Outside the clouds are dense and low; at 4pm they start to darken. Today they were a bruised lavender, lit in a strange glow. Yesterday it snowed and today it rained and turned everything into ice. We haven't seen the sun since Sunday. The birds eat voraciously. We go through a bird feeder a week. Two suet cakes have slowed them down. The days are being pinched down between the thumb and forefinger of the nights. We make soup. We bake bread. We read. We write. Winter hasn't even yet begun.

Almost all the leaves are now fallen and I was so busy gaping at them, the bright jewel toned beauties, that I hadn't the time to come in and write about them. This year, apparently, was one of the brightest and longest and most colorful in many years, some will even go as far as to call it thirty years, but I'm not sure if I can trust someone that dramatic. But it has lasted long, and scientifically due to the rain and the season we had, this brilliance had been predicted. It was truly difficult to drive, at times.

Now the leaves scatter the ground in a carpet of brown yellow and orange, melting into one color that I can't name, except for: dried autumn leaves. At dusk, which now comes quickly, too quickly for me, I walked out to dump the compost and the chill invigorated me for a walk to the water. The air smells like ice; cold cold water. I could hear someone chewing,the muskrats, who have been eating every exposed root and grub, ripping up the grass in preparation for, what I think is going to be a very cold winter. Indians used to base their predictions for the cold on how much wood beavers stocked in the water. I'm basing it on muskrat hunger. A new song?

Across the way I heard loud leaves crunching. Deer? I saw a flash of white tail and a scurrying. Canine? I guessed it was a fox, getting up for the night.

The sun was gone, and my feet were fast getting cold. A star winked. I gathered up a breath of cold air and headed back indoors where meatloaf cooked in the oven.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here, and there have been so many changes. This morning, outside, there is thick fog. You can’t even see the water. So much has changed. From the first tremors in the still green leaves to the slight change in the night air, you could feel autumn coming on. You could see it in the garden: the once spruce and hardy plants had a slight droop on. You could tell a stasis had been reached, a zenith, where you knew that things would only stop living so hard.

We had a few incredible storms where it rained mercilessly and the back pond is full, even where it was starting to turn to meadow and you could see thick full grass growing. Sadly, we don’t have a canoe right now and it gnaws at me every time I look at the full, swollen pond, its glassy surface begging to be explored.

The garden is almost completely expired. Due to the rains (and my poor choice of type of tomato) most of the tomatoes, of which there were many, split their sides and rotted. I heard it was a tough season for them to get ripe as well, and as soon as they did they ripped open due to the heavy rains. They drank too much. The other day I pulled them all out, and plucked all the fruit, green and not. I pickled five quarts of the green tomatoes, and we’ve been having tomato salads every day. We have an incredible bouquet of herbs in the kitchen, standing in a mug of water, from a friends garden. It’s so beautiful and fragrant: lemon balm, parsley, rosemary, thyme, catnip and basil. The cucumbers are still prolific, although the leaves are starting to edge in brown, and I haven’t made any pickles of them because they are garden cukes, not kirbys. Again, next year.

What is most exciting is my pumpkin plant. A volunteer, I did not plant it, it just popped up and I figured it was something. I knew it was a squash of some sort, but when it started fruiting, I was overwhelmed. We have about twelve on the vine and each day I check on them. They grow so quickly! The plant itself is beyond hardy, the tendrils have incredible strength and climb all over everything. I tried to train them on the porch trellis but the tendrils just stayed curled and wouldn’t grasp the wood. I relased it to the green below and it slithered away at it's own green pace, grasping on the sawgrass and old bee balm.

The apple tree is old and gnarled and we’ve strung a hammock from it. The apples are yellow and deformed, but the birds seem to enjoy them. The geese are here in numbers and the pond is beginning to fill with them. Along with them the blue jays have returned. I catch one of them practicing a hawk’s cry in the apple tree, but he sounds so bad I laugh. In the mornings you can find quite a few big fat flickers pecking away in the dirt. One morning I counted ten.

The days are warm and the nights are cool, if only we had time to stare at everything all day, to remember the green, to keep it memorized. We know what will happen.

