All posts by igolfnbird@gmail.com

Winter Storm Fern & the Quiet Resilience of an Old Spruce

biodiversity, birds, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, , ,

Winter Storm Fern moved through the Capital Region with wind, cold, and a heavy blanket of snow. For most of us, it meant shovels, forecasts, and staying put.

For the land, it meant a test.

In my side yard — part of what I call the Dodson Bird Observatory — an old spruce tree and a hedgerow stood exactly where they’ve stood for decades. Snow piled deep around them. Wind pressed hard from the open side. And yet, they did what they’ve always done.

They held.

The spruce, with its dense, layered branches, breaks the wind and creates pockets of calmer air beneath it. In winter, those pockets matter. Birds don’t need warmth so much as relief — relief from wind, exposure, and constant energy loss. The lower limbs, heavy with snow, still provide shelter where life can pause, even briefly.

The hedgerow does something just as important, though it’s less obvious. It catches drifting snow, softens the edge between open space and forest, and creates protected zones at ground level. Beneath the snow, life continues — insects, seeds, small mammals — all part of a food web that doesn’t stop just because the landscape looks frozen.

What struck me during this storm wasn’t drama, but steadiness.

No intervention.
No maintenance.
No management plan pinned to a clipboard.

Just long-established structure doing what it was shaped to do.

This is one of the quiet lessons the land offers in winter:
resilience is often already in place — if we allow it to remain.

The Dodson Bird Observatory isn’t about rare species or grand design. It’s about paying attention to what works, where you live, and choosing not to erase it in the name of neatness or convenience.

Winter Storm Fern will pass.
The snow will melt.
The spruce and the hedgerow will still be here.

And so will the life that depends on them.

When Environmentalism Lost the Plot

Wildlife & Plants

I’ve spent most of my adult life working in and around what people broadly call “environmentalism.” I care deeply about wildlife, natural landscapes, and the long-term health of the places we live. That hasn’t changed.

What has changed is my comfort level with much of what modern environmentalism has become.

And I’ll admit up front that this may sound like an afternoon rant—but it’s really an observation formed over decades.

The “fruitcake” problem

(That is a technical term.)

One of the ongoing challenges environmentalism has faced is that many people who strongly embrace “the environment” are perceived as being a little… out there. Sometimes unfairly. Sometimes not.

I’ve always loved wildlife, but I’ve never been able to fully connect with ideologies that drift into absolutism—anti-hunting at all costs, arguments that ignore basic ecological realities, or emotional positions that seem detached from how real landscapes and real communities function.

Healthy ecosystems are not managed by slogans. They’re managed by people who live in them, work in them, and understand trade-offs.

The insulation gap

Another long-standing issue is who environmentalism tends to attract.

Many people active in environmental causes are financially insulated from the daily realities most people face. When your housing, food, and income are secure, it’s much easier to advocate for solutions that increase costs or restrict livelihoods—especially when you won’t bear those costs.

That disconnect matters.

Stewardship that only works for people with money is not stewardship. It’s lifestyle branding.

The fundraising illusion

Over time, many large environmental organizations have evolved into something else entirely. They’ve become fundraising machines—well-oiled, well-branded, and very good at separating people from their money.

The pitch is familiar:

Want to save a whale? A redwood tree? A rare bird?
Send us cash and feel good about yourself.

Then you go back to living your regular life.

I’ve always struggled with that model. Because if it actually worked—if donations alone fixed ecological problems—then why is nearly every ecosystem on Earth still in decline?

At some point, that question deserves an honest answer.

You can’t outsource stewardship

Stewardship isn’t something you outsource to a nonprofit. It’s something you practice.

It’s local.
It’s personal.
It involves work.
And yes, it often involves earning a living.

People protect what supports them. Hunters, anglers, farmers, foresters, and land managers have historically been some of the strongest conservationists—not because they were told to feel guilty, but because their livelihoods depended on healthy systems.

That reality rarely fits neatly into modern environmental narratives, but ignoring it hasn’t helped ecosystems recover.

Why I’ve always focused on earning from stewardship

This is one reason I’ve always tried to link conservation and stewardship to economic activity.

Not exploitation.
Not extraction.
But use with responsibility.

If stewardship cannot support people economically, it will always remain a side project for the privileged. If it can support people—through land management, local food, habitat work, re-commerce, education, or small-scale enterprise—then it becomes part of daily life.

That’s when it scales.

A closing field note

I’m not anti-environment. I never have been.

