Month: January 2017

I placed my backpack on the snow covered ground right where a Hemlock (Tsuga canadensis) had stood recently and sat down. The tree had ripped up its roots and exposed the new earth. I examined the web of roots, dirt and rock that reached eight feet tall. In what must have been an explosive fall the large roots ripped from the ground and rocks were torn up having been wrapped up in the trees water and nutrient gathering system. The roots now withered and dry hung limp from the tree.

This fallen tree had created a gap in the forest, an opportunity for other plants to access sun and nutrients to grow. This is an important part of the forest ecosystem. A fallen tree is a small disturbance compared to a fire, larger storm or even volcano, yet is still enables a new microclimate. Since the soil is still in tact where the tree fell this gap enables secondary succession. When lava or major landslides leave no soil for new plants primary succession follows, but what I sit on is healthy soil now with more nutrients and sunlight ready to support young plants. Trees that range from a foot tall to no greater than six feet reach through the opening created by the fallen tree exhibiting a small version of forest succession. The height of the young trees tells me that the large tree probably fell less ten to fifteen years ago.

This tree also fell the South West so a northeaster could be to blame according to Tom Wessels who writes Reading a Forested Landscape. When I stood up I noticed another tree had fallen right next to the first tree and in the same direction. It had been blocked by the large upturned root system of the first tree. The thin soil was further explanation to why these two trees may have been targeted during a large winter storm years ago.

Maddie Lehner

I was so excited to get to spend some time sitting alone in the forest. In such a fast paced J term world, I appreciated the quiet serenity. I sat down between two large rocks on a bare spot of log so I wouldn’t get too cold or wet and I sat in silence for a while. The two rocks were covered in both moss and lichen, and one of them was marbled with orange streaks. I took this to mean that the two rocks were made of different mineral compositions, adding to the diversity of the soil.

Soil nutrients also come from a fallen log between the rocks. (The log, like many others in the forest, fell to the Southwest, suggesting a strong, cyclonic storm, possibly a winter northeaster or a summer/fall hurricane.) The log was covered in orange fungus and had decomposed a considerable amount, so it must have fallen a few years ago.

The tree community around the two rocks was predominantly Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) like most of the lower section of the forest, but at our altitude at that time, more deciduous trees were spaced in between these pines. For example, I spied a yellow birch and a hickory (although I’m still unsure whether it was a shagbark (Carya ovata) or a bitternut (Carya cordiformis). Where there wasn’t snow, the ground was covered with a considerable layer of leaf litter. By the rocks as well was a small cliff, and the tree cover diminished significantly as the slope got steeper.

We weren’t far at all from the waterfall we had passed earlier in our hike, but I couldn’t hear the water. What I could hear was the road. This type of noise pollution is incredible, that the sizable waterfall, closer than the road, wasn’t louder. This is just another example of how human influence has encroached on and penetrated so much of the United State’s wilderness.

On another unseasonably warm day, I traveled to a different part of the TAM and was met by similar species as in other sections I have walked through. I am surrounded by young American Beech (Fagus grandifolia) and sugar maple (Acer saccharum) trees that form a thick understory that reaches only a few feet above my head. Among the young trees, however, stands an older White pine (Pinus strobus). This discrepancy among the age of the trees is the result of previous disturbances to the forest. In this case, where there is one older tree surrounded by new growth, it is likely that this land was previously used as a pasture, but the pine tree was spared being cut in order to provide shade for the animals. The seeds of nearby forests found elsewhere on the TAM likely traveled to this area and have only recently been able to grow once the land was no longer maintained as a pasture. It will be interesting to see how this land evolves over time in comparison to the adjacent forest.

While I do not witness any living animals, I do hear crows (Corvus sp.) in the distance. I also find some white feathers scattered on the ground, possibly from a woodpecker (Picoides sp.). Trees are not the only organisms in the forest that are affected by human interference. Hunting and the loss of habitat can greatly reduce populations of animals that reside in forest habitats. Birds are more fortunate than trees, however, because they are able to move to a new location when confronted with dangers or changes to the conditions in which they live. When development affects their habitat, birds can migrate to new lands. Trees, on the other hand, can only spread their seeds so far, and there is no guarantee that they will even be able to take root in another location. Trees must learn to adapt to conditions while standing in one place. Humans do not make it easier for trees by continuously contributing to forest disturbances.

