Awake! Solstice Night at Longwood!

We have always been a family very in tune with the cycles of nature, of light and dark, warmth and chill. We sometimes joke (though we mean it very seriously) that our love for the outdoors and of nature is in our blood and bone. We reflect the passions of generations of farmers and seafarers, tradesmen and travellers, millworkers and miners, who all relished in the chance to fish, hunt, hike, and dig in the dirt. During this winter season, we visited Longwood Gardens not far from here, in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, to give our ancestral selves a nice winter's walk. In our family the month of December is a time when we celebrate all of our family traditions, immersed in the wonder of a natural year. Winter solstice is among my favorites.

The Red Bird Tree with the Ecologist and the Horticulturalist, and their Mom.

Celebrating the Yule traditions acknowledges our Scot and German ancestors who no doubt were celebrating winter solstice long before any Christian conversions and the Church's acquisition of non-Christian earth-centered holidays. Hogmanay, the ancient Scot celebration of winter solstice, was always more important than Christmas - and still is in Scotland and Cape Breton! The decorating of tables and mantels with symbols of nature, outdoor bonfires, street parties, and a shot of Scotch whiskey before sunrise as the long night comes to an end is enthusiastically observed by Scots. The Love family (Clan Mackinnon) was no exception - especially the whiskey-before-dawn part!

Indigo skies outside signal the beginning of the longest night of the year - ring the bells!

The German tradition of the solstice tree precedes the Christian celebration of Christ's birth by several thousand years. The tradition of the Odin's Great Hunt and the 12 Days of Yule were practiced by ancient Germanic and Norse tribes for as long as memory goes, and evergreen trees especially treasured for their miraculous defiance of winter's cold and the promise of ever-lasting life, were guests of honor at great feasts. These traditions play out today with the burning of the yule log and decorated trees both on the table top and in the yard. As a mid-winter festival, German solstice was a grand all-nighter filled with dancing storytelling, and beer-before-sunrise! They must have shared this tradition with the Scots! Though there is no drinking at Longwood, great tables are spread with immense beauty and attention to natural detail.

The Peacock Tree is the main guest at this table.

To our Amish neighbors here in Lancaster and York Counties, ideas of Christmas are simple. The humility and simplicity of Christ's birth are held as singularly sacred. The Amish do not decorate, and concentrate instead on family dinners at both Thanksgiving and Christmas. It is at these great feasts (on the food!!) that tables are decorated with holly, pine boughs, candles, and sweets. Often at solstice time, a few candles appear at their windows but they abide by the Second Commandment and avoid the commercialism, anything-Santa, and do not exchange gifts. They display absolutely no nativity scenes or knick-knacks that suggest images of holy persons or events. The Amish, Mennonites, and German Quakers of PA place Christmas in an unadorned perspective that fosters deep appreciation and meditation for the birth of babe in a stable. Even so, there were many German Mennonite folks on the walk with us this night who, like us, were in awe of the beauty of the trees.

A classic German tree features simple decorations from nature and lights.

N.C. Wyeth who maintained a farm and studio nearby in Chadds Ford, PA, used many German farmers and their family members as models in his paintings (a tradition carried on by Andrew). He often remarked how simple the German Christmas celebration was compared to the crass commercialism of Philadelphia and its spreading suburbs. The age of consumerism, he said, ruined the ancient traditions of winter.  I can only imagine what he would think today. Up until the 1970s there was a large local market for wreath-making and cut trees provided for city dwellers by German farm communities in PA. Today, sadly, Christmas comes from Walmart and Target, though many Amish continue the winter market tradition of making fresh wreaths and amazing holiday baked goods. Longwood tradition, according to a guide who directed us to the library rooms, maintains that greenery and trees all must be sourced from tree farms and nurseries locally. I was very happy to hear this.

Cardinal Tree in the Conservatory .

As our family toured the beautiful traditional trees displayed in the main Conservatory, we were awestruck by the huge 'red bird tree' decorated with large handmade cardinals. This is a big nod to the Celtic tradition - so our Irish, Welsh, and French roots stirred a little! This tree featured the traditional bundles of nuts and berries, symbols of hope for bounty, fertility, and a good harvest to come. Red birds, believed to carry the warmth of the sun on their wings that lengthened the days with sunlight, were in the form of Northern Cardinals, native to North America. Garlands of golden lights represented the unbroken cycle of Life, while twigs of birch painted silver and white honored the 'Month Following Solstice' - a month of new beginnings. I imagine, if he had been here with us to see it, the Red Bird tree would have been one of Pierre DuPont's favorites.

Grand Entry of the Conservatory features a very showy feather bundle in a vase.