This morning it's incredibly quiet and still. I spent the better part of it pruning—-I am amazed at how wild everthing has become. The rose of sharon bush is getting crud from it’s next door neighbor the choke cherry tree, so I trimmed both back. The bees hovered nervously as I cut back their meal ticket, the blooms of the rose of Sharon. Below, the bee balm has creeped in to the foot path and as I trimmed it back, I found it had taken over a foot. We ended up sawing down a sizable offshoot of the choke cherry, as well. Here we upset the catbirds who swallow down the dark purple choke cherries greedily, hopping from branch to branch to pick the choicest ones. I tried to attack the garden and restore some order to the tomato plants, but it’s pointless. It’s my fault I planted them so close together in the first place. After picking a few tomatoes—I hear they are slow to ripen this season—I inspected the cucumbers. They are prolific. I have to start making pickles.

There is no breeze but it’s not hot due to the thick cover of patchy clouds in the sky. I walked down to the dock to cut back all the growth down there. I brought my binoculars and was rewarded: a great egret fishing. I’ve seen it twice before already, stone still and beautifully, strikingly white, the only match being the water lilies that dot the pond.

I chopped back as much as I could and rewarded myself with a seat on the bench. The view is now obstructed by the purple loosestrife, tall and willowy, a bright shock of tiny purple flowers lining the top two feet so that when there are fields of it it’s a waving wash of purple. I wanted to put boots on and to wade out and chop them all back, but I was stopped by the constant buzz of what I soon realized to be hundreds of bees buzzing in the flowers, and I decided to stop chopping and leave to bees to their business.

The heat has filled our heads with thick cotton. We are like zombies. The night holds no reprieve. Bugs crawl on the computer screen, and they dive bomb the screen of the window in such numbers that it sounds like hail.

Even the too fast hummingbird has to slow down in its quest for nectar. The rose of sharon bush is in full bloom, the pink flowers cluster and beckon the little bird with the deep magenta centers. It looks dull and not much bigger than a big bumblebee when it perches, and it's surprising when it does. But only for a minute--then it's buzzing around again, and I am quiet and don't breathe so it won't swerve away. I can see its brilliant metallic green back and the bright ruby flash of the throat which earlier looked black. A male, I later read, the females don't have any red.

It's nice to see something so light, as everything feels so heavy. The garden, while exciting, is pendulous: tomatoes, still green hang down and the four plum tomato plants are like one big snarl of green; the cucumbers sprout prodigiously, grasping their iron clasped tendrils to pull themselves out further; peppers are beginning to curl out like little elf shoes. Today I tasted the very first grape tomato, and it was so real, so sweet. How a tomato should taste.

Every morning I inspect this growth, and every morning it boggles my mind. How the hell does it happen? And when? Right now, under my bug swarmed window, there are growing things, getting greener or longer or sweeter.

I am astounded by life; how can anything else be so amazing?

After a week of soupy humidity and torrential rains, the atmosphere lifted and clear cool wind started pouring in. Yesterday was incredibly clear and it was like you were on acid, like you couldn’t believe everything was so special, so green, so clearly defined as being alive. It lifted everything, everyone’s spirits felt so light, so free from water, from the closeness and density of millions of microscopic water droplets crowding your skin, your thoughts.

This is the thick of summer: the tomato plants are like a science project gone awry, they climb everywhere, and tomatoes hang pendulously, but still green, with the promise of food to come. A huge bell pepper hangs, and you can’t help but to be afraid for it’s well being, hoping a chipmunk won’t take a bite and ruin the few weeks of waiting. Hurricanes come in without a moment's notice, whip things into a frenzy, and leave just as suddenly.

I walked down to the pond and sat on the bench, the breeze cool and noticed the water level was up. It poured this week. I was scanning the edges of the water and saw an egret, which I’ve never seen here, so I ran back inside to grab the binoculars. It was beautiful to watch, all white, pristine incredible white, with dull yellow legs and a black beak. Around it a few female mallards circled and seemed to want to harass it. It jumped up off its perch and landed on a dead tree that has fallen and hangs over and in the water. I noticed now that a few green herons were also perched close by, and then the mallards came into view right behind the egret and I noticed how small it was, how delicate and streamlined, compared to the plump ducks. The purple loosestrife kept blowing into my view, and as I tried to keep my eye on the egret, it turned into a beautiful painting, the purple, the striking white, and the lush green backdrop. You start to take green for granted these days.

