Winter Storm

Winter Storm

December 6, 2013

It began on the afternoon of Thursday, December 5, as a series of types of precipitation fell in rapid succession – first rain, then freezing rain, then sleet, then little pellets of ice.  The weather had been rather warm for early December, but then the temperature plummeted, and surfaces became shiny and slick.  Then, on top of all of this, snow fell and added deep, puffy layers.  It snowed heavily all evening, all night, and all the next day.  It was snowing when I went to the woods to see Cottonwood Pond.

This weather would not be much to those living in climes much further north, but it was unusual for southwestern Indiana, on the tail of autumn, well before the Winter Solstice.  Our climate and planting zone more closely resemble our neighbor to the south, Kentucky. 

We did not measure the snow at our place, but there were reports throughout southern Indiana ranging from 8” to 11”, with much deeper drifts.  Children woke up Friday morning to their first “snow day” of the year.  In fact, all schools and practically all area activities were cancelled, including any plans I had that involved driving to town.

In the above photo, taken from uphill at the edge of the woods, you can clearly see the great root ball and a bit of the pond below it.  You can also see the trunk of the fallen Cottonwood, covered with snow and stretching outward and uphill above the root ball.  It seems so much smaller from this distance.  If you follow the trunk upward, you can see where it is lodged in the fork of the two-trunk Red Oak.  The snow makes all of this so much clearer.

There were animal footprints going down the slope, made earlier that morning, but the continuous snowfall had since obscured their identity.

My own boots sunk deeply with each step down the slope.

This was my view of Cottonwood Pond from halfway down the slope.

 To the right, my fallen “resting tree” was resting under deep snow cover.

Some seeds of Sweet Cicely were still clinging to the plants, their sickle shapes clear against the snowy background.

Tree seedlings and saplings were stark and clear against the snow, too.  I thought this group looked like a family of stick figures – Mom and Dad taking the kids on a “snow day” walk.  The teenager is far in front of the group, of course.

 

 

A row of straight fallen tree trunks contrasted with the curved forms of saplings and young trees that had been bent under the weight of fallen neighbors.

It was difficult to recognize the rotten log that spans the creek and stretches past the pond.

 

 

A sheltered spot where the creek goes under the rotten log.  I wondered if there might be more stream life lodged in the mud and leaves there than in more exposed creek waters.

 And here flowed the creek, rippling and icy, edges and banks obscured by fluffy, thick snow.  Beyond that log is the winter version of the big Jewelweed patch.

The American Hornbeam (Blue Beech) at the edge of Cottonwood Pond, with leaves still clinging.

The “seep”.

Cottonwood Pond.   

The fluffy, snowy, encroaching edges made the pond seem smaller.

The pond had not developed solid ice yet, but a slushy surface was developing, and the boundary between water and snow had become fuzzy.

At the far edge of the pond, the deep snow created a small haven under a fallen tree.

Bits of snow fell from the root ball, making interesting white-edged circles in the pond surface.  Any dripping water had, by this time, become tiny icicles.

A branch of the American Hornbeam touched the pond surface.

On the top side of the root ball, the “little pond” looked like an aerial view of two lakes on the tundra.

The denizens of the root ball top were sagging under heavy snow.

The trunk of the fallen Cottonwood.

Snow atop a nearby log.

Stinging Nettle in the lowland

The layers of fallen leaves have sunk more deeply into the creek bottom and have begun to mash together.  A little bit of fall color was still evident.

As the pond surface was turning into opaque ice, I could not see the leaf layers there.  I would just trust that the Cycle of Life was continuing down below the surface, on the bottom, as the snow continued to fall on Cottonwood Pond.

*************************

The next morning, December 7, I walked to the edge of the woods and looked down toward Cottonwood Pond.  Movement and a flash of bright red caught my eye.  A male Cardinal was flying from one root to another, and to limbs and branches outside the pond.  I am sure he was attracted to the seeds on plants around the pond, but I don't know if he was interested in something on or above the water, or the icy water itself. 

A  Dark-Eyed Junco was also flitting about here, doing its double-footed backwards jump-dig in the snow near the pond, but also perching briefly on the roots.  Both birds seemed to linger in the more sheltered area close to the root ball.

 **************************************

Late Fall/Word Pictures

 

Many leaves had fallen.

I could go to the edge of our woods, look down, and easily see Cottonwood Pond.

Late Fall/Word Pictures

November 15, 2013

We were deeper into November, when fall color yields to a landscape of bare branches, a time of steely gray skies.  The air was cold and bracing, with the constant sound of wind in the canopy.  This was no longer the swishy sound of summer and early fall – it had become crinkly and cranky as the wind blew through any dead leaves that still clung to branches, and bare limbs swayed and squeaked.

On this day, I did not bring a camera.  But, this late autumn day, teetering on winter, was too good not to share, so I decided to offer word pictures of Cottonwood Pond, and a walk in our woods.

The creek was almost completely choked with fallen leaves, small windows of shiny water visible here and there, reflecting the sky and canopy.  Water movement was slowed to almost still.  The first layers of fallen leaves, still visible, were beginning to fade, some turning brown and curled, some sinking into the creek water.