Feathers and birds are important symbols for many cultural traditions of winter solstice and these were full-on throughout the Conservatory trees and displays! Native Americans of the Eastern Woodlands did not wear the large feathered bonnets of the western tribes, but used feathers in bundles of decorative seed pods, twigs, and greenery tied to trees in winter to symbolize the connections of sky and earth, light to dark, warmth to cold. The modern and very touristy 'dream-catcher' is a very distant cousin of the winter feather bundle. Our Eastern Indian ancestors were tying bundles in our hearts as feathers were everywhere! It's amazing how powerful the symbolism of feathers and birds are to so many world traditions.

German blown-glass ornaments intensified the shimmer and splash of twinkling lights.

The ancient symbolism may have been missed by most who visited Longwood on Solstice Night, but the displays were filled to the brim with colors and forms that acknowledged our ancestral ties to the winter season. I heard one guest exclaim that there were no nativity scenes! Honestly, I am glad there were no religious displays, and I can count on Longwood to not have anything of the sort. It is immensely beautiful to celebrate the beauty of nature and the old traditions without any religious inferences. Our family celebrates all of the winter traditions and Longwood serves up the month-long celebration in great heaping bowls of beauty. Thanks for another year of bringing Light and Life to our family of so many traditions, especially for honoring our love of Nature in such spectacular ways!

The Avenue of Trees.

William Kain County Park: A Catfish Named Thoreau

This post all started because of a catfish named Thoreau. I am not a fan of Henry David Thoreau, however. There I said it. Hate me if you must. So much for the purity of nature and wilderness and pristine beauty, because I think there is something to be said for the  urban and suburban park even if it was subdued by howling traffic noise. Henry The Writer would have torn his hair out and run off - and he would have missed out on some interesting conversation, too. Here in the midst of busy interstates and rural-turned-suburban roads in South Central Pennsylvania is this wilderness completely enmeshed in the works  of human endeavors. I was looking for a place to spend Veteran's Day afternoon  to just soak up the light and maybe meet some folks enjoying their day off. So after my work was finished at home I headed up to William Kain County Park that is literally bisected by Interstate 83.

Lake Redman near York, PA

Lake Redman and Lake William, the two lakes contained within the park hold almost 3 billion gallons of water and serves as York City's main water supply. Outside the city by a few miles, the water is pumped into town for showers, car washes, cooking, flushing, watering gardens and lawns, drinking. But here, before it makes its journey north, it fills a dammed valley and is home to all manner of wild things and loved by city residents. There were only a few folks out this day, however, so I found where the action was and hung out with some determined city fishermen as they jigged for catfish below the Lake Redman Road bridge. I listened through the sounds of I-83 traffic and as  school buses and farm trucks rumbled by just inches from my perch on the rail of the rural country road bridge. The fishermen below me were all York City residents, all claiming a concrete abutment at each end of the bridge. I struck up a conversation with Tony.

Tony the Fisherman

Our conversation went mostly like this:

Tony - "I come out everyday. Everyday! I even ice fish. This is beautiful country and to think it's my backyard! God is blessing me everyday here!"

Me - "How do you come out here?"

Tony (pointing to the other fishermen gathered on each of the bridge's four abutment) - "We come in Noel's van everyday. He picks us up at Mickey's Barber Shop after Noel comes home from work. You know Mickey? He's a nice guy. And everyday when we get here that eagle and his wife are here. All year long. They fish here like us too. Last year they had some children. They fished too, when they were big enough. I will never get tired of watching those eagles."  (On cue a bald eagle flies over, of course.)

Me - "I bet this place can get busy on a summer afternoon."

Tony - "You know what? On weekends it might get busy. But mostly it looks like it does today. Kids nowadays sit in front of their computers or the TV after school. Young men with nothing to do watch TV all day. Even the folks who do come out here walk around or sit on a picnic bench and do nothing but stare at their phones. That ain't right! Ain't they ever fished? You can fish for a lifetime and never see the same thing twice everyday you're out."

Me - "Why do you think that is? That young folks don't come out?"

Tony - "They wouldn't know what to do with themselves being all quiet and just watching. Them phones have replaced their brains. They don't have to think no more. Now they carry their brains around in their hands. Don't drop your brain! (Everybody laughs!) They can't hear nature's music neither cause they gots earplugs in. Or earphones - whatever you call them. They's deaf to all this."

Home built fishing craft ply the waters of the Lake and are popular here. What a great rig this was!

