“October is a fine and dangerous season in America . . . a wonderful time to begin anything at all.” –Thomas Merton
I hear them before I see them. Shielding my eyes against the afternoon sunshine, I scan the skies. Three sandhill cranes. A small wave headed south. Their chatter echoes long after they are folded into the deep blue sky and disappear.
More follow. They come and go throughout the afternoon.
It’s bittersweet. Sandhill cranes moving south are a signal of change. Summer is gone, and autumn, it seems, already passes too quickly. Seeing the first waves of cranes reminds me to open my eyes. Pay attention. To intentionally not miss a moment of the month. October is a time for walking the prairies and savannas slowly. For looking carefully. For soaking up whatever sunshine we can before cold weather hits.
Soon, October will be a dim but cherished memory.
The woodlands are a magnet for paparazzi in October; visitors shooting photos of the sugar maples aglow. Hickories and sweet gums change their green leaves to bright colors. But the prairie has its own autumnal palette.
Turn away from the woodlands for a moment, and consider six reasons to hike the tallgrass in October.
1. Goodbye, Butterflies
In my backyard prairie patch and garden, the painted lady butterflies flutter wildly—drunk on nectar—-but not prepared to stop gorging themselves. Only frost will cut them off. Butterflies pile up, two to a bloom, jostling for the best positions, battling skippers and bees. The occasional monarch still floats across the prairie, but not in the numbers seen in September.
If you’re lucky, you’ll find some New England asters still in bloom as I did, with a few butterflies working the flowers. This cabbage white butterfly is a common one I see all summer on the prairie—and late into the fall. I love its pale, gold-dusted contrast with the purple fringes of the aster.
2. That Prairie Fragrance!
Breathe deep the newly-crisped air with its fragrance of cool damp earth and sweet decay. Bee balm, Monarda fistulosa, still gives up its delicious fragrance when its leaves are broken. So does mountain mint. When I taste the leaves of both, the oils are a bit bitter and harsh in my mouth. I content myself with rubbing the leaves between my fingers. Gray-headed coneflower seed heads, crushed in my hands, are my favorite fragrance of all. After a hike on the prairie, rubbing leaves, I’m scented with “the outdoors” for the rest of the day. Nature’s own prairie perfume.
3. Seed Diversity
Walk the prairie and the prairie savanna this month and you’ll be astounded by the variety of seeds.
Pale Indian plantain, with its fluffy pinwheels.
Tall compass plants, with their unique seedheads, bring the Statue of Liberty to mind, don’t you think?
False Solomon’s seal brightens the prairie edges.
Carrion vine’s mostly-inedible fruits will hang half-hidden in the Indian grass and big bluestem until almost spring.
This week, I searched until I found the quirky seeds of white turtlehead, almost invisible in the prairie now unless you know where to look. We don’t have very many turtleheads, so the seeds give me hope for more of this wildflower in the future.
Without the ka-POW of bright bloom colors blanketing the prairie, structure takes center stage.
Bottlebrush grass, with its skeletal spikes.
You can see it it shares a Genus with Canada wild rye. They are both graceful and needle-like.
Feel the rubbery leaves of pale Indian plantain.
Then contrast them with the sandpapery surface of a compass plant leaf.
6. Fall Color
The sumacs, woven into the prairie grasses, are touched with reds and chartreuse.
Little bluestem sparks its seeds as its stems color up from greens to reds to rusts. The tallgrass prairie in October is just as startling and gorgeous in its own way as the colorful woodlands. Maybe better.
Why not go see?
Who knows who you’ll meet on your hike.
It’s worth a trip to the tallgrass to find out.
Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was best known for his spiritual memoir, The Seven Story Mountain (1948), the title of which refers to Purgatory in Dante’s Divine Comedy. Merton was an English literature teacher turned Trappist monk, who joined Kentucky’s Gethsemane Abbey. There, he wrote more than 50 books and promoted interfaith understanding. My favorite of Merton’s books is The Sign of Jonas.
All photos copyright Cindy Crosby and taken this week at the Schulenberg Prairie and Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, unless noted otherwise: Sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis) over author’s backyard prairie patch (this photo taken in 2016), Glen Ellyn, IL; October in the savanna; prairie path; Small white butterfly or “cabbage white” (Pieris rapae) on New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-anglia), author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata) with spider web; pale Indian plantain seedhead (Arnoglossum atriplicfolium); compass plant seedhead (Silphium terebinthinaceum); false Solomon’s seal (Maianthemum racemosum); probably upright carrion vine (Smilax ecirrhata); white turtlehead (Chelone glabra) in seed; bottle brush grass (Elymus hystrix); Canada wild rye (Elymus canadensis); pale Indian plantain (Arnoglossum atriplicifolium); compass plant (Silphium terebinthinaceum); sumac (Rhus spp.); little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium); bridge in the October tallgrass; great blue heron (Ardea herodias).
Join Cindy for a Nature Writing Workshop, online and in-person, through The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL. Click here for registration information. Or see http://www.cindycrosby.com for more classes and events.
Cindy’s forthcoming book is Chasing Dragonflies: A Natural, Cultural, and Personal History with Northwestern University Press, illustrated by the talented Peggy Macnamara, artist-in-residence at The Field Museum, Chicago. Look for it in Spring, 2020.