But I’ve grown increasingly skeptical of environmentalism that:

  • Relies on guilt instead of responsibility

  • Raises money instead of changing behavior

  • Moralizes instead of engaging real people in real places

Stewardship isn’t flashy. It doesn’t make great fundraising videos. It doesn’t offer instant emotional relief.

But it works—slowly, imperfectly, and locally.

And after a lifetime in this work, that’s the direction I’ve chosen to walk.

These are simply observations from the field. Others may see things differently. That’s fine. Stewardship begins, after all, with paying attention.

A Beginning on the Bank of the Vlomankill

biodiversity, Communities, ecosystems, nature conservation, ,

I was standing on the bank of the Vlomankill in Henry Hudson Park a few days ago when a simple thought struck me with surprising force:

I need to understand the history of the land and water around the place I call home.

I’ve walked this stretch of the Vlomankill many times, but that morning something felt different. The stillness of the water, the stripped branches of winter, the muted light—together they made me feel as if I was standing in the middle of a story I didn’t yet know. A story shaped by geology, ecology, people, and choices made over centuries.

That’s when I realized: if I’m serious about stewardship, then this is where it begins. Not in theory, not in distant landscapes, but right here—learning the natural and cultural history of Bethlehem, New York, one walk, one question, one discovery at a time.

And as I thought about doing this work locally, it occurred to me that I could do the same in Indiana and Florida, the other places I spend part of each year. Three regions, each with their own story. Three places where I feel connected. And perhaps three starting points for a process that anyone could use to better understand the land beneath their feet.

So this Field Notes entry is the kickoff. A line in the sand—well, mud—where I begin documenting my observations, questions, and discoveries.

This is step one.

Where this leads, we’ll find out together. I already sense a larger article forming for The Nature of Things, one that explores not only this place but the broader idea of “discovering where you live.”

More soon.

The Beauty and Conservation Value of Paper Birch

biodiversity, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, Native Plants, nature conservation, ,

On my recent hike around the Five Rivers Environmental Education Center in Delmar, New York, I stopped to admire this striking Paper Birch (Betula papyrifera). Its white, peeling bark stood out against the darker trunks of surrounding trees, catching the soft autumn light. Paper Birch is one of those species that instantly sparks curiosity—its bark looks almost like sheets of paper curling off, and indeed, people have found countless uses for it over centuries.

But beyond its beauty and history, the Paper Birch plays an important role in a conservation landscape.

Native Range and Habitat

Paper Birch is native to much of northern North America, stretching across Canada and into the northern United States, including the Adirondacks and northeastern hardwood forests of New York. It thrives in cooler climates, often colonizing recently disturbed areas such as old fields, burn sites, or logged woods. As a pioneer species, it is one of the first trees to take hold after disturbance, stabilizing soil and preparing the way for other species in the successional process.

Ecological Benefits

Paper Birch provides critical benefits to wildlife:

  • Food Source:
    The seeds are eaten by finches, siskins, and other seed-eating birds. Moose and deer browse on young birch twigs, while snowshoe hares and beavers rely on the bark and shoots for food in lean months.

  • Habitat:
    The peeling bark provides cover for insects, which in turn feed woodpeckers and other insectivorous birds. Cavities in older birches can become nesting sites for chickadees and nuthatches.

  • Pollinator Value:
    Birch catkins release pollen that sustains early spring pollinators when other resources are scarce.

Conservation and Human Connections

For centuries, Indigenous peoples of North America used Paper Birch bark for canoes, shelters, and containers, taking advantage of its light weight and natural waterproofing. Even today, naturalists admire its bark as one of the best fire-starting materials in the woods—it burns hot even when damp.

From a conservation perspective, Paper Birch is a reminder of resilience and transition. It doesn’t live as long as oaks or maples, but its ecological role is just as vital. By providing food, shelter, and succession pathways, birch helps ensure that forests remain dynamic and diverse.

Paper Birch in Conservation Landscapes

If you’re thinking about creating a conservation-friendly landscape, Paper Birch can be a valuable addition, particularly in northern climates. It offers:

  • Visual appeal with its white bark and bright yellow fall foliage.

  • Wildlife value through seeds, twigs, and bark.

  • Diversity in habitat by supporting insects and birds that rely on peeling bark and canopy cover.

While it prefers cooler soils and doesn’t tolerate long-term heat stress (making it less suited for southern plantings), in places like upstate New York, it can be an excellent choice to bring both beauty and biodiversity to a landscape.

Closing Thought

Standing among the Paper Birches at Five Rivers, I was reminded of how every tree—no matter how common or short-lived—serves as a keystone for the life around it. The Paper Birch may not dominate the forest for centuries, but in its decades of life, it provides essential resources that ripple through the ecosystem.

