Hiking in the Hudson Highlands: Storm King and North Point

Check out my article in TrailGroove!

http://www.trailgroove.com/issue15.html?autoflip=15

Ephemeral Pools

In mid to late March, or in the case of a severe winter, early April, the first signs of spring can be witnessed stirring in shallow woodland pools filled with amphibians, reptiles, and even freshwater shrimp. These creatures appear at least a couple weeks prior to the wildflowers that we often view as the harbingers of spring.  Usually we will know the season has arrived by sound, rather than sight. After the first warm rain, amphibians roused from their hibernation in the mud and detritus of the forest floor gather together in copious quantities in temporary ponds that have appeared with the addition of melt water from winter snow and ice. The small ponds, usually not larger than a backyard swimming pool, go by many names, such as vernal, woodland, or ephemeral pools, generally with the latter being most appropriate. Within the basins a sonorous and usually deafening hymn can be heard going round the clock for several weeks. A walk in the quiet solitude of a gray-brown forest is often quickly interrupted upon approach of one of these pools, quickening the pulse, and giving proof that the landscape is in the process of being rebooted, just as our sluggish minds and bodies are after being confined these past long, cold months.

Without a doubt, the first, and most prolific life to be found, is the wood frog. This species has a wide distribution ranging from the Southeast to the Midwest, and into Canada and Alaska. On a cold day just before a warming rain, these pools are empty, aside from the innumerable leaves and branches lining the bottom, and are nothing extraordinary to behold. After the water begins to penetrate the leaf litter and sink into the ground, the frogs burst from their hiding places in unison during the night if the ambient temperature spikes to at least 40°, appearing in the thousands or millions in a rain swept area. Drivers will have to be mindful of the roads during these times as the frogs recklessly journey across the pavement in migration to their watery mating grounds, often those in which they themselves were born.  The following day a return visit to the pools morphs into a lively spectacle, complete with a cacophony of sound that resembles a mix begin the quacking of a flock of ducks and the buzzing of a bee hive—the mating call produced by the males.

Wood frogs.

 

Wood frogs are able to make a speedy exit from their winter hibernation locales. Rarely do they burrow into the earth more than a few inches. They frequently lie just below the leaf litter in a zone that offers protection from the physical elements, such as snow, harsh winter winds, and predators, but doesn’t quite ensure adequate insulation from the penetrating cold. The frigid weather that would easily kill most amphibian species doesn’t seem to bother the wood frogs—their bodies are actually capable of freezing solid during the winter and thawing out in the spring, the result of special proteins that keep cells from being damaged by ice crystals.

 

At a short distance from the pools the calls drown out all other sounds, but upon close approach they become eerily silent in an instant. When the frogs become aware of your presence they hush their calling and those around the borders jettison into the water like the firing of a gun. In some of the larger ephemeral pools it may be difficult to spot the wood frogs, with most blending into the inky waters, some females being the exception, cloaked instead in a ruddy pink. A thorough scan of the water may reveal a male statically floating atop the water, with all appendages a-spread, similarly to one pinned to a dissection board. Their eyes are tightly fixed on your position for the duration of your stay. Only those males who have a locked onto a female and are in competition for the privilege to mate seem to be too enraptured on their goal to pay any notice to a nosy human. Some splashing might attract your attention, where a bloated female being harassed by multiple males is spotted, all trying desperately to attach themselves to her body—it’s not uncommon to see 4 or 5 in pursuit of the same female. In the process of them trying to clasp themselves to her, the flailing of their legs propels the lot around the pond, as if a motorized boat. In such cases, it’s quite easy to walk up to them without the frogs scrambling away and if you so chose, pluck one from the water. In this state mating becomes more important than endeavoring to avoid predators.

Wood frogs in amplexus. 

 

Each female lays about 1,000 eggs, all congealed into one solid jelly-like mass that is usually attached to some sort of aquatic vegetation or detritus. The black dots seen within the cluster are individual eggs, which, within a month, will hatch and morph into tadpoles.  Egg masses are rarely solitary; normally all females of the pond group them together in only one or two areas, forming vast clusters, or aggregates that can be quite thick, reaching from the bottom of the pool to the surface. As the weather warms, algal blooms within the ephemeral pool usually adhere to and coat the eggs, making the floating mats resemble pond scum. This is a rudimentary cloaking device that keeps the eggs hidden from sight, and ensures the slimy, green masses remain an unsavory meal choice for any animal that can peer through the deception.

Wood frog egg masses.

If all goes well and the pools remain filled with water, within two months the diminutive fish-like tadpoles will fully transform into terrestrial adults. Once mature, they will exit their natal ponds and join their parents in the forest until the following spring, when the end of winter rains gently nudge them out of their hiding places and encourage the frogs to take part in the cyclical vernal migration.

Wood frogs may be the most visible species to utilize ephemeral pools, but they are far from the only ones that rely on them for breeding. Numerous salamander and newt species, decked out with vibrant colors and abstract mottling also journey to these places to mate. Spotted, blue-spotted, tiger, marbled, and redback salamanders with their aptly descriptive names can be found in these localized pools for a brief duration. The red-spotted newts, the plebian dwellers of these environs, are usually the only amphibian species aside from the frogs that are somewhat easily viewed. Most of their salamander cousins are rather elusive and are rarely seen, with their eggs being the only trace giving hint of their presence. Each species’ egg mass differs in shape, coloration, and number of eggs contained within. Identifying species by egg clusters alone is normally how biologists are able determine the amount of biodiversity within a given area.

Red-spotted newt.