 The first layer was like a fond memory of the glory days of autumn.  Sugar Maples in various shades of gold, tinged with orange and scarlet.  Black Maple leaves a darker red.  Giant Sycamore leaves, a duller yellow and brown, crinkly, some larger than my hand.  Yellow Tulip Poplar leaves with their four points directed toward the tip of the leaf, smooth lobes between.  I could find the three shapes of Sassafras:  smooth oval, mitten, and those with three rounded fingers.  These were the first to change color, varying from buttercup yellow to Florida orange to deep crimson and magenta.  For awhile, they were the jewels of the forest floor.

Some of the first-layer leaves were being topped gradually by the late layer leaves:

–        The tooth-edged, sandpaper-rough Slippery Elm with its off-kilter base, dull yellow and brown.

–        Another tooth-edged and somewhat rough leaf, the slender-tipped Hackberry.  Many were riddled with insect galls shaped like tiny marshmallows. 

–        Swamp White Oak, large, almost teardrop-shaped.  Its roughly toothed edge was prickly, and the deep veining in the leaves had become more pronounced as the leaf dried.

–        Red Oak with its many lobes and pointed tips, deeply red and maroon.

–        The broadly oval, yellow Persimmon, with completely smooth, thick edges.

–        The long oval White Ash leaflets, some still clinging to the leaf stem.

–        White Oak, bronze and chocolate, with many smooth, rounded lobes and tips, gently tapering toward the top of the leaf, probably my favorite leaf in these woods. 

Here and there, a smattering of very narrow, wispy, green Willow leaves, like decorations on a layer cake.  The willow leaves in my woods come from the alien Crack Willow. A weak, water-loving tree that grows fast and has a short life, the Crack Willow has been gradually disappearing from our woods.  I would love to see it replaced by the native Black Willow.

Cottonwood Pond was almost completely covered by layers of floating leaves, in various shapes, colors and textures.  Most of the open surface of the water was near the root ball.  The water was still that day, and looked like someone had brushed aside leaves to look in a mirror.

I walked around the pond's edge, looking in, remembering the various critters I had found here, the sound and movement that happened in this quiet place, the ripples on the water that had been made by insects and other animals before cold weather set in.  I wondered how many tadpoles ever made it to froghood.  Were there frogs that day, tucked deeply into the mud below the pond, their metabolism slowed to almost nil? 

The first-fallen layer of leaves was turning brown and gradually sinking into the water.  They will provide another layer of protection for estivating frogs and anything else hiding in the mud for the winter. 

I looked to the bent young American Hornbeam nearby, whose leaves had recently glowed amber and gold, open faces to the sun.  This day, the leaves were tawny brown and curled up and around along the edges, closing in on themselves, tucked for the winter.  They were still attached to the branches, and wouldn't decorate the pond until later.

I looked down at the leaves on the “shore” of the pond.  A contrast caught my eye.  A large White Oak leaf, cocoa brown, was crossed with magenta veins.  Younger White Oak leaves, more deeply lobed, were more twisted and curled in.  Another leaf, gray-brown, lay face-down with a zinc-blue vein down the back.  I picked it up and turned it over.  Now the vein was an amber line an a gray-brown background. 

Pale orange Sassafras leaves were covered in freckles and splotches of deep maroon.

I walked around to the top side of the root ball.  There were clumps of bright green grass, but the Nettle plants had all become dry and crumbly.

I walked on up the hill.  It was difficult to try to be silent and invisible to wildlife, with all the crunchy leaves underfoot.  Plants that stood tall and green in the summer and early fall were withered, and most tree leaves were gone from the branches.  The view through the woods was much clearer, and walking through was much easier.

From the top of the hill, I heard a cacophony of small songbirds, agitated, moving about, calling to each other.  The reason became clear when I heard the wild screech of a hawk from a tree near the woods edge.  I heard the scream periodically until the silence told me the hawk had lifted into the air and flown away.  The sounds of agitated songbirds faded, also.

At the top of the hill, I found a three-trunk Oak tree with a spot on one trunk that looked as if it was worn away.  But I was struck by this:  a distinct but ghostly image of a Great-Horned Owl, even with spots for eyes.

The trees in my woods stretch long, thin and tall toward the sun and sky.  The trees in the lower parts are especially tall and thin.  On this day, they swayed precariously in the wind.  Many in recent years have snapped in the storms.  Their rotting trunks litter the ground and create many bridges across the creek.  Some slant diagonally through the stands of living, vertical trunks.

I looked up and across the canopy.  There were still plenty of Red Oak and White Oak leaves up there, the Red still a combination of green and burgundy, the White Oak leaves still all completely brick red.

I walked around the top of the fallen Cottonwood Tree, the one that created Cottonwood Pond when it fell.  No more heart-shaped Cottonwood leaves clung to its twigs and branches.  The last ones had become part of the leaf litter last winter.  The tree top still rested in the fork of a two-trunk Red Oak tree, the rough, deeply-fissured Cottonwood bark contrasting with the evenly-scaled Red Oak bark with pale, vertical “ski-track” lines.  There were some lichen and fungus developing on the dead Cottonwood limbs – the wood was on its way to decay.  There was a great criss-cross and tangle of Cottonwood, Red Oak and Maple branches. 

The Cottonwood, its feet in the water-soaked lowland, was resting its head in the upland.  Down below, behind the feet of this supine giant, Cottonwood Pond rested, ready for the sleep of winter.