The park has many nice canoe and kayak launches but some people bring boats they've built themselves- it seems to be a city tradition here -while others take to the trails on mountain bikes or on foot. I did a little of both this afternoon, dropping my line into the lake for a while then heading off down to the boardwalk at the south end for some quiet observing. The farther you walk from the lake, the more the traffic noise recedes.  Soon I was surrounded by woods and the familiar calls of a downy woodpecker. He was quite approachable as he made his way slowly out to the farthest end of a twig,  probing for insects. A female downy was up the hill, but unlike her mate, she was sticking to main trunks and large limbs. You can tell a male and a female apart  by the little red patch on the back of the male's head where the female has no red at all.  Sometimes the birds are far off and even with binoculars you can't see the presence or absence of the patch, so its easier to note where they are on the tree. The males venture out on twiggy thin branches, while the females work the main trunks.

Downy woodpecker, male.

Red tinted alder stems brightened the shoreline draped with their brownish-pink catkins. Some stems appeared to be  sporting patches of snow. Snow? But how could this be? Our first snow flurry isn't forecast until early Friday morning and besides it was in the mid-60s. Upon closer inspection I discovered the twigs were collared with gatherings of wooly alder aphid. These insects produce waxy streamers that make them look more like mold than a tasty meal for a predator. The streamers help the insect drift off on the wind, floating on a breeze like a fluffy plant seed. The patch I found was clearly preparing to take flight. Shortening days and cooler temperatures signal that it's time to find a silver or red maple on which to burrow and lay eggs in bark crevices. When the eggs hatch in spring the young will suck juices from tender maple leaves and most certainly be tended by black tree ants that collect sweet honeydew these insects produce. By August the maturing aphids will make for the alders floating like snowflakes in summer to continue to feeding on plant juices and grow to sexual maturity.

Wooly Alder Aphid

The trail wound around the lake, across a boardwalk, and up the hill to where it runs along a field edge bordering a farm. Thoreau did not like farmers, so he wouldn't have liked this trail. Of course, during his two year Walden Pond experiment, the pond and the woods surrounding it were bordered by farms most of which were run down and exhausted. Farmers to Thoreau represented waste, laziness, and ignorance, and he clung to these ideas even as he worked as a surveyor's assistant and helped divide up the very lands (woods and all) he once praised for their wild attributes He did not approve of private ownership, yet earned his living defining boundaries.

 The trail skirts a beautiful farm. I counted three different kinds of soil conservation practices along this stretch.

The trail circled back to the parking area through a scrubby stand of trees, standing bare now.  The rough and thorny look of the woods contained a winter flock of small birds rooting around in the brush. The sun dipped to touch the crest of the hill. Two winter wrens, my first for the year, dropped into a tuft of weeds to settle for the night. The landscape, though heavily altered and managed by humans, held its wildness close. With the noise of trucks thundering along the interstate and the homeward-bound rush hour traffic rising with the early darkness, bird sounds drifted into silence. Gulls winged out to the parking area to stand and sleep on the warm pavement. Crows gathered to their night roosts. A heron squawked as she glided onto a log where she'll do a little night fishing near the bridge.

Bay-Brown Polypore - these fruit in fall on short stalks from damaged oaks.

I recrossed the Lake Redman Road bridge and found the fishermen packing up for the evening. Tony was happy to show me the large catfish he caught. "This will make a fine dinner! I tossed a few small ones back, but this one I sure wouldn't throw. Don't Thoreau the Catfish!" The group of men howled in laughter, slapping their thighs and teasing Tony for naming his fish Thoreau.  We all walked together back to our cars and the men carefully packed their fishing gear and buckets into Noel's van. In fifteen minutes the fishermen would be back in their homes along the old streets of York City. I'm  sure Thoreau The Writer would not have appreciated the utilitarian use of the park but he would have identified with the  rejuvenation the fishermen took home with them along with their catfish. He might also have enjoyed a catfish named in his honor, too.

Sunset over Lake Redman

Just beyond those hills is the city line. Standing here with the sounds of traffic as backdrop to a darkening lake, I puzzled over Thoreau's biases and irreconcilable beliefs about utility vs. nature. The woods in which he lived at Walden Pond was cut regularly for firewood by townsmen and farmers, even as he lived in his simple cabin. The gentleness of his surroundings had been tamed generations before by settlers, so much so that Thoreau needn't have worried about predators or angry Indians and  his romantic views of nature became possible. I wonder if the romantic era of nature writing would have happened at all if the landscapes in which writers like Thoreau lived hadn't been made simple shadows of a more brutal and violent time when nature was feared and then beaten into submission. All this ruminating about Thoreau abruptly ended when two coyotes yipped from the hilltop trail I had just traveled along! The new urban - suburban wilderness emerges. What would Thoreau have made of this?!