Along with frogs and salamanders, the occasional turtle can be seen roaming about the pools before they dry up; various aquatic insects plying the surface and some traversing the depths swarm throughout; and the fairy shrimp, a crustacean similar to “sea-monkeys” (brine shrimp) know of no other home. In short, these pools though small and transient occupy a significant niche in the landscape. The size of these water bodies, however, often leads to their demise. Individuals who lack a knowledge of the importance of ephemeral pools too often view them as nothing more than mosquito breeding grounds. They fail to get close enough to them in body and mindset to witness the beauty and biologically rich array of life within, and thus, frequently set out to rid their property of these bits of so-called swampland. Unless unusually significant in some way, most pools garner no legal protection, being well under the required wetland size of 12.4 acres (5 hectacres) to qualify for protective status in New York. Ephemeral pools, as their name suggests, may be just that—ephemeral—as they are quickly vanishing from our forests, a result of continued sprawl and apathetic attitudes towards the environment.

 

Aerial Acrobatics: The Odonates

Dragonflies and damselfies, also known as odonates, are truly remarkable creatures. Apart from their often impressive physical characteristics and vibrancy, these small insects dazzle in the sky with their aerial acrobatics. They have the required finesse to hover over an object while scanning their surroundings in all directions, then alight with their tiny appendages on even the narrowest of vegetation with a gracefulness seen nowhere else in the insect kingdom, and a second later, if the site doesn’t meet their requirements, take to the sky again at lightning speed and be out of eye sight before you can even blink. If that isn’t enough, they also have the innate ability to fly backwards, as each wing is capable of moving independently. In short, odonates have evolved into something special, and unlike many of their contemporaries have been this way for quite some time. These organisms are incredibly ancient and have hardly changed over the 300 million years that have elapsed since their original emergence. This lack of alteration only further demonstrates their exceptional efficiency, as they need not be further refined by the forces of evolution—they’re already at their peak.

In southern New York State alone there are approximately 128 dragonfly and 55 damselfly species. The Hudson Valley is inundated with numerous common varieties, along with harboring several rarer species. The high diversity is bolstered by the large estuary that runs through the heart of the region. The Hudson River provides crucial habitat to some species which require the optimal conditions that are only dished out by water bodies that contain brackish tidal marshes. The hardening of shorelines and the destruction of marshes has led to vast declines in certain species and are now severely restricted in distribution.

All odonates require being situated by water—mating, ovipositing, and the larval stage of the life cycle are all dependent on it. Most can make due in fresh water, and undoubtedly anyone that has passed by a lake or swamp in the warmer months has seen countless dragonflies basking in the sun on reeds or skimming over the water and taping it gently at regular intervals like a stone being skipped across the surface. The latter sight is when an odonate is deposting its eggs; each tap is one being released into the water. When these eggs eventually hatch they enter into the naiad (named after Greek water nymphs) or larval stage of their lifecycle. They hardly resemble their adult counterparts, being green-brown or dark brown, with varying degrees of mottling, so not to stand out in their watery environs where they could easily be devoured by fish. They also have a comparatively frightening appearance, resembling something more akin to an underground grub than an organism that will eventually take to the sky.  At this stage they are entirely aquatic. They also are carnivorous, feeding on other insects and possibly even small fish at times. Some naiads will remain below the surface for up to 6 years.

After numerous molts of the exoskeleton (sometimes up to 15), each time the naiad getting progressively larger in the process, it’s time for the creature to emerge to the surface and begin its life as a dragonfly or damselfly. Upon making it to dry land the odonate’s exoskeleton is still relatively soft and the adult generally must take it easy for a week until it successfully hardens. During this time the individual will normally recuperate in the woods or in an isolated field or glade until it is ready to partake in the rigors of the mating process. Males will frequently compete with one another in duels for the opportunity to claim the right to mate with females of their claimed territories.

Best Spots to View

The Mid-Hudson Valley, and more particularly, the undeveloped Hudson Highlands, contains numerous favorable locations for odonates to thrive in. In these sheltered and protected areas rare varieties which have been pushed out elsewhere live in relative peace and thrive among the lush vegetation and salubrious aquatic environs.

Iona Island Marsh

Common Sneezeweed, Marsh Mallow, and Cardinal Flower 

In Bear Mountain State Park in the southern tier of the Highlands two particularly unique species can be found.  On the eastern flank of the park lies Iona Island. This rocky citadel holds dozens of different odonates which buzz past your head in copious quantities, similarly to a swarm on gnats on a humid summer’s day.  Among the congregation is the bright orange Needham’s skimmer. This species inhabits the brackish marshes surrounding the island, and individuals are often spotted clinging to some of the ubiquitous reeds of the invasive phragmites. These creatures are found in only a handful of counties in lower New York. Orange County is the farthest north they have been documented in the state. Intermixed with the Needham population is the deceptively similar looking golden-winged skimmer. From a distance it’s often difficult to tell the two apart.

Needham's Skimmer

 Golden-winged Skimmer

Just west of Iona Island lies the Doodletown Brook which penetrates the narrow vales between Bear and West Mountains. This moderately sized brook flows through land once occupied by a thriving town, but was completely abandoned upon creation of the park in the 1960’s, a result of eminent domain. It’s now essentially a bona fide ghost town, complete with crumbling foundations, subsiding roads, and forgotten cemeteries two hundred years old that are gradually being engulfed by the looming forest. Along the dark openings next to the Doodletown Brook, the primeval looking gray petaltails dart about in minute quantities. As the name suggests, this species is rather mundane in appearance, not exhibiting some of its kin’s vibrant color schemes. However, gray petailtails are unique among all other dragonflies in the eastern half of the country in that their larvae are not completely aquatic. Instead, they tend to reside in moist mud beds, living amid low lying vegetation that’s only fed by minor trickles of water from an adjacent stream or spring.  Only 11 locations within New York are known to harbor this distinctive species.

