Category Archives: biodiversity

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.

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.

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!

The Rain Knows What It’s Doing

biodiversity, birds, Communities, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, nature conservation, Neighborhoods,

A Reflection from Just Down the Road in Upstate New York

By Ron Dodson

Sometimes, nature writes the best stories. You just have to walk down the road to read them.

The photo above was taken just a short stroll from our home in upstate New York. While the scene might suggest calm and quiet, the story behind it is one of relentless rain and resilience. Since November 2024, we’ve had rain nearly every weekend—steady, sometimes unrelenting. For months, it felt like we were living in a stretched-out season of puddles and mud.

But now, looking out over this meadow in June, you can see what the rain has been up to.

The fields are lush and bursting with green—every shade you can imagine. The grasses are tall, the wetland margins thick with sedges and reeds. Wildflowers and forbs are pushing up wherever there’s a sliver of light. Even the trees, stretching in layers toward the horizon, look as if they’ve drunk their fill and are ready for the next chapter of the growing season.

And while it might have dampened our plans, the rain made this place a sanctuary.

Migratory birds have arrived in full voice, their songs layered over the steady hum of insects and frogs. Red-winged blackbirds cling to cattails, swallows swoop low over the wet patches, and warblers flicker like thoughts through the understory. The marshy lowlands that might once have seemed impassable are now teeming—alive with the quiet work of renewal.

There’s something deeply reassuring about that.

We often forget that seasons aren’t just about us—the plans we make, the weekends we hope to spend dry and comfortable. For the land, the long wet spring has been a gift. A drink after drought. A healing balm. An invitation to grow again.

This place—this field, this view—is not exceptional in the way a national park or a famous wildlife refuge might be. It’s just a piece of ordinary land at the edge of a rural road. But to those who live nearby, and to the creatures who pass through, it is home. It is a promise kept.

And maybe that’s the real nature of things: when we learn to see beauty in the overlooked, in the soggy corners and weedy edges, we come a little closer to understanding our place in the world. The rain may have changed our routines, but it also gave us this.

Let’s not forget to be grateful.

Only 1% Left: Why the Future of Food Starts with the Soil

biodiversity, ecosystems, Farming, nature conservation, soil health


We live on a planet where 70% of the surface is water. That leaves just 30% as land—our home, our farms, our forests, our communities.

Now here’s where it gets sobering:
Roughly one-third of that land is used for agriculture. But half of that agricultural land is degraded. In practical terms, that means only about 5% of the Earth’s surface is currently available to grow the food that feeds the global population.

And it’s getting worse.
If current trends continue, by 2050, just 1% of the Earth’s surface will remain productive and nutritious enough to grow food. One percent—to feed an estimated 10 billion people.

That math doesn’t work.

I know it sounds dramatic. But this isn’t fiction. It’s the real and fast-approaching future unless we act—decisively and urgently—to restore the land that sustains us.

Why This Matters More Than Anything Else

95% of our food comes from the soil. Without healthy soil, there is no agriculture. Without agriculture, there is no food. Without food, well—there’s no business, no economy, no stability, no peace.

We can’t invent our way around dead soil. No amount of money can buy food that doesn’t exist.
No soil = No us.

The health of people is directly tied to the health of our planet’s soil. Nutrient-rich soil means nutrient-rich food. When soil degrades, our health degrades with it.

What Do We Do?

This is not just a problem for farmers or environmentalists—it’s a challenge for all of us. We need to:

  • Restore degraded lands through conservation practices and regenerative agriculture.

  • Support local, sustainable food systems that value soil health over short-term yields.

  • Protect remaining productive land from erosion, pollution, and overuse.

  • Educate others about how our choices—what we eat, how we grow it, and where it comes from—directly impact the future of food and the health of the Earth.

The Bottom Line

We don’t get another planet. This one comes with limits. And we are pushing those limits hard.

The land isn’t just where we grow crops. It’s where we live, where we walk, where we build our lives. And unless we learn to care for it, we will find ourselves with no food, no stability—and no future.

It’s time to treat soil like the sacred resource it is. Because the truth is simple: no healthy soil, no healthy us.

By Ron Dodson | The Nature of Things

A Warm Winter Walk on Waldenmaier Road

biodiversity, ecosystems, Home Landscapes, nature conservation, Neighborhoods, , ,

December 29, 2024

There’s something special about walking down Waldenmaier Road on a mild winter day. Today was one of those days when nature seemed to take a deep breath and pause between seasons, blurring the lines of winter’s reign. My wife and I decided to stroll despite the drizzle and the low clouds that scuttled across the sky, blowing steadily from south to north.

The road felt quiet but not empty. Beside our home stretches the 50-acre field we’ve known so well. It was cloaked in a clean, white sheet of snow for weeks, reflecting the light of shorter days and colder nights. But the recent rains and unseasonably warm 50-degree temperatures have stripped it bare, leaving behind a patchwork of brown and gold grass, damp and glistening under the overcast sky. It’s the kind of winter brown that reminds you the earth is resting, not lifeless—preparing itself for the blooms of spring.

As we walked, the view of the Helderberg Escarpment unfolded before us, hazy and mystical in the distance. It’s one of my favorite sights, no matter the season. Today, the escarpment was wrapped in low-hanging clouds that seemed to drift like veils over the peaks, partially hiding the majesty of John B. Thacher State Park. The cliffs appeared darker than usual, as if the rain had deepened their hue, but they stood steadfast, a reminder of time and resilience.

Even in the stillness of winter, nature abounds. Along the roadside, tufts of hardy grasses pushed through the damp soil. Birds—mostly sparrows and juncos—flitted in and out of the bare hedgerows, their feathers puffed against the cool, wet breeze. A red-tailed hawk soared above the field, its broad wings cutting through the layers of gray sky, scanning the ground for movement. The hawk reminded me that life doesn’t stop just because the earth is quieter and colder. It adapts and carries on.

The wind began to blow steadily as we walked, but it didn’t bother us. There’s comfort in the rhythm of the few remaining brown leaves hanging from the trees. My wife and I talked about everything and nothing, savoring the simplicity of the moment. It’s amazing how a walk can make the world feel bigger and smaller all at once.

We paused near the edge of the field, where the road bends slightly, offering a better view of the escarpment. I found myself grateful for days like this. Even in the heart of winter, the landscape hums with quiet vitality. The field, the hills, the trees—everything is alive, even if it’s resting or waiting.

As we turned back toward home, I caught a glimpse of a flock of geese flying low, their honks echoing faintly through the misty air. I smiled, thinking how they were following their rhythms, adjusting to the weather, just as we all do.

Back at our door, with damp coats and warm hearts, I realized that this walk was more than just a stroll. It reminded us how deeply we’re connected to the place we call home and the seasons that shape our days. Even on a warm winter day like this, with its soft rains and muted colors, nature has a way of speaking—if we take the time to listen.