Category Archives: nature conservation

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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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.

A Late Afternoon Walk Through Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary

biodiversity, birds, ecosystems, nature conservation

Yesterday, Theresa and I took advantage of the unseasonably warm weather and headed out for a late afternoon walk through Hollyhock Hollow Sanctuary. The Mohawk Hudson Land Conservancy manages this 138-acre preserved wilderness, which has always been one of our favorite places to connect with nature and unwind. During my working life, my office was at Hollyhock Hollow from 1990-2013.

As we began our walk, it was clear that autumn’s peak had already passed. Most of the trees had shed their leaves, leaving a gentle rustling underfoot as we moved along the trails. But the oaks were still holding onto some of their leaves, although their once-brilliant colors had faded to muted browns and tans. There’s something bittersweet about those last leaves hanging on; they seemed to mark the quiet end of fall, standing as one of the season’s final touches before winter settles in.

The sanctuary felt very still today, almost like the warmth had lulled it into a lazy, end-of-season nap. Here and there, we spotted a few Black-capped Chickadees and Tufted Titmice flitting around, breaking the silence with their tiny chirps and rustling wings. They also seemed to enjoy the unexpected warmth, hopping from branch to branch in little bursts of energy.

One of the most fascinating parts of Hollyhock Hollow is the Onesquethaw Creek, a main drainage of the Helderberg Mountains. Today, in many spots, the creek was completely dry, a reminder of how adaptable nature is to the Karst geology here. In some places, the water had simply disappeared, finding its way underground, only to resurface farther along, creating pools of running water scattered throughout. It was surreal to walk along sections where the creek bed was dry, then suddenly come upon a small pool, its surface gently rippling as the underground water emerged.

Theresa and I stopped a few times to listen and just take in the serenity of the place. I don’t think we heard more than a handful of birds, and otherwise, it was just us, the oaks, and the creek, a quiet refuge away from the busy pace of daily life. There’s something restorative about walking through a place that’s both familiar and ever-changing. It was a peaceful reminder of how beautiful even the quieter, less colorful moments of fall can be.

As we headed back to the trailhead, we felt grateful for spaces like Hollyhock Hollow, where we can enjoy the rhythms of the natural world and find a moment of peace together.

Whitetail Deer

biodiversity, ecosystems, hunting, nature conservation, whitetail deer, Wildlife & Plants

 

We live in the Town of Bethlehem, New York, and our home is approximately 8 miles from downtown Albany, New York, the state capital. However, we live in a rural area surrounded by open fields and woods with just a few neighbors to the west of us.

Over the past few years, we have witnessed a growing herd of whitetail deer in our area. It Is not unusual for us to see 40-50 deer at a time feeding in the field next to our house. While we enjoy watching the deer, it seems to me that the deer population in our area is reaching an unsustainable level.

Whitetail deer are one of the most popular and sought-after game animals in North America. They are known for their elusive nature, graceful movements, and the thrill of the hunt. But whitetail deer are more than just game animals. They are an important part of the ecosystem, playing a critical role in maintaining a healthy balance in the forest.

Biology

Whitetail deer are members of the Cervidae family, which includes elk, moose, and caribou. They are medium-sized mammals, with males (bucks) weighing between 150 to 300 pounds and females (does) weighing between 90 to 200 pounds. Their fur varies from reddish-brown to grayish-brown, with a white belly and white on the throat and under the tail. Whitetail deer are named after their distinctive tail, which is white on the underside and can be raised like a flag when alarmed.

Whitetail deer are herbivores, feeding primarily on leaves, twigs, fruits, and acorns. They have four-chambered stomachs and a complex digestive system that allows them to extract nutrients from tough plant material. Whitetail deer are also known for their keen sense of smell and hearing, which helps them detect predators and avoid danger.

Behavior

Whitetail deer are social animals that live in family groups known as herds. Herds are usually composed of a doe, her offspring, and occasionally a few other females. Bucks are mostly solitary, except during the breeding season, known as the rut. During the rut, bucks compete for the attention of does, engaging in fierce battles and displaying dominance through various behaviors such as antler rattling and grunting.

Whitetail deer are active during the day, primarily in the early morning and late afternoon. They are crepuscular animals, meaning they are most active during twilight periods. Whitetail deer are also known for their ability to jump high and far, with some individuals able to clear fences up to 8 feet tall.

Habitat

Whitetail deer are found throughout North America, from southern Canada to northern South America. They are adaptable animals that can live in various habitats, including forests, grasslands, and swamps. However, they prefer habitats with a mix of forest and open areas, such as meadows and fields.

Whitetail deer are also known for their ability to thrive in suburban and urban areas. They have adapted to living near humans, often using parks and other green spaces as their habitat. However, this has also led to conflicts between deer and humans, such as vehicle collisions and damage to gardens and landscaping.

Conservation

Whitetail deer are an important part of the ecosystem, playing a critical role in maintaining a healthy balance in the forest. They are a food source for predators such as coyotes and mountain lions, and their grazing and browsing behavior helps maintain the health of the forest understory. However, whitetail deer populations can also become overabundant, causing damage to forests and crops.

The management of whitetail deer populations is a complex issue that requires balancing hunting and conservation efforts. Hunting is an important tool for managing deer populations, but it must be done in a sustainable and responsible manner. Conservation efforts such as habitat restoration, predator management, and population surveys can also help ensure the long-term health of whitetail deer populations.

Conclusion

Whitetail deer are a fascinating and important part of the North American ecosystem. They are adaptable animals that can thrive in various habitats, from forests to suburban areas. Their biology and behavior make them popular game animals. Still, they are also an important part of the ecosystem, playing a critical role in maintaining a healthy balance in the forest.

Whitetail deer have a complex social structure, with family groups and bucks competing for the attention of does during the breeding season. Their adaptability and ability to thrive in various habitats have also led to conflicts with humans, particularly in suburban and urban areas.

Conservation efforts such as responsible hunting, habitat restoration, and population surveys are essential for maintaining healthy whitetail deer populations. It is important to remember that while they may be popular game animals, they are also a vital part of the ecosystem and must be managed in a sustainable and responsible manner.

In conclusion, whitetail deer are a fascinating and important part of the North American ecosystem. Understanding their biology, behavior, and habitat is essential for managing their populations in a sustainable and responsible manner. Whether you are a hunter or enjoy observing these graceful animals in the wild, it is important to appreciate their role in maintaining the balance of nature.

Scientists Identify World’s Largest Water Lily Species

biodiversity, nature conservation, , ,

Forget about frogs, this water lily species is big enough for humans to hop around on. Scientists have just identified a third species of giant water lily, after a rather large one at London’s Kew Gardens prompted horticulturists to suspect it did not fit into the two previously known groups. Native to Bolivia in South America, the species is the largest of its kind and has been named Victoria boliviana.

The aquatic plants have flowers that turn from white to pink and can grow to 3 meters in the wild. The biggest, located in Bolivia, reaches a full 3.2 meters, or about 10.5 feet. “In the face of a fast rate of biodiversity loss, describing new species is a task of fundamental importance; we hope that our multidisciplinary framework might inspire other researchers who are seeking approaches to rapidly and robustly identify new species,” said Kew scientist Natalia Przelomska. If you want to see it for yourself, all three giant water lily species float side-by-side at the Princess of Wales Conservatory at Kew Gardens.