Doodletown Brook

                                                        
Farther north, in Orange County, just outside the bounds of the Highlands, the russet-tipped clubtail lives along beaches that line the Hudson near the Moodna Creek area.  Uncommon, but not exceptionally rare, these creatures prefer to spend their time along mudflats usually containing freshwater. They’re frequently documented inhabiting inland lakes and streams, but seem to be situated along tidal rivers more commonly. Their large, vivid green-blue eyes and puffed russet colored abdomens makes this an impressive species to identify. The moderately bulkier black-tipped darners also line the shores here, decked out in varying tones of aquamarine.

Moodna Creek

Russet-tipped Clubtail

Black-tipped Darner

Also lying west of the Hudson, Sterling Forest State Park has a dramatic odonate display. A prime spot for a view is around Sterling Lake. The 3 mile long loop path that circumnavigates the sizeable water body passes through forest along the way that’s some of the wildest in the region. Dense stands of hemlocks border the lake and flow into the depths of the surrounding mountains as if applied by a painter drawing his brush quickly across a matte canvas with broad and hurried strokes. Growing among, and atop, some of the larger glacial erratics that litter the ground in vast boulder fields are gnarled bushes of mountain laurel that provide the forest with a thick and impenetrable understory, moderately mixed with low bush blueberries. Both the eastern and western sides of the lake are flanked by steep, rocky slopes that abruptly rise from the water’s edge; to the north a shallow and weedy inlet contains the traces of lively beaver activity. The more mundane southern outlet has a noisy whitewater stream that always keeps the stones bordering it damp and cool, with its continual mists and relentless sputtering that only abates with the harshest of droughts.

Sterling Lake

In the swampy northern portion of the lake many fluvial shrubs grow along the sandy shoreline. It’s in this location the largest gathering of odonates present themselves. On a sweet pepperbush one may see a slaty or widow skimmer resting itself, basking next to the white flower spikes that appear in the early days of summer, each swaying in the air like a twitching squirrel’s tail. Or, looking into a weed covered cove see the insects zoom just above the waterline, taking the occasional break on a slimy, hole-ridden lily pad.

Slaty Skimmer

 Juvenile Widow Skimmer

Now casting your eyes onto the bright yellow sand dozens of lancet clubtails relax themselves on the beaches, resting as intently as a fatigued and over-worked vactioner. Their orb-like eyes are of an especially rare blue, and look as if chunks of turquoise. With their bodies matching the color of the substrate, these turquoise gems are the only part that stand out among the golden sands. In several of the stony pockets near the banks, individuals defend their gravelly kingdoms from invaders, taking to the sky to duel and once chasing away their would-be usurper, quickly descend again to the beach in a fluid, almost spiral motion as though they’ve been gently blown by the wind. Their ability to return to the exact same spot, however, just demonstrates their graceful and apparently effortless skills. They’re the figure skaters of the air.

Lancet Clubtail

Autumn Meadowhawk

Stewart State Forest in northern Orange County contains another diverse assortment of odonates. About half of the 6,700 acre preserve contains wetlands or moist areas perfect for the establishment of abundant populations. This property was originally purchased to be included as part of the nearby Stewart International Airport. In 1982, the area was converted into parkland when plans to make the airport host supersonic travel fell through and the large buffer zone necessary for noise abatement was no longer needed.

Swamp in Stewart

Most of the property was residential in the past, evinced by the many crumbling roads and foundations still extant throughout. There are around 18 miles of road, although now only passable on foot. The land still serves utilitarian uses, however. A police shooting range exists in the western portion and is used quite frequently. New York State also allows local farmers to cultivate some 400 acres with wheat and corn.

Along some of the shallow ponds and swamps there are broad meadows consisting of tall grasses and numerous weedy and invasive flowers, comprising such plants as golden rod, purple loosestrife, asters, and the ever-ubiquitous dandelion. In most cases, these meadows were purposely created, and continue to be mowed on a regular basis in order to provide an additional type of habitat for the park. Apart from the odonates which prowl through these areas, the land is rich in butterflies, wasps, and even the occasional moth seen during the light of day, such as the odd, but impressive looking hummingbird moth. While walking through the high grass one may even come across a bird’s nest constructed from the same material in which it rests.

Hummingbird Moth Visiting Purple Loosestrife

Unlike their larger cousins, the damselflies exhibit a much daintier and reserved demeanor, as their name aptly suggests. Frequently they are seen placidly bouncing from spot to spot and not moving farther than necessary. Rarely do they show the same level of agitation as the jittery dragonflies that grow restless at the least bit of disturbance. A resting damselfly is likely to move if approached, but probably not more than a few feet at a time, just enough to feel comfortable that harm has been avoided. They don’t like to make a fuss and draw attention to themselves—they’re much more covert and drama-free.

Familiar Bluet

Ebony Jewelwing 

A unique class of damselflies known as spreadwings, inhabit the wet environs of Stewart. While a vast majority of damselfies fold their wings together neatly behind their backs, as a shopper would their hands while examining the contents of some glass case in a ritzy store, these bold creatures have their wings fully extended while at rest, in intimation of the dragonflies. The metallic green-gray swamp spreadwing could well pose as the models of the odonate world. With their tooth-pick thin abdomens and their seemingly weightless bodies they would be a perfect fit for the job. While supporting themselves on some scrap of vegetation with their diminutive appendages, all as slender as an eyelash, it looks wholly effortless, as though they’re buoyed by water, gravity never having latched on to these creatures. Their wings are beautifully wrought, with delicate geometrical lattices stretched throughout to the max, giving a firm support, reminiscent of a tennis racket weave. Each structure looks as though threaded from spider thread, but of a grade and fineness superseding anything an arachnid could produce. The exquisite needle-work is something only Nature herself could tenderly sew.