The whisper of running water can be heard in the distance. As I walk off down the path, my footfalls crunch in the fresh snow. Few people have visited the National Forest since the snow fell; there are almost no tracks and the snow is yet to be packed down by trampling feet. Tall Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) gather together, their age accentuated by the white snow that clings to their needles just as gray clings to the hair of elderly humans. Eastern Hemlocks are patient, surviving in the shade for years and then shooting up once they see their opportunity. These sage-like trees may very well be destined to become the forests’ elders; the patient shade dwellers can live to be nearly 1000 years old. The nearby American Beech tree (Fagus grandifolia) does not even come close with its 300 to 400 year lifespan. Even after they are dead, these hemlocks will continue to shape the forest around them. Conifer logs rot slowly, allowing moss the time it needs to build up along its length. These hemlocks are excellent candidates for future nurse logs, fallen trees that become moss-covered nurseries. The moss and rotting log provide nutrients to the seedlings of pines and other hemlocks. As a result of the decaying hemlock’s careful nursing, the seeds that land in the moss will eventually grow into mature trees standing in a straight line. Long after an elderly hemlock falls, its impact can be seen in the unusual orderliness of the trees that occupy the space it once held as its own. Hemlocks are also persistent. While a hemlock stump rots, it continues to grow new wood. Hemlocks often end up grafting their roots to other trees and this root grafting allows the cut hemlock to continue to try to heal its terminal wounds after it has lost its ability to generate energy on its own. The forest elders I stare at now will continue to shape this landscape for centuries.

Ryan McCrorey

We struck out from the parking lot, heading into the Green Mountain National Forest (GMNF). Initially, we moved through a predominate hemlock forest heading North. Stopping at a flat spot to get a tree count, my group got 21 hits using the thumb measuring method. Of those 21, there were 2 red oaks while the rest were hemlocks. It seems to be a very homogenous stand.

As we began heading West towards Falls of Lana, I noticed there are many blowdowns to the north of the trail. Here the large hemlocks laid their roots in a thin layer of soil covering large boulders. It is to no surprise that they would blow over in these conditions as the thin soil layer offers little support for the hemlocks. The majority of the blowdowns fell in the South Eastern direction. From Wessel’s chapter on pillows and cradles, we can infer that the trees may have been blown down in a summer thunderstorm microburst or in a winter gale. With the use of a compass, we could have determined the average fall and more accurately inferred the cause of the blowdowns.

Eventually passing the falls we continued to the campsite to sit and observe. Here the trees were more spaces apart and there was little understory, probably due to human intervention. I did, however, notice another blowdown that held a large rock in its lifted roots. The storm must have been very strong.

On the drive back to Middlebury, it struck me how developed that lakeside was. It makes sense giving the beautiful lake and proximity to the GMNF trail system. Yet, the development got me thinking about Johnson and Goatskin’s article chapter on loving our forests to death. The fragmentation and urbanization of areas near National Forests threaten their ecosystem and wildlife. It makes me question whether working forests have less impact on forest ecosystems than fragmentation?  Figure 1 shows an Arial image of the Dunmore, Silver Lake, and part of the GMNF. You can see that the area on the Northern side of Lake Dunmore is fairly developed. Also, there is clearly fragmentation encroaching the edges of the GMNF on the Western side of the mountains.

Visiting the Vermont Family Forest Bristol Watershed property for the second time, I returned to the Norton Brook Reservoir to explore more of the surrounding forest. I first made another quick visit to the lesser known of our country’s Hoover dams where I looked out onto the ice covering the reservoir. While it was impressive to see large rocks held up by the ice, there was something unsettling about just how thin that ice looked when perched above and looking over at its many cracks and various darker patches.

I took the trail east into the forest where I heard the first of many echoing gunshots that would come to act as a harsh score to my otherwise peaceful exploration of the woods. I made my way to a small clearing on the banks of the reservoir, again admiring the beauty of the ice while also doubting its fortitude. Returning to the trail, I made my way uphill. Seeking a chance to rest and reflect I scoped out a place to stop. Above me was a well-lit patch of deciduous trees next to a large rock, but just below me was a dense stand of white pine (Pinus strobus) littered with many long, fallen trunks like so many stacks of rotting pick-up-sticks. For some reason, I was more attracted to the darkness.

It took several large steps over high stacks of trees, but I found a place for myself at the base of a modestly-sized white pine just pushing a DBH of about 2.5 feet. The first thing I noticed was just how green the moss was that covered so many of the fallen trees in this grove; the intensity of the color and completeness of coverage was almost surreal and rivaled the bright green of the ferns that dotted the tan pine needle-covered forest floor.

Though the wind’s blowing was gentle, the twigs and branches around me danced with activity. A small tree still holding onto its leaves shook violently while pine needles caught in spider silk under logs repeatedly made the same swinging back-and-forth motion. The long, slender buds of a small American Beech (Fagus grandifolia) gently swayed as small gusts of wind picked up. I looked up to see the evergreen canopy that shaded this dark patch.

And then the gunshots started again. I got up and made my way out of the forest, but not without stopping to admire the small details of the intense green trunks that surrounded me.

In truth, the milder weather makes this trip to the forest more enjoyable than last week’s. A high temperature of 46 degrees and virtually no wind provides a comfortable, and noticeably quiet place to observe as I return to my original spot. I have my eye out for stumps during this visit; and while I do not find any evidence of logging from my Mandala, I spot a downed white pine (Pinus strobus) that inspires some questions based on the Wessels, “A Study in Stumps” reading. Half unearthed and half protruding from the ground, this tree, judging by its partial depression into the soil and moss-covered trunk, looks to have been dead for several years at least. Could the roots that were still locked in the soil be providing nourishment for this tree? Wessels poses a similar question, but with his greater insight, is able to provide an answer. For one, the tree I observe is small, and Wessels states that stumps that are smaller in diameter usually don’t live as long as those with a larger diameter. Secondly, the trees he observes have their root systems completely intact, while the tree I observe has half of its roots exposed. My assumption is that a complete root system is essential for a stump’s long term survival, and therefore this tree is certainly dead.