Tim Draper recorded a young pack from his back deck near here just a week or so ago. I wonder if what I heard this early evening may have been the same group? Take a listen:

https://soundcloud.com/timothy-draper-2/coyote-calling-locating

Nothing Happens By Accident: Ted Parker Natural Area

I took a break from another one of my writing marathon weekends to venture out across the windy plains of Lancaster County and visit again the Theodore Parker Natural Area along Stewart Run in Kirkwood, Pennsylvania. This is one of my favorite nearby bird sanctuaries, and having met Ted and followed his good work makes it all the more special.

Gusty winds roared across the ridge tops yet down in the creek valley it was still and even a bit chilly. Winter flocks have begun to assemble so I followed a small mixed  group of juncos, chickadees, cardinals, kinglets, nuthatches, and titmice down the trail. I wanted to enjoy the opportunity to just wander this natural area alone and since every manner of football game was on TV this afternoon, I was for a short time completely by myself. Until I wasn't. There was Ted Parker. Not in real life, of course. He passed away in a plane crash in Ecuador in 1993. But there he was, his image engraved on a new interpretive sign along the trail. I stopped to say hello and to remember the ground-breaking work he accomplished in bird conservation. He was a Lancaster County boy who explored this and many other county hotspots throughout his youth. Birdsong was his Passion, stemming from an early fascination with bird vocalizations and calls. He memorized and could identify 4000 species by ear at the height of his career in the jungles and rain forests of South America.

Ted Parker in Guyana. Photograph by Mathew Medler, Conservation International.

I met Ted in 1984 not here in our local woods as you might expect, but at an Audubon regional meeting in South Carolina when I worked as a ranger on a sea island near Charleston. He came out to the island to record a nesting colony of black skimmers after the meeting. I was happy to meet him there and take him out to the site. I had never met an audio-ornithologist before! I was just beginning to  bird by ear myself and was interested to learn how he cataloged and archived his field recordings. I started to ask a question in the middle of a recording and he shushed me. Typical me. His complete library of recordings can be found online with Cornell's Macauley Library (see Notes below).

Red-blazed trail follows the flood plain of Stewart Run.

While at Cornell, Ted designed a new conservation science tool, the Rapid Assessment Program (RAP) for measuring - very quickly - biodiversity in areas threatened with development. He worked primarily in South America with an expert team from Conservation International. It was very fitting that the Lancaster Bird Club lobbied for and succeeded in adding this bird-rich valley to the county's natural areas inventory in his honor, as I always find it alive with bird sounds any time of year. The wind high above the musical creek and the quiet peeps and chirps of the winter flock ahead of me created a rich soundscape that I know Ted would have appreciated. I walked past the sign but still had the feeling I wasn't alone. Not a scary feeling - just that I was not the only one out here...

An oak eyes me through a veil of crust lichen.

I was photographing an 'oak eye' through its veil of bark and lichen thinking "Oh, it's the tree watching me!" when from around the huge bole came a white bearded man whom I immediately recognized as a fellow birder from this area, Rich Humphreys.  Having nearly lost his eyesight to a lifelong battle with Type I diabetes, Rich identifies birds primarily by ear - a fitting way to bird here considering Ted Parker's passion for bird sounds. He knows the trail by heart and was on his way for morning coffee seven miles away at a friend's house whom he visits every Sunday. Our paths just happened to cross as he was listening to the same winter flock - just on the other side of the tree! We greeted each other and he looked closely to study my face. "Have you been reading the Meister Eckhart I sent you?" Well, now this is another story for another day, and I made some excuse about a PhD ddissertation taking up all my time, but he cheerfully said "Well! Here we are! Nothing happens by accident!" We walked together - well it was more like me jogging to keep up with him down through the valley stopping briefly to identify birds, even by their tiniest cheeps and squeaks.

Listening to birds and quoting Meister Eckhart, Rich Humphreys.

With most of the woodland's herbaceous layer having died away for the winter, my eye was naturally drawn to the lush green of ferns, Lycopodia, and moss. On the schist rock outcrops there were thick gardens of rock polypody, a small fern that is common in this valley. I examined the sori, underside pockets that contain ripening spore and I noted that it had begun to release 'fern dust' into the moss and leaf mat. Well hydrated after Saturday's rain, the miniature fern forest was plump and lush.

Sori are found on the underside of fern fronds.