Swamp Spreadwing

In the tall grass and shub-filled fields the Halloween pennants unshyly come into view and show off their beautifully stained calico wings. The shine and glassy reflections from each brings to mind the ethereal windows of a European cathedral, especially when the light filters through. Each pane is softened and warmed by the light; the cold stiffness melts away and life is breathed into the slumbering scene. Like biblical depictions that embolden religious piety when illuminated seemingly by the grace of God, so too, does each spotted wing restore our faith in the land, showing that the wilderness holds an airy paintbrush and is far more refined than the dim brute we too often imagine. The pennant’s entire body is a work of art, meticulously sculpted and painted. The symmetry of form and outline alone amazes.

Halloween Pennant

***

Most who are acquainted with watching the sky for wildlife are accustomed to the sights and sounds coming solely from the avian variety, paying little notice to the diverse world of the odonates. While lacking the delightful calls that birds superbly deliver, dragonflies and damselflies impress in other ways. Often, their vivid color scheme, usually as rich and fresh as those reflected from a transient summer rainbow, emblazon the sky like parade ribbons twirled in the air in rhythmic fashion. Their subtle and indistinct motions leave interpretation of this mesmerizing show open to the viewer, where one may at anytime simply wander over to a lake or stream to see a tranquilizing encore.

Ice Caves of the Shawangunk Ridge

Here's an article I recently wrote for TrailGroove that deals with the Ellenville Ice Caves at Sam's Point.
http://www.trailgroove.com/issue13.html?autoflip=57

Dark Sky Movement

In most parts of this restless country, the night sky is now overwhelmingly dull, a once black gulf studded with brilliant stars obscured by a whitish glare from the lights of the cities and suburbs. Even away from bustling population centers where it’s hard to find a lone streetlight, a look to the horizon reveals a pervading yellowish glow, with orange undertones discretely intermixed. If it wasn’t for us knowing what time it was, we would swear this light was arising from the sun, the very first tinges of the dawn. It’s remarkable how intense this light can be on such large a scale that it would mimic the sun to an extent. And yet it does. Only the moon and the brightest of stars pierce through our light pollution, leaving some of the most splendid constellations and the auroral hue of the Milky Way to remain hidden in the dark, behind the veil we throw over them.

We have tackled air and water pollution, as well as addressing a myriad of other disastrous environmental problems, and yet the issue of light pollution has been left untouched for the most part. Granted, compared to other problems this is of a lesser magnitude, but now that these other situations are greatly improving, our sights should be set on the sky and finally attempt to fix a problem that has gone unmitigated since the dawn of the industrial era.

The first time I really ever gave any thought to the matter of light pollution took place several years ago while backpacking a section of the Appalachian Trail that passes through Bear Mountain State Park in New York’s Hudson Valley. I started my trip in Connecticut heading southbound. And up until reaching the Hudson, most of the shelters I passed and slept in for a night had an ample canopy overhead cloaking the heavens, and as a result, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time trying to stargaze. When I did attempt to get a glimpse of the stars the view was seemingly satisfactory, being beyond the worst of the light pollution. The quaint New England towns below the ridges and mountains only threw minimal amounts of light into the atmosphere. Looking back on it now, the conditions were far from optimal, but they weren’t so poor as to alert me that something wasn’t quite right. This all drastically changed upon a stay at the West Mountain Shelter.

Built in 1928—making it one of the oldest shelters on the AT—this structure is situated on the southern summit of West Mountain, providing dramatic views to hikers of the Hudson River and Highlands during the day, and at night, front row seats to the crisply illuminated New York City skyline. In many ways the view from the shelter is all the more remarkable during the night.  I was thoroughly impressed, snapping numerous photos of the unusual scene, enraptured to be see a vibrant and lively New York from atop an airy mountain 30 miles north. You vaguely felt as if you were close enough to descend into the action. It was the best of both worlds to a hiker tiring of the monotonous forest green.

After the hours passed and the scene became more ordinary, I couldn’t help but notice how it was barely possible to distinguish any stars in the sky, despite being perfectly clear out. The light was flooding everything and the beauty of it was wearing off quickly, devolving merely into a harsh whitewash. New York’s motto “Excelsior,” or “Ever Upward,” took on a whole new meaning.

A month later, while on another trip, this time in the woods of northern New Hampshire at the base of the titanic Mount Washington, I would see for the first time what a truly dark sky devoid of any extraneous light looked like. I arrived in the state just before 1:00 am on a balmy August night accompanied by three close friends. Such a late arrival was due a work conflict that resulted in us not being able to leave home (New York) until the early evening. Our excitement to hike a northern segment of the trail bolstered our decision to leave that day instead of postponing our departure until the following morning.  

Exhausted upon reaching the trailhead parking lot near the Great Gulf in Gorham NH, we briefly considered just sleeping in our vehicle that night, but cramped conditions for the past 7 or so hours led us to reconsider. In the midnight darkness we fumbled around for our gear. It was almost impossible to see anything without the aid of a flashlight, the moon being absent from the clear sky.

It felt like an eternity trying to find a place to pitch our tent in the profuse vegetation. The northern states certainly have some of the thickest woods around, comprised almost entirely of conifers and birches, which sprout nearly as close together as corn stalks in a farm field. The additional ubiquitous jumbled rocks, hummocks of sedges and tall ferns, and decaying limbs strewn everywhere made finding a comfortable spot nearly impossible, especially in the black of the forest.