Turning 180 degrees from my vantage point, I spy an eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis) that has made a gamble. The sapling, which is positioned right under the gap in the canopy, has leaned away from this gap toward a neighboring white pine for stability. Whether this hemlock has made the correct decision in turning away from potential light remains to be seen.

Finally, rotating 90 degrees to the right, I take a closer look at the roots of the huge fallen white pine from which I observe. Amid the larger roots are thousands of tiny root structures. They stem from the web of larger roots to occupy every portion of the soil. These small roots appear, at least in size and number, analogous to capillaries in the human body. The larger roots, less numerous but larger in size, seem similarly akin to veins and arteries. At least in the sense that both blood and tree roots engage in the transfer of nutrients throughout their respective bodies, the analogy may hold truth. As I leave the forest I hear the rhythmic call of a bird that chirps about 5-15 times in each call. As the bird goes unseen, I rely on my ears and later identify the sound as that of a Red-Breasted  Nuthatch (Sitta canadensis), native to the northeastern US year-round.

The air was cool and damp and the sky was grey, casting a cloak of dimness over the trees. I made my way along Otter Creek following the meandering trail, soft from recent snowmelt and decayed leaves. With every step I sank into the ground, and the surrounding shoe prints remind me I am not alone on this trail. Close to the banks the river is frozen, the ice is opaque and clings to the uneven edge, holding onto Blue-joint Reedgrass (Camalagrostis canadensis). Across the creek I see a murder of American crows (Corvus brachyrhynchos) digging into the earth for an afternoon snack. 

Walking to the river I passed by a great Eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis). Eastern hemlocks are remarkable in stature and grow patiently, waiting for their turn in the sunshine. Next a Blue spruce greeted me (Picea pungens), its needles sharp to the touch and its color ever beautiful. Along the river, the forest is primarily deciduous. Red oaks (Quercus Rubra) are prevalent, tall, thin and bare,  their leaves lining the forest floor. One Red oak (Quercus Rubra) is adorned with a great basal scar, but the cause remains a mystery. The White ash (Fraxinus americana) grow amongst the Red oaks (Quercus Rubra). The colors are dulled, the wind soft and the sound of the river is constant.

In a setting so quiet the call of the Black-capped chickadees (Poecile atricapillus) is piercing, soon I am able to see the birds responsible for the singing. The little Black-capped chickadees (Poecile atricapillus) keep me company as I make my way down river.

Oriental bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus) entangles itself among the young White ash (Fraxinus americana). Invasive Wild grape (Vitis vinifera sylvestris) has reeked havoc on these woodlands. Slithering up several trees like a snake and encompassing their limbs. The Wild grape (Vitis vinifera sylvestris) sprawls across the forest floor and takes no direction from the other species. The forest is beautiful in its imperfections, a reminder of mother nature’s course.

Ashley Fox

I awoke several minutes before my alarm. Opening my eyes, I could see the faintest evidence of morning light making its way around the blinds covering my lone window. Listening, I could hear the distant squawking of crows, ebbing and flowing as different flocks repositioned themselves in the trees. I got right up at 6:30 and felt the satisfying tingle of overcoming the urge to snooze. I may be a morning person, but that doesn’t mean I move at anything other than a snail’s pace before 8 a.m., so I slowly dressed for my outing. With my head still hazy, I stepped outside to find that the world outside was also covered in fog.

I made my way north, walking along South Main Street towards the trailhead. I could now see the flocks of squawking crows as they swooped past and landed on a towering elm, its dendritic branches standing as a stark silhouette against the dark, blue-gray sky. But it wasn’t difficult to be reminded of the fact that I wasn’t in the forest quite yet. A low rumble accompanied bright headlights as a septic truck approached and drowned out the hollow sound of my footsteps on the concrete sidewalk. The harsh, artificial light of the many lamps lighting my way was thankfully softened by the ethereal haze of thick fog.

I finally made it to the top of the hill. I looked over to the east where the usual view of rolling hills in a manicured golf course was shrouded by a dense wall of fog. Stepping onto the Class of ’97 trail, my hollow footsteps were replaced by the crunch of leaves, the grinding of gravel, and the squish of January mud. I walked along, looking at the stand of trees that surrounded me. I stepped off to sit on a mossy rock just as 7:21 brought the official start to the day. It was a sunrise I couldn’t see, but looking at the canopy, the silhouettes of branches covered a brighter gray sky than before.

I continued along the trail until I emerged from the forest and found myself in the Ridgeline parking lot. My footsteps became hollow again and I could see swooping crows. The lamps were now turned off, the sky was bright, and the hazy fog had thinned not only on the land, but in my head, too.