In a minute it all changed, as the mallards nudged the egret into flight. I watched as it flew higher and farther, getting smaller in the distance, until it seemed an updraft had caught a piece of paper, which had fluttered away and disappeared.

The high pitched laughing scream of the Pileated Woodpecker makes for goose-pimpled flesh. The grating annoying cackle of Woody Woodpecker is based on it. The real thing is so different, so frightening.
Seeing them is a total treat. The are big and so punk rock with their red brushed back mohawk. Their beak is long, and their head seems small. Their neck is a strange apostrophe that connects the two.

One day I was hiking in Rosendale and I found a pile of feathers and bones. The tell tale beak of the pileated was there, its black and white feathers, its large rib cage ripped asunder---but one thing was missing: no red feathers. Did the predator or scavenger eat the whole head? And spit out the beak only? Could it have been a Hairy Woodpecker? Maybe some little chipmunk coveted the red feathers for its mossy little den...

This morning a very exciting thing happened. I was having coffee and outside the birds began to kick up a racket, sounding like a huge bird fight. I tried to see what it was, but it seemed to be over the little ridge to the pond. I looked away and then looked out again, hearing the chatter intensify and out pops a coyote! In a second he ran towards the neighbors property. I ran outside and caught a glimpse of him running away.

It’s easy to forget the winter when in the middle of summer all the trees are full and green, lazily being blown by hot breezes as dragonflies buzz through the air in doubled up mating pairs. The water in the pond is getting thick and low, and when we canoed to the middle of it the other day we spotted something big and round bobbing in the water, choked by lilies. As we got closer we noticed the telltale flies; it was a dead and bloated snapping turtle, as big as a large serving tray, his carapace covered with thick black-green algae. I used my oar to lift his head, the eyes turned to a white blue, his strong jaws closed and leaking mille-foil plants.

You forget how much death there is in the summer: the broad winged turkey vultures have their pick, circling under the light cirrous clouds, never flapping, but slowly, insidiously hovering without exertion. There is so much surplus that they seem to leave the road kill to the opportunist crows, and instead take their meals on the more delectable slow deaths, in the forest, or in the field. The left-overs of predators and raptors.

I was thinking back to February: how every day in the dead of winter, when the sun would drop out of sight at 4ish and the mornings were cold and brutal, every day we would eat lunch on the enclosed porch of the winery that has a long row of tall windows that open up a view of the distant and small Marlboro Mountains. The sun would already be on its descent by 1pm and we would squint over stew and bread, and wonder what the glint was on the top of the hill so far away. One day the UPS man told us, it’s a home, I’ve been there, a really nice home, and we thought greedily, enviously, of owning a home that has a view of the real mountains behind us that they must have a view of. A house that’s big and has two stories, and many acres and dogs and big windows that reflect the sun like a big beacon on the Hudson.

One of the things that we would look forward to was the Northern Harrier. We like to say his name in an English accent, so Harrier sounds like Harriah, the r’s rolling on our tongue. It took us a while to figure out who he was, as we are novices, but we persevered and scoured our Sibley’s bible and narrowed it down to the harrier by noticing the white patch on his rump that shows when he flies, between tail and back. He’s called the marsh hawk, and his rufous chest belied his youth. A juvenile, says our guide. As we would eat, he would eat, skimming the dead fields for mice or voles, the winter hours encroaching. He was reliable as my stomach, always hungry when we were hungry for lunch.

Now we don't see him anymore as he probably has better places to feed, or perhaps he went north. No one seems to feed on the fields that are now choked with loosestrife, brambles and different kinds of grasses. Under those billowing weeds are lots of little families of rodentia, prospering and safe.

Yesterday we sat out on a blanket trying to both forget and remember our lives at the same time. Usually it's by drink, but today it was by fiction. We were reading. That fiction is just as bad came to mind: sucking me in, soul obliterationg, just one more chapter please, or until I pass out in sleep, until it's too much and the words blur and jump off the page and I can't take it and have to look away.