A burst of feathered red rocketed from the forest and flew fast to the opposite side of the creek. In a thicket over a little tumble of water four cardinals and a red-bellied woodpecker chatted and warned of us coming down their path.  Frost-whithered jack-in-the-pulpit drooped over the creek with bright red berries. The limp stalk was barely attached to the bulb, and it fell off in my hand. I placed the bulb gently in my pocket as it was already showing its little sharp 'tooth.' It will be a nice addition to my woodland rescue garden at home if some squirrel doesn't dig it up. I planted the red berry seeds in the bank.

Jack-in-the-pupit seed berries

It was at this point Rich turned and asked "Do you believe in gnomes?"  Now, coming from anyone else I would have laughed out loud, but Rich spent years in Germany studying Meister Eckhart and the Medieval cultures of this beloved theologian. Gnomes were (and are still are) important to those who lived in the ancient German forests. So of course I had to say yes!  And walking with a Medieval religious historian through a landscape pocked with holes, hollows, and dens, why wouldn't I? It's too bad that modern industrial society has commercialized, trivialized, and even ridiculed these ancient forest stories and beliefs. The Susquehannocks had stories about little people here in the river valley, as did the Scots, Irish, and Brits who settled this area alongside the Germans. And up in Strasburg an Amish quilter  tells a great story of gnomes who hid aboard a sailing vessel bound for America with some of the first Mennonites to immigrate here in the 1700s. It's all great storytelling fun and a wonderful way to take a nature hike with children.

Skeletonized leaf

Leaf beetles or sawfly larvae have been hard at work along this trail. Skeletonized leaves were everywhere, all very beautiful. Noting how closely my friend was examining each new find I decided to put the macro lens on the camera and get close up shots to take home. Some leaves looked like they had been visited by a variety of eaters like caterpillars, beetles, sawflies, fungal diseases, and aphids. It became a detective story to figure out which eater left which marks. It seemed that every leaf  on the forest floor had been chewed in some way!

Lycopodia

North winds howled over our heads. Tree limbs and branches rained down. I got a little nervous! Rich had to make his coffee date so he picked up the pace, but I wanted to stay and explore, so we said our goodbyes. "Now you know when and where to find me," he said, waving. "Remember that every creature is the Word of God!" And he was gone. Something big crashed down on the hillside. All this falling wood! All this food for creatures of the forest floor to eat!

Stalk and urns of moss.

Moss

How must it be

to be moss,

that slipcover of rocks?—

imagine,

greening in the dark,

longing for north,

the silence

of birds gone south.

How does moss do it,

all day

in a dank place

and never a cough?—

a wet dust

where light fails,

where the chisel

cut the name.

-Bruce Guernsey, from Peripheral Vision (1997)

A late fall polypore, Ischnoderma resinosum.

Turkey tail and late fall polypore were in full brilliant color all along the trail. This is the time of the year when these bracket fungi really are beautiful. All bracket fungi are wood eaters and are important recyclers of carbon. With all the limbs and branches broken loose by the winds there will a lot to eat this winter. Bracket fungi seem unaffected by cold temperatures and continue to eat their way through logs and dead standing timber right on through to spring.

Bjerkandera adusta  on an oak log. Very common in late fall.

I found  a great specimen of Fuligo septica. This slime mold looks like dried out cake batter but is very much alive and moving! It can travel up to a meter over the course of a few weeks and this particular creature (yes, they are considered the animal among fungi!) seemed to have jumped from log to log. I poked away some of the surface crust to reveal the black spore mass underneath looking very lava-like. I once saw a slime mold actually traveling along a log near here with a group of mycologists at night. One of the weirdest things I've ever watched!

Fuligo septica, showing black spore mass beneath.

I looked up through the nearly open canopy at the sky. It was only two in the afternoon and already the light was beginning to fade. Daylight savings time ended last night, so it seems the day is somehow truncated and snipped a little short. My two hour break was coming to an end anyway. Time to start back and think about my late afternoon paragraphs, sentences, and citations. But as always happens when I become distracted by my own thoughts I was rattled to awareness by something wonderfully wild.

Small but beautiful mushrooms on a stump end.

A red-bellied woodpecker swooped down to the tree I was leaning against. She was just feet from my head to start then made her way, probing and snapping up insects all the way to the top. She swooped down again and repeated the whole process on the tree I was facing. This time she landed at eye level, looked at me and gave me a sharp "CHAT!" and made her way slowly up, leaning on her tail, her red head a bobbing marker of her progress.

Red-bellied woodpecker.

The walk back to the car alone was not uneventful!  Wondering about little people of the forest had me whimsically watching for places to live or hide if I were only a foot high: a knot hole made a roomy entrance, an old animal den under a fallen tree would serve as a warm and cozy home, rootlets dripping recent rain into the soil beneath a cut bank could fill a small bucket. But again the feeling of being watched...

