Tag Archives: conservation

Rediscovering Old Memories

Communities, , , ,

A Field Note from the Archive

For the past few days I have been slowly working my way through a banker’s box full of old files, folders, envelopes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. In truth, it is only one box among several boxes and file drawers that contain pieces of my life from roughly 1970 to the present.

Opening the box felt a little like opening a time capsule.

Inside are decades of letters, articles, notes, photographs, and documents connected to projects, people, and places that shaped different chapters of my life. As I sort through the folders, I keep rediscovering things that I had completely forgotten about. Some of them bring back a flood of good memories. Others remind me of moments that were difficult at the time.

But what has struck me most is how differently many of those experiences look now.

Some things that once felt frustrating, disappointing, or even like failures eventually turned into something positive—sometimes years later. Other things that once seemed incredibly important now feel much smaller when viewed from a distance of decades.

Time has a way of reshaping our understanding.

Going through these files is not really about reminding myself of things I once did or said. Instead, it has become an opportunity to reflect on the past with a little more perspective and a little less emotion. It allows me to ask simple questions:

Was this really as important as I thought it was at the time?
Did it matter in the long run?
What did I learn from it?

In many ways, this process feels similar to walking through a familiar natural area in a different season. The landscape is the same, but your perspective changes depending on when you return.

What I once saw one way, I now see another.

So far, I must say that this little “file exploration” project has been a lot of fun. Each folder is like turning over a stone along a trail—you never quite know what you might find underneath.

Of course, it also raises another question.

What in the world am I going to do with all of this stuff?

For now, I’ll keep exploring.

After all, there are still a lot of folders left in that box.

But as I sit here looking at these old papers and photographs, another thought occurs to me.

Each piece of paper represents a moment when something seemed important enough to save. At the time, I probably had no idea how that moment would fit into the larger story of my life.

Now, decades later, I can begin to see the connections.

Projects that led to other projects.
People who opened doors at just the right moment.
Ideas that took years to grow into something meaningful.

In a strange way, this old banker’s box is not really a box of files at all.

It’s a map.

A map of the winding path that brought me from where I started to where I am today.

And judging by the number of folders still waiting to be explored, there are still plenty of dots left to connect.

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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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.

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.

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.

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.

The Albany Pine Bush

Parks & Sanctuaries, Wildlife & Plants, , , , ,

We moved to Albany County, New York in the autumn of 1982. I hate to admit that it has taken us 38 years to discover the Albany Pine Bush. Discover might be a bit harsh because we knew it was there and had attended numerous meetings in the Pine Bush Discovery Center over the years. We had even taken a couple of short walks in the preserve and one year attended the springtime Lupine Festival held at the Discovery Center.

But it was this year that we really started to explore the Pine Bush. We do not live that far from the Pine Bush Discovery Center and decided to begin our exploration at that location. Since then we have discovered that the Pine Bush Preserve includes over 3,200 acres of land, 20 miles of hiking trails that are organized around 12 different trailhead locations spread across the preserve in various “units.”

So far this summer we have visited 8 of the 12 trailhead locations and hiked on numerous trails and trail sections. Future posts in this blog will highlight each of the trailheads and trails that we visit.

The Albany Pine Bush is referred to locally as the Pine Bush and is one of the largest of the remaining 20 inland pine barrens in the world. It is centrally located in New York’s Capital District within Albany and Schenectady counties, between the cities of Albany and Schenectady. The Albany Pine Bush was formed thousands of years ago, following the drainage of Glacial Lake Albany.

The Albany Pine Bush is the sole remaining undeveloped portion of pine barrens that once covered over 40 square miles and is considered one of the best remaining examples of an inland pine barrens ecosystem in the world. By 2008 it included all parcels of the Albany Pine Bush Preserve (a state nature preserve spanning 3,200 acres, the properties that connect these protected parcels, and some of the surrounding areas that abut the preserve. The 135-acre Woodlawn Preserve and surrounding areas in Schenectady County are the western sections of the Pine Bush but separated geographically by other properties in the Albany Pine Bush Preserve in Albany County.

Historically regarded as a barren, desolate, and dangerous to cross, the Pine Bush has come to be known as a historical, cultural, and environmental asset to the Capital District and Hudson Valley regions of New York. It is home to the Karner blue butterfly, an endangered species first identified by author Vladimir Nabokov in 1944 using a type specimen from the Pine Bush. In 2014, Albany Pine Bush was designated as a National Natural Landmark by the National Park Service.

The Pine Bush is governed by the Pine Bush Commission and supported by several agencies. See who the Commission Board Members are by CLICKING HERE

Although it has taken us nearly 40 years to really discover the Albany Pine Bush, we are now making up for lost time. We are indeed lucky to live close to this special natural feature.

Forests

Communities, Neighborhoods, Parks & Sanctuaries, Wildlife & Plants, ,

Forests are the dominant terrestrial ecosystem of Earth and are distributed around the globe. Forests account for 75% of the gross primary production of the Earth’s biosphere and contain 80% of the Earth’s plant biomass. Net primary production is estimated at 21.9 gigatons carbon per year for tropical forests, 8.1 for temperate forests, and 2.6 for boreal forests.

Human society and forests influence each other in both positive and negative ways. Forests provide ecosystem services to humans and serve as tourist attractions. Forests can also affect people’s health. Human activities, including harvesting forest resources, can negatively affect forest ecosystems.

A Favorite Roadside Wildflower

Communities, Home Landscapes, Neighborhoods, Wildlife & Plants, , ,

One of my frequent walking routes happens to be up and down the road on which we live here in Upstate New York. We live on a well-traveled, but country road in Albany County.

So, I usually take 4-5 walks on the road every day to stretch my legs. This gives me a chance to watch the changing seasons and the comings and goings of numerous species of plants and animals.

After spending the long months of winter when most things are covered in snow, it is great to see the changing of colors during the spring, summer and fall periods.

One of my favorite plants that I see alongside the road is Black-Eyed Susan.

While the Black-Eyed Susan is considered a hallmark of prairies and meadows the wide-spread plant is a biennial that blooms and completes its life cycle in its second year with a showy floral display and is a native plant to a large region of the Eastern United States.

Exceptionally showy and easy to grow, Black-Eyed Susan has a prolonged floral display that attracts butterflies and other beneficial insects. The late-season seedheads attract finches and other birds. A hardy plant that is very drought tolerant, the Black-Eyed Susan will tolerate heat, drought and a wide range of soil types, but does not like poorly drained wet soils.

What is your favorite wildflower?