The sun was setting, and the straw-like grass of summer, undernourished itself, was poking up through the thin dirty sheet we sat on. We wanted to eat but there was nothing but crackers, and we wanted to drink, but we only had water. The fiction was pulling us under like a water bound beast, and we decided not to jump in anymore, not even to wade, as it was becoming too dangerous.

And so we looked up at the tree, the dead one at the edge of the marsh which is covered in poison ivy and grape weed. The top branches that jut like skeleton fingers out of the bushy poison vines are in the last sun of the day, and sitting there are five green herons, now six, now eight. They sit like hunched monks soaking in the sun, squawking their high pitched shreiks every so often, rearranging iridescent purple feathers, hopping to lower or higher branches, stretching their brown and white, striped and speckled necks, looking like ladies trying on exotic feathered gloves, making that sound, that odd sound that only they make, a cross between a yawn and the croak of the green frog.

As slowly, and as deliberately, and as randomly as they landed, they just the same started to lift their tightly folded wings, stir the air and fly away, leaving us alone in the twilight, wanting to be with them, wanting to be them, wanting to eat frogs, and stay still for hours on end, wanting to have necks like ladies' thin long wrists, wanting to have what seems like effortless lives, wanting to fly.

Here is my mother's poem, inspired by our mutual wildlife adventures:


In My Backyard



When I open the patio door,

I look down at the floor.

Is there a poisonous snake there?

Next I scan the streambank.

Lurks an alligator big as a tank?

When I go outside, I beware.

Mostly I see lots of things

that makes my heart sing.

There's no separation, no fence.

Otters play in my backyard.

Sighting blue herons is easy, not hard.

Living in their midst takes common sense.

Sometimes I stand still as a stone,

blending with the background adapting tone

similar to that of a tree.

Only this way can I see

the beauty of the world that be

right under my nose, wondrously.

I think the birds must have been right, because the weather certainly seems to be changing. Why does anyone ever listen to the woodchuck? Shadow? Please. The past few days flocks and flocks of blackbirds have been descending upon us. Grackles, starlings and red wing blackbirds have all come together and the sound they make is eerie. The alarm clock sound of the red wing; I always hear them saying, "Boo-ker Teeeee", and the chuk chek rattling of the rest of them fills the air. The grackles strut around greedily with their beady yellow eyes darting nervously here and there. The starlings just eat. I filled the feeder on Saturday morning and on Monday it was stripped bare, suet cakes and all. I am beginning to miss even the blue jays, after this brutal takeover. Another return visitor is the Canadian goose. Only four of them out on the marsh ice this morning and they are already making an unholy racket.

Most exciting news this week: we saw a barred owl on our way out of work on Sunday night. We were about to make a left from the drive and perched on a branch right above us was the owl. He looked down at our stopped car, and wondering faces, as if to say: You can't see me, I'm an owl. Look away! He flew off, but not so far. We left filled with awe and excitement; we had heard his hooting for the past few weeks. I was so excited that I dreamed of the owl that night, that he was sick on his side on the ground. I tried to pet him, but he flew away.

It was 62 degrees and sunny today, and this morning we headed to Lake Louisa for a hike on the loop. Everything was melting and birds seemed to be everywhere. We saw a brown creeper, which was new, among the regulars. The air smells like perfume, it's so alive, after so many weeks of air that smells like ice. It's dirt, it's moss, which we also saw today.


Once back home, in the afternoon, it was warm and I surveyed the land for a prime sugar snap pea location. Almost all the grass is uncovered. I spent a good deal of the day purposely stamping on the soft wet snow to break it up. Clouds began to pull in from the west, so I went indoors for a cup of tea. After 20 minutes the storm had passed, with only a sprinkling of rain, and the black clouds receded in the east. The sun came out again, strong with a dry wind, and in the east a huge double rainbow appeared, as bright as I've ever seen, with thick bands on the top, and many smaller bands on the bottom. It was glorious, and I can't help but to think that spring will come back soon. Even though snow is predicted this weekend.