That, in itself, is a lesson in conservation: sometimes the most important contributions are those that prepare the way for others.

A Quiet Encounter at Dusk: Discovering Nature’s Subtle Stories at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary

biodiversity, Communities, ecosystems, Native Plants, nature conservation, Parks & Sanctuaries, ,

By Ron Dodson
The Nature of Things

As the late evening light filtered through the canopy at Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary, I found myself walking more slowly than usual. It wasn’t just the fading daylight urging caution—it was the stillness. A kind of hush had settled over the woods, interrupted only by the soft crunch of leaf litter beneath my boots and the occasional twitter of birds settling in for the night.

I’ve walked these trails many times, but something about the fading light always changes the feel of the place. It draws your eyes downward, where shadows dance across moss, bark, and understory. That’s when I noticed a plant I’ve seen often but rarely stopped to appreciate in detail.

Nestled near the edge of the trail, surrounded by leaf litter and the beginnings of autumn’s slow decline, was a graceful spray of leaves and a small cluster of berries—False Solomon’s Seal, or Maianthemum racemosum. Its long, arching stem bore alternate lance-shaped leaves, each delicately veined and gently tapering to a point. And dangling beneath one of those leaves were its berries—still ripening, mottled with hints of red and cream.

False Solomon’s Seal is one of those woodland plants that might go unnoticed by a casual hiker, yet it plays a quiet role in the forest’s rhythm. Unlike its more rigid cousin, Polygonatum (True Solomon’s Seal), which bears its flowers along the stem, Maianthemum keeps its blooms and berries clustered at the tip or just below the leaves. When in bloom, its feathery white flowers attract early pollinators. Now, late in the season, its fruit will become food for birds and small mammals.

I knelt beside it for a while, just observing. There were tiny holes in the leaves—evidence that something else had paused here before me. A beetle perhaps, or a caterpillar. The plant had done its part in the cycle of give and take.

In moments like this, I’m reminded why I return to places like Hollyhock Hollow. Not to check off species or log miles, but to encounter—quietly and without agenda—the lives of others who share this landscape.

As I continued on, the light dipped further and the woods took on that dusky blue hue that always makes me think of memory—how fleeting it can be, and how easily overlooked are the small details that become most meaningful in retrospect.

So if you find yourself walking a trail as the day begins to exhale, pause for the plants. Look for the berries, the chewed leaves, the stories etched in silence.

You might just find a kind of stillness you didn’t know you were missing.

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Not Really a Rat: A Closer Look at the Muskrat

biodiversity, ecosystems, Parks & Sanctuaries

Yesterday’s walk at the Five Rivers Environmental Education Center offered one of those quiet but rewarding moments that nature often delivers—if we’re paying attention. Near one of the ponds, I spotted a muskrat, soaked and tangled with grass, busily at work. At first glance, someone might mistake this critter for an oversized rat, but looks can be deceiving. The muskrat may carry “rat” in its name, but it’s a very different animal altogether.

So, Is a Muskrat a Rat?

Nope. Not in the scientific sense.
While muskrats (Ondatra zibethicus) are rodents—just like true rats—they aren’t part of the Rattus genus, which includes familiar species like the Norway rat or black rat. Instead, muskrats belong to a different branch of the rodent family tree entirely. They’re more closely related to voles and lemmings than to the urban rats we associate with subways and city streets.

Here’s a quick breakdown:

Trait Muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus) True Rat (Rattus species)
Tail Flattened vertically for swimming Round and scaly
Habitat Wetlands, ponds, slow-moving streams Urban environments, sewers
Diet Aquatic plants, cattails, roots Omnivorous (grains, meat, trash)
Behavior Solitary, burrowing Social, nesting in groups

Muskrats are built for a semi-aquatic life. Their dense, water-repellent fur and paddle-like tails help them move efficiently through ponds and marshes. They even have partially webbed feet. In short, they’re natural swimmers and engineers of the wetland world.

Ecosystem Role: Builders, Eaters, and the Occasional Nuisance

Like beavers (though not nearly as industrious), muskrats influence their habitat in noticeable ways. By feeding heavily on cattails and other aquatic vegetation, they can help keep marshes from becoming overgrown. Their feeding patterns can create open-water channels that benefit waterfowl and other aquatic species.

Their burrows, dug into pond banks, offer safe havens not just for themselves but occasionally for other creatures, too. Of course, these same burrows can become a nuisance if they cause erosion or compromise man-made pond structures—a reminder that even helpful animals can cause problems when their behavior intersects with human land use.