After choosing the best spot we could find and getting everything set up, I was strangely filled with energy. Not desiring to be further confined in my tent just yet, I followed the trail back to the parking lot to search for an item I had forgotten in the trunk. Once reaching the opening in the forest afforded by the spacious lot, the Orion constellation overhead caught my eye, this being the only star cluster beside the Dippers that I could identify. It was expansive; much more so than I ever realized before. Each star, especially those of his belt, looked like fixed gems set in an expensive piece of jewelry, sparkling and shining resonantly—they no longer resembled blurry dabs of paint on a wall, but rather morphed into something firm and tangible. No matter where I turned my head the sky was populated with these countless golden orbs in full relief, some remaining static, others pulsating to a minor degree, and a select few noticeably twinkling, reminiscent of the show exhibited by fireflies, with each light nearly being extinguished and then quickly coming back with full and undiminished vigor. We often hear of the “twinkling of the stars,” and frequently use it in common vernacular, but very few are acquainted with the concept and know the actual sight.  It’s vastly impressive.

When the sky has a true, primeval darkness, such as the one that was towering over me in the isolated section of New Hampshire wilderness, the entire sky, like a cosmic map, seems to unfold; the Milky Way now visible points the way into the interior, far wilder and remote than the perceptions of the American West of the past—the stars no longer faint appear close; the universe overhead deepens. We grow small and insecure beneath it, realizing the mote of cosmic dust that we reside on is nothing more than flake of snow in the celestial blizzard above. This haphazard display of intertwined lights and shadows, though filled with chaos and uncertainty is remarkably peaceful—every roving question and unfilled desire drops away the instant your gaze takes hold of this fluid, eternal artwork.

***

The sky-glow emitted from residences and industry doesn’t solely impact our view of the heavens, but also negatively affects terrestrial and aquatic ecosystems. Many organisms become disoriented and display unusual behavior upon finding themselves inundated by an unusual degree of night-time light. A prime example which everyone has undoubtedly witnessed when an artificial light is turned on is the flurry of frenzied insects that descend upon it, uncontrollably bombarding the light source. Apart from the physical harm, their schedules are upset, so that feeding and mating opportunities may be missed. Migrating birds are also drawn to the light and may impact high-rise buildings—countless birds perish every year as a result. Additionally, some amphibian species navigate to breeding sites by the light of the moon and stars. An exceptionally bright sky makes finding these almost impossible. Physiological injury may also be wrought: retinal damage, reduced fertility, and other homeostatic upsets are all possible outcomes to creatures that are highly sensitive to changes in their environment.

While the sky will never again be completely free of light pollution, it is possible to significantly reduce the quantity that makes it into the atmosphere with relative ease. The simplest method is obviously to turn unnecessary lights off when not in use. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to make a large difference. We must ask ourselves whether we really need to illuminate every street corner and front stoop in America. Is such a level of illumination really necessary?  I don’t think it is. It seems like we’re still somewhat afraid of the dark.

Aging light fixtures can also be replaced with more contemporary designs that are capped with a shield-like enclosure. This ensures that light shines directly onto the targeted feature while blocking extraneous light from spreading above and sideways. Altering the components of the light source can also be beneficial. By making the bulbs exude a more natural light, harsh glare can be reduced which often is reflected and amplified in the sky; lower watt bulbs can be substituted as well. Furthermore, municipalities have the ability to enact regulations to aid the effort.

Certainly, there is no shortage of mitigation techniques available to reduce our “lumen footprint.” When we cut down on light pollution we also save energy and money in the process, further benefiting the environment (and our wallets). There’s no reason why we shouldn't begin implementing these simple, yet effective changes today.

Often we take the mundane for granted, never realizing what a refreshment even the simplest piece of nature can bring about. In the spring, for example, the dandelion makes a prolific appearance in our freshly greened lawns, popping up randomly in cheery abundance, much to the consternation of homeowners, who easily tire of this bright weed, mainly due to its widespread nature, which lends to it being disregarded as anything of significance. The stars of the firmament have the same plight. If only we looked at them differently and recognized their inherent beauty regardless of their commonness, then perhaps we would be more inclined to preserve the element they reside in. As Ralph Waldo Emerson sagely noted: “If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.”

The Great Bat Decline: A Story of the White Nose Fungus

There’s nothing more pleasant at the conclusion of a summer day than to sit outside until dusk taking in the sights of nature, seeing the life around you change as the light grows dim and the surroundings take on a more melancholy and foreboding appearance. Such a time is perfect for contemplation of the day’s events, but also to witness the creatures of the night awaken, and realize how truly restless and robust this planet is—life is. As we turn in for the night, we hand over the baton to the next set of creatures that will continue this ceaseless relay race that isn’t set to the schedule of the sun, but rather has its outlines only nebulously bound in the depths of eternity. The hoot or screech of the owl, the mournful wails of the whip-poor-will, and the epileptic flutter of the bats in shadowy outline against the rapidly darkening sky always excited my imagination and was cause for inspiration, undoubtedly setting the stage for vivid dreams to come.

However of late, the composition of these nocturnal creatures has been swiftly changing. Though the owls and whip-poor-wills still hold in relatively the same numbers, the bats—the only mammal apart from humans that has truly mastered flight—are becoming increasingly absent from the skies, dying in the millions. Now when I sit outside at night trying to admire what I can that remains, I have to fend off vast swarms of mosquitoes, biting flies, and numerous other annoying insects that love to harass man and are no longer kept in check by those aerial predators. The time that I now devote to being outside at twilight is diminishing every year as bat numbers further plummet, insect levels spike, and my stress from both increases.