Rain filtering down through the soil drips from rootlets into a tree hollow.

As I approached the bend in the trail that led up out of the valley I found my observer standing on the high rock outcrop above Ted Parker's picture on the trail sign: a very curious  doe fawn. She must have been there watching for most of my slow wandering walk back, as her vantage point afforded her a long view up to the rocky tumble that blocks the creek. She must have been thinking I was a daft human for stooping and looking into hollows, peering into knot holes, and looking through binoculars at birds in the brush.

Large outcroppings of schist frame the creek valley.

I rounded the bend and pretended not to see her. She took several steps down the cliff towards the parking area. I dumped my pack on the front seat, took out a trash bag and started cleaning up Halloween candy litter with an eye towards the outcrop. Here she came! She walked right out to the clearing of the parking area and swiveled her ears. I said the quietest 'hello' and she took another cautious step towards me when what I assume was her mother back in the woods let out loud whistled snort. The fawn doe bolted, white tail flagging as she bounded away towards her mother.

Stewart Run pushed through a rock tumble.

Notes:

One of Cornell's tribute articles to Ted's memory:
http://blog.allaboutbirds.org/2013/07/31/the-legacy-of-ted-parker/

Cornell's All About Birds 'Sound Lessons' page with Ted's narrated recordings.
 http://www.allaboutbirds.org/page.aspx?pid=2318

This long link will take you to the Macaulay Library at Cornell University where all of Ted Parker's audio files are archived. He records his own voice in cataloging each piece.

http://macaulaylibrary.org/search?recordist=Parker,%20Theodore%20A.,%20III&recordist_id=911&__hstc=75100365.3b6a9c31c95cbeb86a579d683b5d1f63.1412720458334.1412724814805.1414969305998.3&__hssc=75100365.6.1414969305998&__hsfp=3293941805

PA Mason Dixon Trail - Map 5: In Tight Places - Muddy Creek Access through Oakland Run Ravine

Sunday October 19, 2014: Muddy Creek Boat Access to Blair Road, State Gamelands 181

The morning started off cold and cloudy, with a chilly northwest wind driving down the river. We hadn't hiked long, however, before the sun started bursting through a lumpy, grey cloud deck. The wide fetch of the Susquehanna generated whitecaps and waves, but within the folds of the forested islands we were sheltered and warm. This Sunday's hike was all about the tight spaces from water gaps and canal locks to ravines and entrenched streams. Following last week's hike up Muddy Creek, one of the most beautiful river hill ravines in York County, Pennsylvania, this week's hike revealed many interpretations of tight places.

Restored lock on the Susquehanna and Tidewater Canal near Muddy Creek Boat Launch.

The interface of rock and river suited the building of the Susquehanna and Tidewater Canal perfectly. Constructed between 1836 and 1840, the not-so-wide canal accommodated the cigar-shaped cargo boats and not much more.  The canal company used immigrant labor gathered from the wharfs of Philadelphia, Wilmington, and New York.  Men and boys used picks, stone hammers, chisels, shovels, and wheel barrows to quarry nearby metaconglomerate schists from outcrops and borrow pits to build the narrow-walled locks, elevated towpath, bridge abutments, and lock houses. It was hard, dangerous work. While today not all the locks are restored (as was the first one we came across on this section) the dry stack stone walls and semi-watered ruins serve as important habitat for reptiles, amphibians, and insects. Come March some of the best vernal pool action around can be observed in the bottoms of these old locks and all manner of things from snakes to bats live in the generous cracks and crevices of the walls.

Loading a canal boat at the Peavine Island landing, now completely forested and reclaimed by nature. Credit - PPL.

The bridge over to Peavine Island (left). Credit - PPL.

The first third of our hike was out to the Bear Islands, an area recognized as containing some of the most biologically  diverse habitat of the entire river valley. Soft moss cushioned our steps and red and white pine trees whispered overhead in the wind. An immature black-crowned night heron lifted from her rocky perch at our approach.  Outcrops of uplifted rock carved and smoothed by thousands of years of glacial meltwater created a maze of kayak trails. Potholes, ledges, and beautifully sculpted cliffs provide places for miniature forests of pine saplings, bear oak, ferns, and grasses to grow, all sheltered from bitter winds and harsh sun. But occasionally floods waters will wash over the islands and scour the rocks clean of life, except for the deepest rooted plants.

Interface between bedrock and river - Bear Island Complex.

