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This link promises some photos from my hybrid oak collection trip yesterday. Had to sneak into the farmer's cornfield to collect the acorns and dig up the saplings; wanted to get them before the cornfield was threshed. Didn't dally too long, as I didn't want to attract the attention of the farmer's dogs; heard them, and that was close enough for my liking. Was crawling and stooping among the corn, lobbing handfuls of the acorns into the nearby woods. Must have been a funny sight, seeing these acorn plumes erupting every few minutes from within the corn.

Also found another mature hybrid oak on a trail, not far from the others. The leaf seemed to more closely resemble the Bartram Oak than the others. Couldn't find any acorns from it, though.

Potted about five saplings, and I now have a king's ransom of acorns and leaf samples. I'll likely plant the acorns in some choice areas I know, but I'll keep some for Bartram's Garden, should they interest them. I'll tend the saplings here to see what they become; if any of them look to develop definite hybrid characteristics, I'll pass them on to Bartram's Garden. Not sure if they're all hybrids, but a couple seem to have some willow oak in them. We'll see.

With the help of my friend Ron at Rarefind Nursery, I managed to introduce a wild plant into polite society yesterday: an unusual Clethra alnifolia (Sweet Pepperbush) I had found growing in a secret location in the Pine Barrens. It has smallish foliage, and the calyx and main stems of its white racemes (bloom clusters) are salmon to peach in color. (C. alnifolia tend to have uniformly white racemes). The plant itself was rather small, but that may be due to it being an older specimen (my cuttings were a bit woody). The small size could be a sign of dwarfism, though. Hard to say at the moment.

I collected and dropped off the cuttings yesterday afternoon. Ron lovingly shaved the woody growth from the cuttings, treated them with rooting hormone, set them into a tray, and put them into the greenhouse. If the cuttings take and the plant is deemed commercial, it might be offered for sale. At the moment we're calling this plant 'Batsto Blush.'

Chances are that the cuttings may not do well, or this plant won't be any great shakes on its own; at best it may just be used for hybridizing with other Clethra stock. We'll have to wait a couple years to see what kind of plant it becomes. It was great fun, regardless. Got to hear all about Ron's botanizing adventures in China and Siberia. We have another solid week of Clethra blooming, so we'll see what else I can find out there.

Thanks, Ron!

Apparently, Doritos chips are all a snake wants. They just can't get those bags open. Feed them some, and they'll be your friend for life.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, my partner-in-pine Fred capsized in his kayak during our photography trip in the Pine Barrens. Some of his gear was lost in the river, most notably his glasses and his camera tripod, which holds a great deal of sentimental value for him. He's lost the thing many times over the past decade, but incredibly it always returns. This particular instance will be a hard act to follow. Fred is in France at the moment, but his trusty tripod will be here for him when he returns.

My friend Adam and I set out in our kayaks and diving gear yesterday. Being accustomed to spearfishing in the ocean, Adam seemed intrigued by the novelty of the aquatic world we were going to see. I'd imagine few people would know what the bottom of a Pine Barrens bog river looks like. Adam mentioned snapping turtles, and how he'd much prefer to encounter sharks instead. Having once cage dived with great whites, even I concur with Adam: snappers are really aggressive little buggers--and some aren't that little. Encountering one in a dark, log-choked river with little visibility only appeals to eight-fingered noodlers.

Adam lashed a granny line to a cedar from his kayak and I slipped in. The water was really silty near the surface, but once I got down near the bottom, the water was much colder and clearer--likely aquifer spring water. And there resting against an ancient cedar stump was the tripod. Found it on the first dive!

Having found our quarry, we did a bit of exploring along the bottom with our lanterns, hoping to find Fred's glasses. These bog rivers are muddy and peaty in the shallows, but the deeper areas are bog iron deposits, gravel and cedar trunks. Some of these fallen cedars were quite large. I'd say that the deeper parts are only about eight feet; not very challenging if you have the right gear, but as we found out the day before last, too cold and swift if you aren't properly equipped.

We then had a look at the nearby spring that fed into the river. It was just as deep as the river, but you could see all the way to the bottom, as if the surface of the water were a thin sheet of glass. Clearest water I've ever seen, and ice cold--straight from the aquifer just below the bog. We drifted about the spring for a bit as the sunlight beamed over all the grasses and pipewort. It was the closest to flight I will ever get.

