Category Archives: pond

Walking the November Prairie

“To put one foot in front of the other is one of the most important things we do.” — Erling Kagge

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Last night, the “Frost Moon” or “Beaver Moon” rose in newly-clear skies, bringing with it plunging temperatures and blue shadows across the snowy backyard prairie patch. I stepped outside to breathe the brittle air.

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I’d forgotten what it felt like to be cold—really cold.

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Watching the winter weather advisory unfold Monday from behind the windows at home had left me vaguely dissatisfied.  I wanted to be outside.  So, I drove to the Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, a few precious remnant acres saved from development and the plow; sandwiched between I-88, a subdivision, and railroad tracks.

Gusts of winds blew snow into my face and dotted my camera lens.

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The prairie had been transformed. Overnight.

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On Sunday, almost 24 hours before, Jeff and I strolled the Belmont Prairie together under gray skies. The smell of snow was in the air—-a promise of what was to come. For now, temps were in the 40s.  Milkweed pods sent their seeds aloft in the breezes.

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Cooling temperatures had sucked most of the vivid colors from the plants. A few, such as these tall coreopsis, were bruised out of their summer greens by the elements.

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The last sunset hues were still in evidence on stiff goldenrod stems and foliage.

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Although I walk the prairies from week to week, year-to-year, I’m always surprised when the bright colors are drained seemingly overnight by a wave of cold. Without so much color—and the motion and buzz of dragonflies and butterflies–your eyes adjust to a new prairie reality. Lovely in its own way. But different.

So much of the November prairie is about the simplicity of line.

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The sharp relief of form.

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The grace of silks and seeds.

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The essence of the prairie season is distilled in its November plants, now winding down to an inevitable conclusion.

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As we hiked Belmont’s trails in the late afternoon’s burgeoning dark, a great-horned owl called from the trees. The perfect ending to our walk. We hurried back to the car.

Cold was coming. A wintery mix….just hours away.

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Monday, we woke up to snow, snow, beautiful snow.  I drove to the Belmont Prairie, this time alone.

What a difference 24 hours makes.

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The snow-sugared milkweed pod still holds seeds, but now they’re wet and matted. The goldenrod behind it bends under the weight of the white stuff.

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The sky sifts snow; softens the blunt edges of the prairie, outlines its structures…

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…blurs the jagged silhouettes of seed heads.

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We have entered the season of frosty geometry.

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Even the sounds have changed.  The snow dampens the rustle and hiss of grasses in the wind. I listen for the owl. Nothing. All I hear is the hum of traffic moving on nearby I-88.

Until. The sandhill cranes.

Their cries are faint—oh so faint—but unmistakable. They are headed south, toward warmth and sunshine. I shield my eyes in the snow, watching them go. It’s melancholy. But joyful as well. Another season is ending. A new one is beginning.

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As I head back to the car, I see  lights in the windows of houses sprinkled around the prairie. A woman, bundled to the eyes, shovels her driveway. The scrape-scrape-scrape is sharp and loud across the snow-blanketed landscape. Down the street that runs next to the prairie, a police cruiser pauses, idles.

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My cheeks are red; my hands are glove-less and sting and ache.  The wind whips ice crystals in my eyes. Each step I take on the narrow trails is uncertain. And yet.

When we put one foot in front of another, it changes us.

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In his book, Walking, Erling Kagge writes,  “Making things a little bit inconvenient gives my life an extra dimension.” I feel this tug all the time; the desire to be comfortable and the nagging knowledge that discomfort is often the gateway to discovery.  There is a longing to be a participant in the prairie community, as well as an observer.

Kagge writes, “So much in our lives is fast-paced. Walking is a slow undertaking. It is among the most radical things you can do.” Its rare that I’m not rewarded when I push myself out of my comfort zone.

The radical rewards of prairie walking keep me going back for more.

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Erling Kaage (1963-) is the author of Silence and also, Walking: One Step at a Time, from which the opening quote is taken. He has walked to the North Pole, the South Pole, and to the summit of Mt. Everest.

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All photos and video copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): almost full “Frost Moon,” —sometimes called “Beaver Moon”— over author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; west side prairie planting and the European collection, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve in the snow, Downer’s Grove, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; stiff goldenrod (Oligoneuron rigidum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; prairie grasses, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; round-headed bush clover (Lespedeza capitata), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  common milkweed pappus (Asclepias syriaca), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; blazing star (Liatris aspera), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; snowy Belmont Prairie in mid-November, Downer’s Grove, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) under snow, Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; the edge of Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida), Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis) over Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris) seedheads, Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris) leaves, Belmont Prairie, Downer’s Grove, IL; Belmont Prairie in the snow, Downer’s Grove, IL.