It’s hard to believe that all these interrelated problems are the result of a simple fungus— a dull and obscure one at that—but still the cause of the deadly White Nose Syndrome.

Pseudogymnoascus destructans, the white nose fungus responsible for the mass die offs, first appeared in the U.S. in upstate New York during the early months of 2006. Since then it has spread throughout the entirety of the northeast and has been detected south to Alabama. As of now it doesn’t appear to have crossed the Mississippi. While there is debate as to its origin, it appears as though the fungus was transported to the U.S. from Europe, as related bats there are also infected with it, although most seem to have built up a resistance.

The fungus receives its name from its tendency to grow on the snouts of bats, forming a small white patch that looks like a pinch of snow. It’s damaging in the fact that the pathogen rouses bats from their hibernation early, depleting their fat reserves, and ultimately causing them to starve to death.

Fungi, in many cases, can be just as detrimental as even the most virulent of viruses. Take, for example, the plight of the once ubiquitous American chestnut tree. At the start of the 20^th Century, this species was perhaps the most common tree in eastern North America, comprising a quarter of deciduous forests.  Some ancient specimens achieved truly gargantuan proportions, the trunks being nearly 10 feet thick and rising well over a hundred feet into the air. That is, until another non-native fungus was accidentally introduced into the country, also, as it happens, via New York.  Within several decades after its release into the wild, nearly every tree on the continent was eliminated—over 99% of the population felled by spores, a multitude of sizes smaller than a grain of sand. And so the same cycle has begun with our bats, and is only in the earliest of stages. Unlike viral or bacterial contagion that usually cannot survive outside its host for any significant length of time, fungi are perfectly suited to endure the harsh environment and be distributed vast distances on the wings of the wind, or perhaps, on the sole of a human boot.

The Palisades Interstate Park League of Naturalists (PIPLON) has seen firsthand how serious this decline has been. In early January members conduct an annual wildlife count within Bear Mountain and Harriman State Parks. These large and wild swaths of protected land on the western side of the Hudson Highlands, historically have been the most diverse habitat in southeastern New York, home to both rare and adrenaline inducing organisms. While still holding many unique species in its depths, every year that passes by, so too, does time drag away with it something of biological importance, leaving the land tamer and less productive.

During each wildlife count an inventory of bats is undertaken in an abandoned mine in Harriman State Park. Cranberry Mine, which actually wasn’t dug by those seeking ore deposits, was constructed in the early part of the last century to serve as a storage locale for dynamite that was being used in projects to help with park construction, such as the numerous roads that allow access to some of the more secreted lakes and other scenes of natural splendor that would otherwise be hidden from most of the public.  Burrowed into the rock, about a quarter of the way up a gently sloping mountain, the mine is hidden from a casual glance at a distance by a layer of oaks, that while aren’t overly dense, are exceedingly tall, so that the eye is drawn to them and must trace the outlines of each from the bottom to the topmost spire. It’s an ingenious cloaking device. Everything just seems to blend together and flow naturally, as water cascading down a waterfall. These ethereal looking trees, in conjunction with the rock of the mountain that bows at the base, forming an amphitheater-like enclosure, creates a wilderness cathedral. On a small knoll, a pew of this holy place, is where those of the past chose to sink their mine into the billion year old bedrock. Not until you reach the summit of this rise can you make out the entrance, which is cleverly hidden from sight by being behind the knoll and dug in perpendicular to the mountain, so that one on a head on approach to the amphitheater must shift to the left to get a full glimpse of the opening, once lined up to it.

 

Apart from it being situated to exclude discovery by accident, its perpendicular setting was probably created to provide a buffer to the nearby Seven Lakes Drive. If, for some reason, the stored dynamite was ever to detonate, instead of debris being hurled directly at the road, it would instead fly parallel to it. Older dynamite could be a highly volatile substance. Many brands of the time were essentially constituted of nitroglycerin mixed with some type of absorbent material such as diatomaceous earth or sawdust to make the product more stable. As the dynamite ages, the sticks may “sweat” and crystals of pure nitroglycerin may form on the outside. Even a minor jolt or shock to these crystals can result in a massive explosion. Today in some cases, the nitroglycerin is being substituted by more stable explosive elements for safer handling.

Cranberry Mine at its lengthiest point is around 200 feet long. At a distance of about 50-60 feet in, the mine bifurcates, each leading section then becoming much more rugged, no longer having an even floor, and the ceiling contracts, so that you now must be conscious of every move to ensure you don’t accidentally hit your head on the jagged rock above. The passage on the left-hand side is the smallest of the two in all respects, and resembles much more a natural cave than it does a man-made structure. On the floor, at the end of the tunnel, are hundreds of dried fecal pellets of the Alleghany woodrat that are at a bare minimum 30 years old. This species has been extirpated from this part of the state for many years, dying off as a result from infection by raccoon pathogens. The sole population that still resides within the state can be found in the Palisades near the New Jersey border. The only visible traces here of the bats that have succumbed to the fungus is the occasional slender wing bone, each narrower than a toothpick, more resembling fish bones than anything else. The bats which drop to the floor are quickly removed from the mine by roving scavengers, such as the aforementioned raccoons.