We returned triumphantly to Laura Lee and the Missus, only to have to help some hipster kids from Chicago get their car out of the sugar sand. Not really a big deal--but I spooked them with the Jersey Devil legend before they staked out a campsite for the night. Happy camping, hipsters. Heh.

I was introduced to our new friend Fred about a month ago via my flickr account. Fred is an amazing fellow: he's a jewelry designer-turned-nature photographer from France, who has been traveling the world photographing rare plants, particularly carnivorous plants and rare orchids: Western Australia, the remote tepuis of Venezuela, you name it. Fred has spent the past three years living and working in Guatemala, where he discovered two species of orchids new to science (he's naming one after his deceased father). He's also awaiting confirmation on whether or not he's discovered a new species of Pinguicula (butterwort).
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(Photo credit: Abby and Tori)

Had a grand time last week with New York sirens Abby & Tori, who swept in from the Metropolis and lured me into the woods to assist with their film project, The Hunt for Good Americans. I was asked to play a messenger from beyond named Agent Wheelsworth, which required me to compose and recite some light verse as well as ride my highwheel about the nearby beech forest.

Abby and Tori's vision is quite playful, as they dress in flamboyant getups that reflect the themes of their various "chapters". The use of color in this particular scene was vibrant, and the dialogue was a kind of musical speech, much like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.

(No, I did not sing my lines--I can't carry a tune to save my life, and I would have mortified myself in the attempt. Honor would have demanded that I fill my shoes with stones afterwards, and walk stoically into the river.)

While they were filming their parts, I wandered off to do some birding, as they sang in the distance. The effect was quite lovely, as if some arty water nymphs emerged from the nearby river, donned frocks of flowers, and decided to have a go at showbiz. Absolutely delightful.

Then came the time for me to make a hash of things. They first filmed me riding my highwheel through the woods, which was easy enough--but then I had to act in a couple scenes. Abby and Tori are natural performers, but I confess to being a bit timid when it comes to such things. I did my best to keep pace with the girls, so as not to disappoint (I had to cover my ears on playback, because I despise my voice so). I thought my silly poem about my bicycle was quite fun, though; I included some Chihuahhuas and bananas for good measure.

After we were done shooting I gave an impromptu rant about the patch of edible cinnabar chanterelles I'd found by the river, obsessed hermit that I am. Having such colorful visitors did me some good, actually, as I needed to be drawn out of the woodsy-mossy shell I've ensconced myself in of late.

(I kind of like how I look like a rumpled old duffer in the first photo.)



Thank you for including me in your adventures, ladies. And good luck with the film!

After a lively ride through the inlet, we made a few landings along the Delaware Bay, which at one time was home to a few settlements (the names I'll keep to myself, to protect the turtle mating and nesting sites). There was once a road that led to these ghost towns, but today they can only be reached by boat, or perhaps by foot during low tide. In its heyday there were around 200 buildings. The town was vacated after the township decided to no longer maintain the road. The last residents were ordered to leave by March of 1998. This included 2 year-round families, and some summer residents. After that the remaining 14 buildings were torn down and removed. The area is now part of a huge wetlands restoration site.
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We were going out with the tide, so it was hard to find a spot deep enough to launch boats even as small as ours. The area is extremely flat and muddy, so when the tide goes out it is very dramatic. And the expanses of mud can swallow you up, making any locomotion impossible. We managed, though.
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I grew up in a sleepy NJ bay town, crabbing in the marshes, building forts in the woods, hanging out at the bait shops, taking boats out on the bay. I always get a nostalgic pang when I visit the area. Here are some of the spots we saw while on our way to the boat launch. Places that look and feel like this will always feel like home to me, even though I've never visited them before. The sense of space--the sea and sky--should feel grand, but the soft light and tight marsh coves make it feel strangely intimate.

( Pictures behind cut )

Horseshoe crabs are ancient arthropods, and are among the last remaining animals of their kind. Horseshoe crabs have copper-based blood, if you can believe that.