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Please join Cindy for one of these upcoming classes or talks:

Saturday, December 7, 1:30-3 p.m.—Sterling Stories from the Arboretum Stacks: Grab a friend and spend a lively hour together sipping hot beverages while you enjoy little-known stories about the Morton Arboretum. What’s that old fountain doing in the library? Why was there a white pine planted in the May Watts Reading Garden? Who is REALLY buried in the Morton Cemetery—or not? What book in the Sterling Morton Library stacks has a direct relationship to a beheading? Why does the library have glass shelves? How has salt been a blessing —and a curse—to the Arboretum over its almost 100 years? Listen as 33-year Arboretum veteran library collections manager Rita Hassert and  Cindy Crosby spin entertaining tales of a place you thought you knew….until now.    A lovely afternoon enjoying little known Arboretum’s stories, and a quiet respite from the holiday hustle and bustle. Register here.

Sunday, December 8, 2-3:30 p.m.: Tallgrass Conversations at Prairieview Education Center, 2112 Behan Road, Crystal Lake, IL 815-479-5779 Book signing after the talk! Free and open to the public.

Tallgrass Prairie Ecology online wraps up this month! Watch for the next course in March. Registration opens on November 19 here.

Nature Writing continues at The Morton Arboretum, on-line and in-person through November 20. Next session begins March 3, 2020. Watch for registration soon!

Find more at www.cindycrosby.com  

The Frog Days of Summer

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” –Sylvia Plath

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Indian grass plumes out, announcing autumn’s imminent arrival on the prairie. August is trickling away.

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Hey –not so fast, summer! It seems like you just got here.

My hand-dug, mud hole of a backyard prairie pond evaporates quickly in our hot, sweltering days. The rain barrel is dry; precipitation a distant memory. Each evening, I turn the hose on for 20 minutes and bring the pond back to its original level. The wetland wildflowers on the pond’s banks sink their toes into the moist soil. Ahhhh. Much better!

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As I fill the pond, I hear Plop! Plop! Plop! A swirl of duckweed. Four frogs look up at me.

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Where did you guys come from?  We’re a long way from any major water source. Mallard ducks flap in from time to time to enjoy a dip in the pond. Did the frog eggs come in on a duck’s webbed foot? It’s a mystery.

But the best kind of mystery, when something exciting that you didn’t expect turns up to delight you. Water often brings about surprises like this. Like when the blue lobelia, that breath-taking wetland wildflower, comes into bloom seemingly overnight.

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Or, dragonflies and damselflies, which emerge from streams and ponds and surprise us with their comic expressions….

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…or cause us to marvel at their color…

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…or astonish us with their balance and grace.

Calico pennant 2018SPMAwm.jpgThis month, after the extreme mosquito activity of June and July, I tried something new in my little pond: a solar water bubbler, which is “guaranteed to reduce the mosquito populations to 10x less their original state”  according to the packaging. Mosquito marketing aside, the bubbler sends up a consistent splash of water as long as the sun is shining. Which this August, hasn’t been a problem.  The water feature is a fun addition to the pond.

The frogs think so, too. Early in the morning, I often find a frog sunning herself on the solar collector, letting the water gently bubble over her. Something that wasn’t promoted in the marketing materials, but maybe should have been.

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The crackling dry days of August give me a new appreciation for water and all it brings.  Late one evening this week, as I top off the water in the pond, I hear the frenzied concert of the cicadas crescendo to a deafening level. Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes.

At last! Let it rain!

 

And it does. Bringing with it a cool breath of air, the refreshment of grasses and wildflowers, the filling of my pond without me wielding my hose…

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A tumultuous and welcome end to the dog days of August.

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The “dog days of summer” are reference to the hottest, most humid days of the year. The actual reference to “dog days” refers to Sirius, the dog star, which rises before the sun in late July. Sylvia Plath, whose quote about August kicks off this blogpost, was a talented and troubled poet. Says The Poetry Foundation about Plath: “Intensely autobiographical, Plath’s poems explore her own mental anguish, her troubled marriage to fellow poet Ted Hughes, her unresolved conflicts with her parents, and her own vision of herself. ” She writes some powerful poetry about the natural world. Try “The Moon and the Yew Tree.”

All photographs and video copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom) Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; August wildflowers by author’s backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; frog (Lithobates catesbeianus) resting in author’s backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica), author’s backyard pond, Glen Ellyn, IL; eastern pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; familiar bluet damselfly (Enallagma civile), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; male calico pennant dragonfly (Celithemis elisa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; frog (Lithobates catesbeianus) on the water bubbler, author’s backyard prairie pond, Glen Ellyn, IL: video of a mid-August thunderstorm, author’s suburban backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; biennial gaura (Guara biennis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.