The longer passage to the right, once you make it past the bifurcation, quickly begins ascending, with a small rivulet running down the floor, making the trek up somewhat slippery and dangerous. The farther you penetrate into the earth, the wetter and steamier it becomes so that staying here for any length of time will result in a thorough soaking from the omnipotent drops of water plunging from the ceiling. It’s hard to imagine any bats wanting to hibernate in this portion of the mine, and yet, in a very moist segment of the ceiling we find a single little brown bat (Myotis lucifugus) clenching tightly to the rock, visibly covered in water droplets. The wings surrounding the body seem to act as a rudimentary rain coat. Perhaps this tiny bat resides here for the warmth, regardless of the dampness. It must be noted that mines provide a much more equable environment than in the open and capricious air outside. Year round the temperatures remain about the same. In the winter it stays well above freezing, while in summer provides refreshing relief from the oft-times overbearing heat.

Scattered in various clusters throughout the entirety of the mine we discover isolated pockets of the big brown bat (Eptesicus fuscus). In certain nooks there are 2 or perhaps 3 bats nestled together, grouped so closely it’s difficult to determine where one ends and another begins. It’s simple to see how the fungus spreads easily with the bats so compacted. The occasional loner is also present, unable to find a compatriot in this roomy cavern. Prior to the fungus’ entry here, every survey turned up hundreds of individuals comprising several species. On this January day 7 big brown bats and a single little brown bat were recorded, giving us a grand total of 2 species and a mere 8 individuals. This precipitous decline is depressing to witness as you walk around where there were once a multitude of slumbering mammals overhead forming furry, brown blankets— now all you see is the cold, damp, and dismal rock, with the addition of the occasional cave cricket hiding in the crevices of the lower ledges, adding to the sense of loneliness and desolation.

This is just one cave of many that has experienced the punch that the white nose fungus delivers indiscriminately.

To help lessen the spread to the few locales not yet contaminated, it’s important to stay out of sites that bats like to frequent, such as their favored caves and mines. As mentioned earlier the spores of the fungus can easily hitch a ride on clothing and shoes. While bat numbers will undoubtedly continue to fall for quite some time and certain previously rare species may unfortunately pass into the history pages, unable to recoup their losses, it is hoped that like their European counterparts, many will develop a resistance to the fungus and make a rebound. We haven’t lost them entirely just yet.

The Original A.T. Shelters

Approximately 12,000 years ago as the last of the glaciers made their final retreat northward as the weather warmed, causing them to rapidly melt, the ancestors of the Lenape tribe made their way into the land that now comprises New Jersey, New York, and parts of Pennsylvania and Connecticut. The first landscape was a barren tundra, resembling those now found in the northern reaches of Canada and Alaska. Caribou, mastodon, and even the occasional mammoth roamed the land, serving as prey for the newly arrived people. Few trees existed. Large boulders strewn across the landscape, known as glacial erratics, and overhanging rock ledges on the sides of mountains were all that existed to shelter the Lenape from the frigid, arctic-like weather. As the climate improved over the millenia, tundra gave way to spruce and birch forests, and from there, to a forest similar to the one we know today comprised of oaks, hickories, maples, and other well known species.

The bare and gray background developed into a lush, forested landscape. Trees towered over the once all important “rockshelters.” Though wigwams and longhouses were now being constructed from the ubiquitous vegetation, these simple, craggy structures were still being utilized by Native Americans. A lone hunter deep in the woods tracking his quarry for miles might spend a night beneath an overhang afforded by a massive boulder to avoid the wind of a cool fall night or perhaps to escape the drenching rain of a summer thunderstorm. Additionally, these places were also frequented by larger groups as they migrated. These people moved seasonally from site to site to be in a better position to collect newly ripening plants or to make it to a certain spot in time to find arriving game animals or spawning fish. They might move to a grove of mast producing species to collect the nuts of oaks, hickories, or chestnuts, of which they were especially fond. And in the spring they might traverse the land to encamp near a stream or tributary of the Delaware or Hudson River to trap the herring that swim up them to spawn. Their lives were variable and subject to the capricious whims of the environment, but the rockshelters were the one solid constant that could always be relied upon when they needed protection from the elements.

Many of these once occupied rockshelters can still be seen along portions of the A.T. today, even in some of the highest and most seemingly inaccessible locations. As such, thru-hikers and Natives of the past seem to share a few similarities. Apart from visiting these remote spots, both have known the pain of lugging a tremendous amount of weight around for lengthy distances—the hiker, a 30 pound pack on his back; a Lenape native, a recently shot deer carcass that had to be dragged back to camp, or maybe a pack-like bundle that contained the camp itself and needed transportation to a seasonal locale that could only be accessed by crossing over a steep mountain range or two.  Each has also witnessed the beauty of the forest, of nature itself, and has reverenced the mysteries that are contained within. Though separated by centuries they share a common uniting force—the rocky land of the Appalachians.

Every day a hiker makes his way through the Mid-Atlantic States he passes by a multitude of sites used by the Lenape, although few recognize them.  Many see stone, but nothing more. The cultural aspects of the land are just as important as its ecology or natural history.

 Many rockshelters appear as though they would be the perfect spot to encamp; others are smaller or more covert and their tales are only told by the archaeological record. The occasional open air campsite can also be found on flat terraces near streams and lakes, as are larger village sites.

Right around the creation of the Appalachian Trail in the 1920’s, archaeologists began seriously investigating the land that exists within the bounds of Harriman and Bear Mountain State Parks in New York. It was a boon time for excavations and for the documentation of new sites. Many of the artifacts pulled from these digs made their way into the historical museum at Trailside Museums and Zoo, located directly adjacent to the Bear Mountain Bridge. Trailside was envisioned by Benton MacKaye, who wanted a nature center such as this placed at regular intervals along the A.T. This is the only one that actually came into being, unfortunately.

