shrouded in a dense stand of conifers. With two essays and two cardinal directions ahead of me, I declared it my mission to scatter myself to the four corners of Middlebury in search of unexplored territory. This morning, with my divine purpose fixed, I set out to the North.
But my quest today was in vain. As I travelled along Weybridge Street, town gave way to suburb, suburb to farm fields, and on and on as far as the eye could see. I’ve travelled that road enough by car to know that, were I to carry on, I’d cross more fields, a train track, a major state thoroughfare, and arrive eventually in the unwieldy sprawl of Burlington. I climbed two hills past the Weybridge town line, clutching to forlorn hope, but I soon despaired of encountering any forest— surely this is not the “proverbial peace and quiet,” that tantalizing rustic lifestyle of the Green Mountain State? I pass lonely islands of trees along the roadside. My journey becomes little more than an exercise in tree identification— there’s a solitary shagbark hickory; and there, a stand of cherries; a neat row of planted beeches; three ancient oaks. But this is no forest: the lush Greens impend, an ungraspable, hazy phantom on the horizon of a tattered natural landscape, while the omnipresent must of cattle dung and the buzz of transformers overhead are poignant reminders of how profoundly unwild this place is.
“An ungraspable, hazy phantom on the horizon of a tattered natural landscape”
Our Commons here has been grazed. The literature tells us that we’ve doubled the number of houses in recent decades and that practically every inch of viable land is occupied. Lake Dunmore, not too long ago a wilderness paradise, is girded by a near-complete ring of developed land. Where can we go next? The frontier is closed! We worry about habitat for endangered species— we wring our hands about global warming— but what of our own habitat? We have been sumptuous in our overuse. In squeezing more and more people into our tiny Northern Kingdom, we’re squeezing out the lifeblood of the state. One can’t help but wonder, considering the suppression the National Parks have suffered this week, how our scant resources can possibly hold up. What’s clear, though, is that we must conserve, and we must use conservatively.
Eventually, I retraced my steps toward the TAM, not wanting to waste a whole morning without ever entering a forest. The Class of ’97 Trail took me through a marvelous, but tiny, pine and hemlock grove. The tenacious needles cast a pleasant, refreshing verdure over the trail, which is otherwise whelmed in grey. I re-encountered an old friend, musclewood (Carpinus carolinia), one of my favorite species and one I haven’t seen in ages. I also remarked one tree that had apparently succumbed to pileated woodpecker damage, along with numerous deadfalls, evidence of a ‘microburst,’ which must have hit this stand a few seasons ago.
Evidence of a ‘microburst.’
In a bizarre inversion of history, my “Pioneer West” lies to the East. Across town in the State Forest we caught a glimpse of pure, apparently unadulterated forest, wherein one might escape the cars, cables, and concrete. But for that, I must wait for another day. For now, I wend my way around the farm fields, passing from the glaring desolation of the fractured woodlands back to the manicured greenery of campus.
Just down the hill, the water rushed quickly, fueled by the melting snows of a warm winter afternoon. It is days like these that make me think of how global warming is causing winter temperatures are growing by 1.3 degrees fahrenheit per decade (Johnson and Govatski, 2013). The pools seemed unbelievably transparent and crisp, like the water that flows out of the tap. This medium-sized watershed in Moosalamoo national forest is administered by the forest service and was established in 2007 by New England Wilderness Protection Act. The forest has multiple uses including skiing, camping, hiking, biking, snowshoeing and swimming. When I sat along that creek, the thoughts of “loving green mountain national forest to death” and habitat fragmentation never crossed my mind. The babbling brook took my mind off the prospect of how the density of housing on privately owned forestland is skyrocketing.
I sit next to a yellow birch (Betula alleghaniensis) with very peely bark, yet these trees are few and far between. The forest is dominated with shade-tolerant eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis), both large and small. Eastern hemlock are often lichen and moss free and contain large amounts of tannin in their bark making the species the most rot-resistant in New England. One of the most noticeable parts of this forest is the enormous amount of windsweep that has taken place. Trees that have fallen across the trail display clear cut saw marks. By examining these trees, I can make out the distinct line between heartwood and sapwood. A sliver of wood has degraded around the outside of the sapwood signaling that most of these trees are conifers. Towards the ending half of the hike the dominant species in the forest changed from the eastern hemlock to the american beech (Fagus grandifolia) and dense shade gave away to sunlight. As my hike concluded I reflect on how perfect this winter has been for observation.