During the new and full moons of May and June, they gather along the Delaware Bay where they mate en masse. We came across a major mating site yesterday, with hundreds of crabs. Many were stranded by the tide and had to be put back into the water. We must have rescued about fifty live crabs between the three of us. One of the live crabs had a tag from the Dept. of Fish and Wildlife, with a contact number. Our man Ed was quite excited. "You get a pin!" he exclaimed.

( Images behind cut. )

Yesterday my brother-in-law John and good friend Ed had me along for a kayak/canoe trip around the mouth of the Maurice River and along the shore of the Delaware Bay. A violent storm rolled through in the morning, but the weather was bright and beautiful by early afternoon.

This area was once home to a thriving oyster industry, but it collapsed in the late 50's when a blight wiped out 90% of the oyster beds. Today, the area is a string of marshes, ghost towns and osprey roosts.



This is one of the loveliest lighthouses in New Jersey. East Point Lighthouse was built in the mid-19th Century, and was in regular use until 1945. Click on the link for the full history.
( More images of the lighthouse and surrounding area )

Spent the day at sea in my kayak, exploring a forgotten corner of New Jersey. Ospreys, horseshoe crabs, lighthouses, estuarine terrapins and the ruins of abandoned fishing villages. More tomorrow.

I've been dismayed at the recent state of Webbs Mill Bog, which is one of the premier sites for rare orchids and carnivorous plants in the Pine Barrens. A gang of beavers have taken up residence downstream, and have dammed up the bog, flooding it and thus killing many of the plants.

The other day my friend Joel and I went around to the back of the bog to investigate the dam, only to find that a couple of gentlemen were already there, engaged in dismantling the dam by hand. I plan to visit the dam today to see if the beavers have rebuilt it, and if so, to re-dismantle it. This time of the year is quite crucial for certain plants' seeding, so it's vital that we keep up the pressure on the little flat-tailed bastards. The local rangers are either understaffed or don't care, so it's up to us naturalist vigilante types at this point. More later.

Update:

Went into the water with tools to break up the dam even further. The water levels are dramatically lower in the bog, and are now at average levels for this time of year. Curly grass fern and threadleafed sundews are already recovering, so that is very encouraging.

Now I just have to do something about the tick bite on my leg that has become swollen and sore (No good deed goes unpunished in the Pines). I've had Lyme before, so I know what to expect. If you don't hear from me in a few days, it's probably because I have a dangerously high fever, violent headaches, and am waiting to see a doctor.

The Brooklyn event hosted by Starr Space and curated by the lovable (and now good friend) Joseph Whitt went well. After a rather lackluster reading by Yours Truly, imomus and Aki Sasamoto put on a haunting presentation together with a mere iPod and a spotlight, to great effect. In his robe and clip-on mullet, Nick gave a spectral sort of air as he milled among the crowd and delivered spirited readings from his books "The Book of Jokes" and "The Book of Scotlands," which are to be released later this year. Strains of Calvino, Rabelais, and Sterne are to be found in his vividly written prose. Good bones, in my humble opinion.
( More spookiness behind the cut )
I then invited our guests to the table and yammered at great length about the items and specimens that I had brought with me. Everyone seemed to like the carnivorous plants and the knick knacks I'd brought from home. As usual, I brought too much; I could have gone on for hours. Luckily for all present, I didn't.


( More images of the goodies behind yon cut )

Rusty Santos then took the stage and performed a piece he had written for the evening, which was intricate and lush, although the high volume forced me to enjoy much of it from the door. Chalk it up to being an old duffer used to sylvan quietude.

To be sure, last night's bill was an odd combination--but inspired, I think. Lots of clashing textures, but an underlying sensibility, a common thread. Hard to put a finger on what it was, but it all seemed to hold together, somehow. Apologies to Nick and Rusty if my squareness cramped their style in any way.

My sincerest thanks to those of you who attended. Special thanks to the good folks at Starr Space, who gave us such a warm welcome. Always a delight to meet new lovely, interesting people.

We're currently house sitting for a friend who is visiting family in Ireland, so our base of operations has shifted over to said friend's rustic creekside bungalow. While we enjoy having tree frogs in our ears again, there are some discontents that come with living in Ye Olde Forest Primeval. Some of these discontents have tails.