Everyday I look outside at the feeder and everyday I see the same birds. They are beautiful and interesting, but of course I am always looking for something new. When at last you have finally given up and open the curtain expecting to see the same old friends, you get a surprise, and new birds are sipping away at the last few grains of seed in the feeder. This happens every week or two, and the pattern goes: I’m bored and then surprised. It’s so human, so predictable, to not think anything will change and then be surprised by it changing, even though that’s what it’s always been doing, ever since the beginning of time.

Last week we saw a pair of Carolina Wrens, their warm rufous color shining out admist the blues and grays of the juncos, chickadees, titmice and jays. The other day there was a bird convention, tons of birds, even though the feeder was empty. There were flocks of Mourning Doves and Starlings, which I’m not thrilled about; we rarely see them, which is fine with me. Starlings are greedy and shifty, and Mourning Doves are the deer of birds, beautiful and limpid eyed, but you can't help but to think that they must be dim. Not the usual suspects, but fresh faces nonetheless, although, starlings and doves wear out their welcome almost immediately.

I went out to the barn in order to fill the feeder and up in the black walnut tree was, of all things, an American Robin. It seemed a little early to see this bird, and I was puzzled, but pleased to see him. Maybe the weather forecast for five below zero was wrong!

Later on, once inside and watching the birds gather to the full feeder, I noticed a different shape on the top of the dead tree on the edge of the marsh. I focused on it, and it was a Eastern Bluebird. Bright blue, with a brownish red breast and white under belly, he was eyeballing the old bluebird box, sitting on a tree next to it, then flying to another branch, all surrounding this little home. Then I saw a sparrow in the little entry hole, peering in, much to the chagrin of this bluebird. I have never seen any birds interested in this house, or even near it, except for the woodpeckers, who have bored holes in practically the whole tree it is affixed to. It’s barely a tree anymore, actually. The bluebird hung around for the morning and I haven’t seen him since. It is always a treat to see bluebirds.

This morning it’s cold and sunny, and the sky is a flawless blue. (Does that mean clouds are flawed? Or flaws themselves? Certainly not.) The birds are incredibly active, as they have been for the past few days. Again, I wonder, do they know something we don’t? Is the robin back because we’ll have an early spring? Wishful thinking, says I. The rational side of me thinks: they must not have very much to eat in the wild, and only now have decided to take a hand out. I guess the jays, juncos, chickadees and titmice are less proud than the Red Winged Blackbird, who have gathered en masse in the backyard today. They are nervous and the slightest human movement makes them sweep up and fly off to hide in the pines further from the house. The group was mainly female, which are brown and plain, thrush-like, and the few males stood out, glossy black with their pale yellow stripe, once red, dulled by winter.

Lately I've been walking in the forest on the other side of the marsh. I walk across the ice, trudging through the still thick but fluffy snow and climb up the hill that is lined on either side by old stone walls. My theory is that it used to be a road of some sort.

The other day when I went it was cold and the wind was blowing fiercely, and the clouds were passing quickly over the sun, making for a moody day. I began tracking an animal that I though might be canine, but at the top of the hill a big tree has covered the path and it made me stop. All was quiet. And then somehow I began to feel like I was being watched. I turned around, realizing that running (from what?) through foot deep snow over land that's twisted with dead branches and trees would be a real test. My heart felt a little quick and I had the immediate intuition that I should turn around and head home. Not being a true naturalist, I did exactly that.

Yesterday was bright and sunny, and warm! 25 degrees! I headed out across the thick ice, and up the stone lined path. The feeling of the day was completely different, the sun was friendly and as I stood quiet midway up the hill, listening, fishing for a gut feeling, the outcome was nothing but cheerful and calm. I continued up the hill. In a trackless plane of snow, I found a clump of soft brown fur, and put it in my pocket for further inspection. It smelled like clean dog.

I headed up to the top of the hill and looked down in the wooded valley, white except for the dark slashes of bare tree trunks and winding vines. I continued on the ridge and came upon man tracks, so easily tracked. I followed this man, and his dog, for a while. I thought maybe the fur was of the man's dog. Are they hunting? Are they just walking like me? Was it them I sensed when I felt as if I were being watched?