The idea that all life is transitory, changing, coming and going, is felt almost in-hand out here on the islands. Plant communities shift according to the seasons, and with the seasons come the responses of the river with its mean ice jams, violent floods, and deadly droughts. In summer there is unrelenting heat rising from the bare rock like from an oven and sometimes fire. Peavine Island shows evidence of an intense burn a few years back, where now pine saplings are sprouting, grasses grow, and fire-resistant trunks of the older trees still show. Except for those mature trees growing on the protected interiors of the largest islands, the edge communities seem to be all pioneer species, quick to anchor and grow and re-establish when disturbed.

Peavine Island overlooking a natural slough used by the canal boats.

There are some narrow spots along the Mason Dixon Trail in this eight mile section to be watchful for. Crossing a slim rim of rock, we rump-scooted down slick rock to drop hopefully to narrow ledges below.  We side-stepped along ledges too skinny on which to do otherwise. We peered into every pothole and pocket, and gawked at the broad shoulders of the islands over which hawks, vultures, herons, and eagles glided. From precarious cliff overlooks we watched the river course through the islands as it funneled into ancient channels, sometimes hundreds of feet deep. Strange swirling currents and cold upwellings of water signaled submerged potholes and great crevices below. 

Freshly fallen leaves made the downhill approach to Peavine Island a little slick!

White and red pine needles carpet the trails on Peavine.

Uplifted metaconglomerate bedrock showing the force of continental collision.

Peavine Island is worth a full day of exploring and is easily accessible by hiking in from the restored Lock 12 from the north, but the approach from the south might be tricky for children or older hikers. Be aware of high water which could block access from either end, and avoid going out when the dam is releasing following heavy rains and snow melt. Though sirens will sound from the Holtwood Dam a mile upriver, a distracted hiker or fisherman could get caught out there as waters rise and cover the rocky path. I love paddling through the Bear Island Complex, especially in the late fall and early winter before freeze-up but after all the poison ivy has died away! PPL monitors the islands and there are still folks who live out here in cabins, so take only pictures and leave only the groove of your kayak's keel when you leave.

Unrestored lock on Peavine Island.

A single remaining gate bumper log held in with iron spike nails.

Restored Lock 12.

The hydrologically connected landscape of flood cycles, alluvial soils, sediments, organic matter, and weathering bedrock make this area a rich biotic environment. There are rare and endangered plants here, rare turtles and amphibians, and large specimens of riparian trees like red maple, sycamore, and river birch.  I was a little annoyed with the Japanese knotweed that now shades out entire banks, however. It grows so thickly at the Muddy Creek Access that it blocks views of the river.

Swamp beggar tick flowers brighten a cloudy October morning.

Partridgeberry cascading over moss on Peavine Island.

Once off Peavine Island and heading north along the river the MDT follows the canal towpath and allows for some nice views of the river valley. The Norman Wood Bridge spans the island chain to connect York and Lancaster Counties. The clop-clopping of horses pulling buggies across the bridge high above made for some interesting acoustics as the trail crossed underneath the great piers and bridge deck. Again, narrow-goings as the trail teeters in some places on the rocky, eroded towpath until it veers suddenly up towards River Road and around an old mill foundation. In canal days, this path would have been a comfortable ten to fifteen feet wide, allowing a teams of horses or mules to walk along towing the canal boats.

The narrow two-laned Norman Wood Bridge (PA Rt. 372) connects York and Lancaster Counties.

From an interpretive panel showing the wide towpath (now trail) and horses pulling canal boat (PPL & Exelon sign).

Looking down into the wheel pit and axle housings for a long absent overshot wheel at a mill ruins.

The MDT began a beautiful climb up Mill Run, a favorite summer hike and the location of a nice swimming hole  for my grandkids. Mill Run tumbled and sang through its deep valley, one of two nice ravine creeks we would see today. Ravine ecosystems are unique to each creek and even though some ravines may only be a mile or less apart, each has its own special character and feel. But one constant is that north-facing slopes are covered in rhododendron woods, and south-facing slopes are covered in oak-hickory forest. I love hiking up the ravines in winter when the waterfalls and cascades are frozen and the noisy waters are silent.

North and south-facing slopes of a small side creek to Mill Run.

Mill Run on its sliver of a race to the Susquehanna River.

Our swimming hole in fall colors.

Unlike most creek valleys found here in the Piedmont, river hill ravines have  deep incised valleys, steep walls, and no floodplains. These can be dangerous places during flash floods, and sometimes the only way out is straight up. Though not flooding today, we climbed up and out of the Mill Run ravine on a series of pitched switchbacks, higher and higher, until we reached a narrow spine of rock that ran out to the edge of the ravine's valley wall.   The high ridge mirrored the deep valley in its steepness though an inverted V-shape, and while the trail continued along its apex we observed young  ironwood, hickory, and oak anchored in its thin rocky soils.Not until we dropped down below the ridge line did we start to see larger, mature trees growing in the richer soils, more protected from winds.