After a day of morel hunting for the sake of my brother-in-law's gullet, my well-earned repose was at hand: a deck over a wooded creek, a brick oven pizza, a nice chianti, and Chopin's nocturnes on the stereo (I don't care if it's corny; I'm a middle aged man doing my best to keep out of trouble).





But alas, it was not to be: Just as I had settled in, our cranky, chubby charge--the house succubus--alighted onto my lap demanding tribute while simultaneously plipping her mangy little tail into my wine, thus leaving a gritty slick of cat dander floating in my glass. Her mission accomplished, she then went off to ruin someone else's wine--that is to say, life.



Oh...Succubus.

( A ridiculously idyllic tableau )

If you find yourself in a woodland setting this week--and you should--have a look around for morels: the recent rains here on the East Coast have brought about an explosion. We were out botanizing yesterday when we stumbled over one. Then another. And another! More gray and yellow morels than we could count! Out my knife came and before long we had the makings of a fine meal. It seemed a pity not to share our good fortune, so we paid a surprise call to my brother and sister-in-law who adore chanterelles and morels. My brother in-law is a marvelous cook, and quickly whipped up an improvised morel and asparagus risotto in a cream sauce, coupled with a crisp, light sauvignon blanc.



This little accidental culinary adventure brought to mind the wonderful day I spent with my friends last fall in the Olympic National Forest. Wish they could have been there.

( Miles of morel risotto beyond this point )

Needless to say, it's important to be able to distinguish true morels from false morels, so consulting an experienced mushroom hunter is wise policy. A simple rule of thumb is to check for a pitted head fused to a hollow stem. False morels are wrinkled, not pitted, and are only attached by their tops to the stem, which is filled with cottony mycelium.

Bon appetit,
Whims

I was assigned by the NJ Dept. of Fish and Wildlife to survey a remote area with wet, tough terrain for an endangered, beautiful, and elusive plant. None were in bloom, which made it even more difficult to find. I found twelve. I teaotally just made fourth level ranger. Don't I get an animal companion now? Think I'll get a hawk, and name him Hawkor or something else ending in "or". Sweeet.

I reckon "gentleman ranger" is right up there with "kissing bandit" on my list of Most Amazing Things to Be.

Popped into Manhattan Friday night to give a talk about the history of my town for the Peter Minuit chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, who were celebrating their 40th anniversary. ( Read more... )

Met David Howard, Prince Charles' former gardener yesterday. He sat in on our Hort committee meeting at Bartram's Garden. He and architect James Dart have been spending the week making presentations to board members and the like. They have a lot of very good ideas, and I hope they can get the resources necessary to move forward with the first phase this year. Wish I could elaborate, but it may be best to remain mum for now. Not that it's of any real interest to non historical gardening goons, mind you.

Off to NYC tonight to speak at the Peter Minuit chapter of the DAR's 40th birthday dinner about the colorful history of the town I live in. Odd that I should be speaking to someone with close ties to the royal family one day, and the next day speaking with women with ties to the founding fathers. I'm beginning to suspect that I may be a spy.

Now that I'm securely mired--marooned--in my 40's, I am now suffering a range of petty ailments befitting my age; and what's worse, I'm talking about them.

The latest on the hit parade, after a winter full of horrid joint pains and back trouble, is acid reflux, which started when I ran afoul of a fateful (but delicious) cassoulet in January. The alimentary discomfort of the past three months would be of no great concern except that esophageal cancer runs in the family, so off to yesterday's endoscopy procedure I went to have a camera shoved down my gullet. The anesthesia was actually quite pleasant--no nausea and all that, although I worry that in my groggy state I may have given one of the nurses some bad advice about her Christmas cactus, which she brought over to my gurney to inspect.

So yes--a biopsy of an inflamed area in my stomach was taken. Standard procedure: the good doctor didn't seem concerned, as his trained eye saw little more than good old fashioned gastritis--no Barret's esophagus, tumors or the like.

Upon reviewing the images taken during the orthoscopy, I was slightly disappointed to discover that my esophagus, stomach and intestines are a tasteful shade of coral rose rather than a lurid, garish fuschia or magenta. Truth be told, I've always suspected as much.

~W