Apart from the remains of Fort Clinton from the Revolutionary War, there are numerous archaeological sites located within Trailside relating to Native Americans.  The largest is an open air campsite overlooking the Hudson River atop an airy bluff. This is the lowest spot along the entire A.T., at only 120 feet above sea level. The site is directly opposite the bear den and is identified by a small sign that briefly discusses the history. Follow the “Geology Trail” east and you will pass though part of the campsite that is bounded by a small stream on the left. A sunny promontory at the trail’s end was probably used by the Natives to fashion stone tools via a process known as flint knapping.  Recent invasive species removal has restored the site to its former glory and probably closely matches what it would have looked like several millennia ago when the first Indians occupied it.

Over the years, 4 or 5 excavations have taken place near the bear den campsite, the most recent being in the fall of 2013. A water pipe that is buried through part of the campsite needed repairs, and as such, the surrounding area had to be dug up. A 6x3x3 foot plot uncovered 2 chert knife tips, 2 hammerstones, various chert and jasper cobbles, and slightly over 100 stone waste flakes, known as debitage. This rich spread of artifacts in such a small area is somewhat unusual, especially considering that previous excavations have been done here in the past. However, in the early days of Trailside’s history archaeologists on staff were mostly concerned with preserving museum quality specimens (usually arrowheads) that were coming out of the ground and paid little attention to the raw material or tools required to make them. Contemporary archaeologists now tend to focus just as much of their attention on the seemingly most insignificant of artifacts as they do on the most prestigious and well-made. They realize that much can still be learned from broken artifacts and purposely discarded waste pieces.

Despite what many people might think, Native Americans, in most cases, actually ate quite well. We can tell this was true by examining the bones, shells, and to a lesser extent, carbonized remains of organic material left behind in rockshelters. Due to the acidic nature of northeastern soil, many faunal remains will not generally survive more than a few centuries. If sequestered within a rockshelter these artifacts may remain in better shape and survive longer than they would in an open air campsite.  A majority of surviving organic items pulled from these structures in New Jersey and southern New York date back to the Late Woodland period (1,000-400 years ago). These people consumed a wide array of animals, many of which are now extinct or extirpated from the region, such as passenger pigeons, Alleghany woodrats, mountain lions, and even bison (their historical range extended to the western side of the Hudson River). They further supplemented their diet with deer, turkey, beaver, bear, and shellfish that used to exist in copious quantities in the upper reaches of the Hudson and Delaware Rivers that routinely were as large as an outstretched hand. The Natives certainly appear to have eaten better than some hikers do today.

Next time you’re on the trail I would definitely recommend taking a few minutes to examine a rockshelter or two, especially the larger ones. It’s no secret that the NYNJ Trail Conference purposely routes numerous trails so that they pass by the most interesting rock formations.  Usually a shelter is among them.  While many look shabby today and are infested with myriads of insects and have a dense leaf strewn floor, in prehistoric times, if these sites were used for more than a few days at a time, the appearance would be significantly different.

Let’s say for example, two people, a man and a woman, are occupying a shelter for several days 1,000 years ago. If we were to look inside we would find that the ground is swept of leaves and a fur garment is covering the dirt floor to ensure a warm and congenial feel; the man is just outside butchering an animal. When his task is complete he hands a clump of meat over to the woman who promptly begins cooking it over the fire that’s constructed under the rock eave. By her side in the rockshelter, sitting on the ground, stands a couple small, decorated clay pots filled with water collected from a nearby stream that will be utilized for a variety of tasks. When night settles in the two move closer to the fire for added warmth and light. As they lightly converse the man does some minor tool repair. Shortly after he finishes up, the two fall asleep wrapped in blankets of thick deer and bear hides. The fire slowly wanes and all is enveloped in darkness, with only the occasional yelp of a coyote sounding in the distance.

 You have to look past the dreary mess in the shelters today and imagine how it once was.

The Cats Rock Rockshelter in Pawling, NY would have fitted a pair of Natives comfortably like the ones just described. This very large glacial erratic, on par with the size of a small house, is situated on a steep mountain slope just north of the Telephone Pioneer lean-to.  Its ample overhang would have ensured great comfort, and ease when walking around.

These sites are fragile so it’s best to tread lightly. There’s nothing worse than to see an archeological site contaminated with modern debris—it really does diminish the ambiance of it. While this shelter is a prime example of what Natives would seek out for a night’s rest, this particular site is moderately degraded by the buildup of trash and through use by rock climbers.

The Lenape viewed this world differently than most of us now see it. Everything, living and non-living, was imbibed with a spirit, even the cold and prosaic rock beneath our feet. Mankind was but a single puzzle piece to this world. All deserved respect. The last remaining Lenape today hold the rockshelters and other sites utilized by their ancestors to be sacred.

When it comes to sacred sites, some were revered more highly than others. Waterfalls were especially meaningful to the Lenape and many would travel far out of their way to reach one to pray or conduct ceremonies. The same could be said with certain overlooks atop hills or mountains that afforded sweeping views of the landscape that kindled their connection to the divine.  Every bit of the land was precious, but especially the stone, which they used for shelter, made tools out of, along with stone bowls and ceramic pots, not to mention use as a canvas—the occasional petroglyph can be found etched into bedrock outcroppings. Though they no longer frequent the rockshelters or tread the valleys and peaks of the Appalachians, the land is still looked after and maintained by like minded beings—A.T. hikers that see there is more to the land than just the value of natural resources it contains.


Michael Adamovic is an avid A.T. hiker and serves as a site steward at several state parks in southern New York as part of the Native American Site Steward Program (NASSP). He holds a Bachelor's degree in Environmental Studies from Manhattanville College.

This article will be appearing in the July 2014 issue of A.T. Journeys.