Ravine ridgeline, an inverted V.

Holtwood Dam built at a narrow gap in the river valley.

The wind was whipping the treetops about and from our resting ledge we could see whitecaps far below on Lake Aldred behind Holtwood Dam.  Unlike the C&O Canal along the Potomac which is still watered in many places (and great for flatwater canoeing!) the Susquehanna and Tidewater Canal has filled in with flood silts and sands or has been drowned by the ponds behind each of the three big dams that span the river at Conowingo, Holtwood, York Haven, and Safe Harbor. From the top we could see the height of water behind the dam and knew that our lock finding was over for the day.

A water gap carved out by the ancient Susquehanna. The Pinnacle is to the right - a popular hiking destination.

It seemed we were hiking either into or out of tight spaces all day long. We stopped to admire a water gap, a place in the mountain where the Susquehanna over millions of years has worked its way through the ridge, most likely following weakened joints or faults, while at the same time the mountain was being uplifted. Geologists suggest that the down-cutting was occurring at the same rate as uplift, producing the dramatic gaps we see now. The Susquehanna is famous for its many water gaps, some of which can be seen from heights such as the Pinnacle, a popular hiking destination on the Conestoga Trail opposite us (see pic above). The next ravine, Oakland Run, offered an up close look at down-cutting, faults, and entrenchment to the point of going almost underground.

Rugged outcrops within the Oakland Run ravine offer plenty of rock shelters.

The MDT follows the Oakland Run ravine for three miles to the top of the valley - and it is all up! This was some very rocky hiking, made a little slick by fallen leaves and overnight rainfall, followed by a mile-long trudge up a fire-break road to the top. For anyone who claims me to be a flatlander, here in Pennsylvania I dare them to follow the blue blazes through the river hills! Hiking poles strongly suggested and on this day greatly appreciated!

Oakland Run seems to dive underground at times, coursing through its ravine.

The metaconglomerate outcrops are high and very old. They were metamorphosed over eons from sea bottom sediments into sharply defined cliffs and walls of quartz, gneiss, and schists, eroded out of the hill by the steep descent and weathering action of the stream. An active regional fault bisects the ravine and it runs close to the surface here. Jumbled boulders, broken shelf rock, and torn gaps in the cliff walls are evidence of some powerful tremors in the past. Just north of the Pinnacle over in Lancaster County the fault line continues, running northeastward along the river. The Wind Caves, a popular set of angular passageways on the opposite shore are the result of the pushing and pulling of folded slabs of mile-deep rock as they rode over each other during continental collision. The cave is a fine example of a tectonic shifting and compared to limestone caves or lava tubes, it is the most rare of all cave types. 

The Pennsylvania Water and Power Company sign is a relic from the 1920s! (See Notes)

The colors and textures of the ravine are extraordinary this time of year. Of course, the colors have been there all along but with the shortening of days and dropping temperatures the colors of summer are dying away to reveal the colors of autumn. The wildness of this place was made all the moreso as the winds, still rushing overhead through the tops of hemlocks and white pines, was absent at trail level. We felt like in a world apart walking through time enveloped in a folder of investigations waiting to be opened by a future ecologist, mycologist, botanist, or geologist. I felt a little hurried as we kept up hiking pace to beat sunset, and would like to come back to just wallow in the different seasonal colors, scents, and sights. 

Hay-scented fern turns white with the first cold nights.

Like a time capsule, the Oakland Run ravine holds so many interesting discoveries about geological and botanical history that will take more time to uncover. It was fitting that the late day's golden light of mid-autumn filtering down through the yellows of hickory and beech resembled the golden hues of a morning in early spring. The seasonal glow reminds us that each year begins and ends with exaggerations of sunlight, magnified and dispersed through the slim skins of leaves, coming and going like a breath inhaled and exhaled over the span of a growing season. 

The ravine turns hard south then hard east, possible following a surface fault.

Notes:

Though not a focus of this particular post, in reference to the old sign we found embedded in a hemlock trunk, this historical book on the Pennsylvania Water and Power company is archived online with the Internet Archive, a domain of the Creative Commons that links thousands of libraries around the world. Holtwood Dam was the first power-generating facility to link hydro and coal power, the first hybrid power plant in the world.

https://archive.org/stream/PennsylvaniaWaterAndPowerCompanyDescriptionAndViews/PennsylvaniaWaterAndPowerCompanyCca49591#page/n11/mode/2up