I wasn't put off by anything on this hike and continued back to the edge of the marsh. I stood still in the sun, and the forest began to come alive the longer I remained quiet. Chickadees crawled over pine trees oblivious to me, a foot away. Then I noticed a crescent shaped bit of water that wasn't frozen. I quietly walked over to it, and heard the call of the kingfisher, who I was surprised to find was around in this weather. He was rattling away at me, and I started to believe I must be near his burrow, as they nest on the ground in dirt holes. As I stood still once more a flock of ducks landed to rest on the water. One false move, however, and a crack of a branch had them all flying off. The machine gun rattle of the kingfisher got quieter as he bailed north.

Later on that night, as I read by the kitchen window I heard some low howling. Not sure if I heard it correctly, I stepped outside onto the porch, the blue of the sky illuminated by it's reflection in the snow. I heard a neighborhood dog bark, followed by the unmistakable howl of a coyote. Once inside I inspected the fur clump again. I'm very taken with the idea of it being coyote fur.

It’s been cold. Have I mentioned that? It’s actually normal weather; we’ve just had such mild winters for so long that people forget how it really was. I remember being so cold as a child, the blankets piled up over me, heavy corduroy quilts that my mother made for us. Blanket is such a great word. Those heavy blankets would almost smother you, but in the best way possible, keeping you in place, weighing you down, keeping you safe.

Upon waking up, it is bright and sunny, if you can see through the frost that thickly covers the windows. Once outside, the snow blinds you, it covers everything, like a blanket. We have about a foot, from the other day, and as I walk I can’t help but to be entranced by the constant sparkle of it.

Out across the marsh, the muskrat huts are covered in turbans of white. Foot prints form in trails everywhere, deer and people mainly. These trails will disappear within hours, like I would imagine footprints in a desert might be erased, covered over by sand. The wind has been unstoppable, and the snow gives it a face. It’s a light, dry snow and is lifted easily by the wind, blowing in waves, in plumes, in full on walls at some points.

This weather makes the birds eat voraciously, and I’ve found they go through a full feeder in a week. We’ve got lots of blue jays, who have taken up camp in our apple tree, and even though they drive me crazy and I try to scare them all the time, you can’t help but to appreciate their brashness.

They are beautiful, first off, which I often forget because they annoy me so much. The alert crest, the different shades of blue, offset by a black necklace and a buff gray underbelly. But their attitude! The nosiness, their heralding the others when the feeder is filled as if they were the only ones watching, their bullying to the front of the line for food. When we fill the feeder, a jay will sit on a high branch and scream and scream like a dinner bell. Once humans have left the picture they swoop right down and take their fill.

One day I went outside and heard the call of a northern goshawk. But the loud call—Kiirrr Kiiirrr—was so low in the sky, and when I spotted where it was coming from I was thrown off. The bird was so small, and why would a goshawk be in such a low tree, near the trunk? Well, I followed it with my binoculars, and of course, it was a blue jay imitating a hawk, which, I found out, they tend to do, especially the northern goshawk. I was completely duped for a bit, and I really think the bird was just having fun with me.

The other day I woke in the middle of the night to a very strange sound. It was the yowlings of coyotes, I'm sure of it! It went on and on, and I could picture them or it over the ice and in the valley, howling away to stake their claim.

I couldn't help but to think that my footprints walking around amongst them, with my human smell all too keen, made them need to form a protest. That by howling in the middle of the blue and frozen night, I, safe in my house in my bed, the covers drawn high over my nose, would think twice next time I wanted to traipse across the ice onto their territory.

Out in the backyard we have a large marsh dammed up by beavers. In the summer we can canoe all around, as long as we are careful not to get stuck in the more shallow waters where tons of plant life live happily under water. In the winter, particularly after a week of sub zero weather, we can walk on the water, or to be more precise, on the ice. It's strange to walk where you weren't able to only a month ago.

Once out there we were able to observe things that had up until now been only seen through binoculars. Like the muskrat huts that were safe from us in the canoe because we couldn't get through the plants to see them more closely. Now we stood right next to them. They look like hay stacks and are made of moss and cattails and dirt.