Muskrats are also part of the food web, serving as prey for mink, foxes, hawks, eagles, and large owls. So when you see a muskrat in the wild, you’re seeing a key player in the balance of pond life.

A Moment to Pause

Watching this muskrat at Five Rivers, I was reminded of how much life exists in even the most ordinary patches of land and water. It wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—just gathering a mouthful of greens and scurrying back to wherever it had come from—but in its own quiet way, it was reminding me that nature is always busy, always adapting, and always worth learning about.

So next time you see a “rat-like” figure cruising through the cattails, take a closer look. You might just be meeting one of our wetland neighbors doing its part to keep things humming along.

Why Is That Leaf Red in July?

Wildlife & Plants, ,

A Nature of Things Reflection Inspired by a Simple Walk and a Thoughtful Question

It was still hot and sticky well into the evening as Theresa and I took our usual walk down the road near our home. Most of the plants lining the ditches and field edges looked about how you’d expect them to look in mid-July—lush, green, and thriving. But every so often, we noticed something odd.

One leaf here. Another there.

Bright red. Not faded or diseased. Just red—like it had skipped ahead a few months and landed straight in autumn.

Theresa pointed to one of them and asked, “Why would just one leaf turn red this early?”

It was a fair question, and I had to admit I didn’t really know. I guessed it might be heat stress, but it seemed strange that only one leaf on the whole plant would be affected.

So, I did what any curious naturalist does when nature throws out a question mid-walk—I made a mental note, snapped a few pictures, and looked it up when we got home.

The Answer Is… Complicated, But Interesting

Turns out, red leaves in summer—especially when it’s just one or two on an otherwise green plant—are often signs of localized stress. That could mean drought stress, root injury, insect damage, or even a fungal infection affecting a small part of the plant.

But why red?

That’s due to anthocyanins—the same pigments responsible for the reds and purples of fall. When a leaf starts to shut down due to stress or damage, it may produce these pigments as a sort of protection, shielding the leaf from intense sunlight or helping manage internal chemical stress.

In other words, that red leaf might be waving a little flag that says, “Something’s not quite right here, but I’m trying to cope.”

A Bigger Lesson in a Small Leaf

As we finished our walk, I thought about how many times I’ve either not asked a question like that or let one float away unanswered. And it reminded me of something I’ve come to believe: you don’t have to have all the answers in the moment to learn from nature.

Sometimes it’s enough to notice, take a picture, wonder a little, and look it up later. That curiosity—sparked by something as small as a red leaf—is how you begin to understand a landscape more deeply.

So, next time you see something unusual—an odd color, a strange sound, a curious behavior—don’t worry if you can’t name it right away.

Let it sit with you. Bring it home. Ask someone. Search it out. And maybe even write about it.

That’s the nature of things.

🐦 Have you ever noticed one red leaf on a green plant in summer? I’d love to hear your thoughts—or see your photos—in the comments. And if you enjoy these kinds of simple observations with deeper meaning, consider subscribing my Nature of Things newsletter on Substack.

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At the Edge of the Pavement: A Gray Catbird’s Warning

biodiversity, birds, , ,

Earlier this evening, as Theresa and I took a slow stroll along the road near our home, we came upon the quiet form of a Gray Catbird lying still between a patch of roadside greenery and the unforgiving asphalt. It wasn’t the first bird we’ve found this way—and sadly, it won’t be the last.

The Catbird, a common but beloved songster known for its raspy “mew” call and playful mimicking of other birds, seemed out of place here—frozen mid-transition between nature and the human-built world. A few feet one way and it would’ve been safe in the low, tangled shrubs it calls home. A few feet the other, and—well, this is the story we often overlook.

We don’t know exactly what happened. It could have been a car, a window, the heat, or perhaps some other stress. But it did remind us of something important: nature doesn’t end at the edge of the sidewalk. It flows and flutters through the margins—into our yards, parking lots, utility corridors, and yes, even along country roads.

And that’s where danger lives too. The intersection between nature and human infrastructure is not always a peaceful one.

Birds like this Catbird are especially vulnerable in edge habitats. Roads create heat, host invasive species, emit toxins, and cause direct mortality through collisions. As our built world expands, these danger zones multiply. Yet, these same edges also offer opportunities—places where, if we’re mindful, we can soften the borders and offer refuge instead of risk.

A patch of native shrubs. A slower speed limit. A thoughtful landscape buffer. A moment of awareness.