We saw the tell tale cloven hoof prints of deer, and the paw prints of what we decided must be a neighborhood dog. Out in the middle of the body of water, we could inspect the beaver lodge. We had seen that before because we could canoe to it.

We also found a mystery: a large bird carcass surrounded by paw prints. While we thought at first it might be a story of wilderness---a coyote brings down a bird of prey---was probably this: neighborhood dog finds dead vulture. We found a wing on either side of the pond. It was a big bird, possibly a vulture and maybe a crow.

Now we are back inside, nice and cozy, while outside the winds howl and the dark clouds swarm. The blue jay is screaming his dinner bell alert, as we have just refilled the feeder, and also added two suet cakes, which the birds, especially the red bellied woodpecker, love.

Well, not sure if you have read the weather report for up here, but it has been below freezing for a while now. Last week our pipes froze and our landlords spent almost two hours at night in 15 degree weather using a heat gun on the pipes to thaw the ice. They were successful and the water shot through at 12 a.m. just as I was falling to sleep. I got up and danced about, glad to not have to use the huge 10 gallon jugs of water we took from work.

It got "warm" yesterday, and all the layers of frost on the windows quickly melted off. I was fascinated by the amazingly complex patterns the frost would create: huge plumes of feathery frost, my favorite, a swirling pattern of tendrils that looked like sutres, a checkerboard of fuzzy diamond marks. Each window different and spectacular!

Outside the bird feeder is quiet and still. We filled it half way yesterday morning and it's empty already!! The birds were busy at work squirreling it all away in preparation for the next few days. The weather reports are daunting: a new artic cold front is coming in from Canada tonight, bringing with it even colder air. How is that possible? We were going down to five below every night during the weekend!!

We have plans for using the oven every day. Today we have a roast beef planned, and whole wheat bread. That should total a good six hours of the oven being on at least at 350 degrees. It really does help. And we need it!

On Tuesday morning we pulled back the curtains, as we do every morning. It was very bright! Outside the trees swayed and sparkled in the sun, like crystals someone tied to every tip and nub. Freezing rain had hit us over night and covered everything with ice. We decided to go for a hike at Lake Louisa (which is pretty much our extended back yard) and take the orange trail, which we've never hiked before. We drove there in a few minutes and once we were on the trail, we felt the cold. Our breath blew out in plumes of steam. We surveyed the view of the lake, the beaver and muskrat lodges and the expanse of pine trees. We began to walk. The trail was icy and especially nerve wracking when we walked down the stone steps that crosses the beaver dam, and the swift moving stream that passes through it. A slow and steady wind creeped through the tree tops and it would make us stop still to hear the moaning of the frozen trees, weighted by hundreds of pounds of ice, or the slow creaking of the branches heavily swaying, and the cracking of the ice and it's fall to crispy leaves below, which I thought looked like frosted flakes, a sugary frost over deep tan and crunchy leaves.

Halfway in (although we weren't aware we were halfway through at this point; we both commented on the drive home that the hike was longer that we thought it would be) we began to notice the subtleties of the ice forest we were now in. When looking up, the sun was out and the sky was a clear blue, and you could see the prisms of light the sun created on the ice. Soon it was like the whole forest was strung with Christmas lights, it was so pronounced. A red twinkle here, and if you moved a green or deep yellow one would appear. All the colors of the rainbow, winking at you.

Before we had left the house, I reminded myself to dress in camouflage, as I was about to put on a light blue jacket and a bright orange scarf. I changed and put on brown and green clothes. But as I looked at the dazzle of the winking lights I thought that the perfect camouflage would be my mothers full length, long sleeve white sequined gown that she made one winter long ago, when she was pregnant with me, as I recall being told. Only with that white sequiny gown would you be camouflaged!

All this looking up made me think that all this creaking and cracking ice must mean it's falling from way on high, and I said to Steve I was surprised we hadn't yet gotten chonked on the head. We continued and yes, there were many chunks of ice littering the trail---indeed, they were falling!

We passed a flock of tiny birds foraging on a rocky floor next to chipmunks making their homes in burrowed tree trunks. As I passed quite a few low hanging branches that sank over the trail, a few times a branch would grab my hat with its icy fingers.

Once we got out of the forest it was blinding because you could see the sun reflecting off the icy pond. After a long hike our stomachs were growling for hot soup, and our feet longed for warm slippers. We got in the car and drove home.

Later on, after bowls of hot lima bean soup, the sun was shining so much that dripping started from every branch. I took some photos because it was so beautiful out, but then went back in to bake some bread. As I measured the flour I noticed an ominous black cloud coming from the West. Soon we were in the midst of a snow squall that hit us with such force that the backyard was white within minutes. I noticed that the bird feeder was filled with all the little birds, the finches, swallows, juncoes and chickadees, seemingly unaware of the fierce winds and snow blowing them about. Go home! I thought, It's a bad storm! But they didn't leave. Then I thought: maybe they know something I don't. Sure enough, in about fifteen minutes the sun was breaking and the storm passed over entirely.

The sun was out again, bright and sparkling as ever.

Outside the trees sway and sparkle in the sun, like crystals someone tied to every tip and nub. We went for a good hour and a half hike at Lake Louisa (which is pretty much our extended back yard) and decided to take the orage trail which we've never hiked before. The trail was icy and essentially nerve wracking when walking down the stone steps that crosses the beaver day and the swift moving stream that passes through it. A slow and steady wind creeped through the tree tops and it would make us stop stock still to hear the moaning of the frozen trees, weighted by hundreds of pounds of ice, or the slow creaking of the branches heavily swaying, and the cracking of the ice and it's fall to crispy leaves below, which I thought looked like frosted flakes, a sugary frost over deep tan and crispy flakes.

Halfway in (although we weren't aware we were halfway through at this point; we both commented on the drive home that the hike was longer that we thought it would be) we began to notice the subtleties of the ice forest we were now in. When looking up, the sun was out strong and the cloudless sky crisply blue, you could see the prisms of light the sun created with the ice. Soon it ws like the whole forest was strung with Christmas lights, it was so pronounced. A red twinkle here, and if you moved a green or deep yellow one would show. All the colors of the rainbow, winking at you. Before we had left the house, I reminded myself to dress in camouflage, as I was about to put on a light blue jacket and a bright orange scarf. Steve and I put on brown and green clothes. But as I looked at the dazzle of the winking lights I thought that the perfect camouflage would be my mothers full length, long sleeve white sequined gown that she made one winter long ago, when she was pregnant with me, as I recall being told. Only with that white sequiny gown you would be camouflaged.

All this looking up made me think that all this creaking and cracking ice must mean it's falling from way on high, and I said to Steve I was surprised we hadn't yet gotten chonked on the head. We continued and yes, there were many chunks of ice littering the trail---indeed they were falling!

We passed a flcok of tiny birds foraging on a rocky floor next to chipmunks making their homes in burrowed tree trunks. As I passed quite a few low hanging branches that sank over the trail, a few times a branch grabbed my hat with its icy fingers. It was so cold!

Once we got out of the forest it was blinding because you could see the sun reflectin off the icy pond. After a long hike our stomachs were growling for hot soup, and our feet longed for warm slippers.

Later on, after bowls of hot lima bean soup, the sun was shining so much that dripping started from every branch. I took some photos because it was so beautiful out, but then went back in to bake some bread. As I measured the flour I noticed an ominous black cloud coming from the West. Within minutes we were in the midst of a snow squall that hit us with such force that the backyard was white within minutes. I noticed that the bird feeder was filled with all the little birds, the finches, swallows, juncoes and chickadees, seemingly unaware of the fierce winds and snow blowing them about. Go home! I thought, It's a bad storm! But they didn't leave. Then I thought: maybe they know something I don't. Sure enough, in about fifteen minutes the sun was breaking and the storm passed over entirely.

The sun was out again, bright and sparkling as ever.

This is the beginning of the Cow Hough Natural Log. We are now new born naturalists exploring our own backyard in upstate New York. This is for the benefit of our family---those who are curious about what we do with our time, and also for those in Florida who don't know what that white stuff on the ground is.

Enjoy!