If the air hadn’t been so thick with July heat and humidity, perhaps we might have taken the opportunity to film a quick video—a teachable moment about how each of us can do something to reduce harm. Maybe next time.

But for now, let this Catbird be a quiet messenger. One more reminder that the boundaries we build don’t always hold. Nature keeps coming—and we should meet it not with indifference, but with care.

A Hot and Buggy Hike at Van Dyke Preserve

biodiversity, birds, Communities, ecosystems, nature conservation, , ,


By Ron Dodson
The Nature of Things | July 9, 2025

Theresa and I decided to take advantage of a sunny day and stretch our legs on the loop trail at the Van Dyke Preserve. Even though the thermometer was pushing 90 degrees, we figured the shade of the forest would offer at least some relief from the heat. In hindsight, we should have added “humidity” and “insects” to our considerations!

The 33-acre Van Dyke Preserve, managed by the Mohawk Hudson Land Conservancy, is a lovely pocket of woodlands, wetlands, and meadows tucked into the Town of Bethlehem. The preserve winds along the Phillipin Kill, offering visitors a glimpse of native wildflowers, lush greenery, and, on most days, an impressive variety of birds.

Despite the intense heat, we were greeted by birdsong from several species, which I logged on eBird to contribute to citizen science efforts. The trail itself isn’t particularly long—we walked the loop twice—but the combination of high humidity and relentless insects made it feel much longer. The deer flies, gnats, and mosquitoes were some of the thickest I’ve ever experienced. I ended the hike with a shirt drenched in sweat, looking like I had taken a dip in the creek rather than just walked alongside it!

We spotted a few beautiful wildflowers along the way, including blooming Joe-Pye weed, delicate Forget-me-nots, and a lone Trillium still holding on with a late-season blossom. The creek was running quietly, reflecting the deep green of the surrounding forest. It was peaceful, despite the buzzing clouds of insects determined to keep us moving.

As we made our way back to the car, hot, sticky, and thoroughly bug-bitten, I told Theresa to remind me next time: Van Dyke Preserve is best saved for cooler, less buggy days. Still, it’s a lovely spot and worth returning to when the air is crisp and the bugs have called it quits for the season.

If you’re planning a visit, I recommend early spring or fall—and don’t forget to bring insect repellent no matter what time of year!

Heath Dairy Farm: A Living Legacy with New Potential

Communities, ecosystems, Farming, soil health, Wildlife & Plants, , , ,

By Ron Dodson
The Nature of Things

Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting with Lauren Axford, the Open Space Coordinator for the Town of Bethlehem, New York. The purpose of our meeting was to discuss a project that I believe has enormous potential—not only for our town but as a model that other communities could replicate. That project is the Heath Dairy Farm initiative, a town-led effort to preserve and reimagine one of Bethlehem’s most iconic agricultural properties.

You can learn more about the project here: https://www.historicheathfarm.com

What drew me to the Heath Dairy Project wasn’t just the scenic beauty or the historical significance of the property—although both are impressive. It was the idea that this land could serve as a foundation for a new kind of agricultural planning, one that blends conservation landscape management with local food production. It struck me that this was exactly the kind of opportunity we need more of—an intersection of environmental stewardship, local economic development, and community sustainability.

Our conversation was not only productive, it was personal. When my family and I first moved to Bethlehem, the very first home we rented was on land that had once been part of the Heath Dairy Farm. The home was owned by the daughter of the farm’s longtime owner. So, in many ways, I’ve had a direct connection to this land since the day I arrived. That connection gives added meaning to my interest in helping guide its next chapter.

During our meeting, I shared a bit about my background and my long-standing work in environmental and agricultural planning. I also gave Lauren a copy of a book I wrote several years ago about the American legacy of family farming. Our shared values made it clear to me that there is real potential for meaningful collaboration on this project.

After the meeting, Lauren followed up with a kind message and introduced me to another person who is actively involved in shaping the next steps for the Heath Dairy Project. I look forward to meeting them soon and learning more about the town’s vision.

As part of this dialogue, I also plan to introduce an initiative I’ve been developing called F.A.R.M.S., which stands for Food and Resource Management Sustainability. This framework emphasizes the importance of keeping local food systems economically viable while embedding conservation into the fabric of working landscapes. It’s a concept that I believe could align perfectly with the goals of the Heath Dairy Project.

I’m excited about what’s ahead and look forward to offering any volunteer support I can to help make this project a true example of what conservation-minded community development can look like. Projects like this remind us that the best way to honor the past is to build a future that holds true to the values that came before—land, food, family, and community.