Berkshire Ferns

Trips to The Belfry were always happy occasions. Fresh air, vigorous activity, cold nights; fishing, canoeing, camping; shopping (hardware, groceries, tackle), building (new porch, new steps to the lake), wood fired cooking (both in the kitchen and outside). We loved those trips. We spent time with our grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. And, without quite knowing it, we learned a lot. Grandfather knew the names and habits of every animal and most plants; he wanted us to know how to identify the things around us also.

Some of the education stuck, but not enough. I was perhaps a C student. Today, I might pass a test to identify animals but I would fail dismally to identify most plants. I don't know how Grandfather remembered everything. We have Google. With that resource in mind, I decided to learn which ferns inhabit my woods.

After an hour or so in tick land and several more on the computer, I can now identify, with a degree of confidence, seven of the eight ferns I found (I gave up on the fern at the top of this post). Given the similarity among many of the ferns, I suspect I will find more on my next field trip. The Connecticut Botanical Society was excellent. The USDA site was helpful but cumbersome.

Bracken Fern


Christmas Fern


Cinnamon Fern


Maidenhair Fern


Mountain Woodfern


New York Fern


Sensitive Fern


And finally, the mountain laurel I thought was ready to blossom a month ago, has opened up.

Monk's Pond and the Burbank Trail

Kids from Namche Bazaar in the Khumbu region of Nepal hike a couple miles to school in Khumjung. They start 11,200' and end up at 12,600'. Flat landers like me were astounded by the sight of children in uniforms with bookbags joshing around. The altitude had already rendered us breathless. (Perhaps sherpas are fascinated by American kids skateboarding to school.) I thought about those kids this afternoon as I walked up the BNRC's mile and half long Burbank trail from Olivia's Overlook to the hardscrabble home sites at the top of the hill.



After the land was cleared for firewood or charcoal, it was farmed for the better part of a century until Anson Phelps Stokes bought it as a part of his Shadowbrook property. The terrain was rocky and steep in most places. From a twenty first century vantage, I briefly imagined life at a remote hilltop settlement with little other than impressive views in its favor must have been oppressively difficult. Then I remembered the joy of the kids from Namche on the way to Khumjung.



There was a lot to see and smell at walking speed. The rain yesterday amplified the damp leafy fragrance of the woods. Hemlock, moss, wintergreen, punctuated by a little skunk.



Mike concentrated on aromas beyond my ken. Most of the items he investigated were invisible. But he did discover an enormous pile of scat. Since its contents were entirely herbaceous, I suspected a moose but found no tracks to confirm the theory. I saw at least a dozen newts. Mike ignored them.

Olivia's Overlook on Memorial Day

"Hanging on by your teeth" has new meaning. The view of the Stockbridge Bowl from Olivia's Overlook was superb. Marketers everywhere were trumpeting the first weekend of the summer and the elements agreed: it was sunny, cool and still. A perfect afternoon for a walk in the woods. Or so I imagined.



The Berkshire Natural Resource Council has done an excellent job marking and maintaining the trails. Mike and I set off to the south on the Michael H. Walsh trail. After crossing a footbrige at the edge of the meadow, a large sign provided a map described the Walsh, Charcoal and Ridge trails in detail. It warned of "tricky footing" in some sections.

The Charcoal Trail was named for the pits used to make the charcoal used as fuel early in the industrial revolution. By the middle of the nineteenth century, most of Massachusetts had been deforested, and these hills were no exception. Now they have largely reverted to mature forest with tall oaks, maples, white pines and hemlocks forming a thick canopy.



Native azaleas and evergreens formed heavy undergrowth. The "swamp pink" was already in bloom and the mountain laurel was on the cusp.



Mike and I continued further into the woods on the downhill slope with ease. The ascent was where the footing got tricky. For Mike. Under most circumstances, Mike is game for any hike. He will gladly march through heavy snow in sub zero temperatures; he is fearless in front of black bears. But the carpet of dry oak leaves on a narrow, steeply inclined trail bested him. Even with his claws fully extended, he was unable to obtain any purchase. He slipped off the trail and began sliding down the slope on his back. He accepted my hand with the only tool he had left: his teeth. And he hung on as tightly as he could without causing me harm. I slid down beside him, picked him up and carried him back to the trail. Nothing doing. He aimed straight down hill and walked away, completely off the trail. I followed, eventually putting him back on the leash. We made our way back up the hill on an ancient diagonal track which I suspect was originally used to drag logs up to the charcoal pits.



I was not able to figure out the purpose of the rock columns. Druids maybe? Mike was totally disinterested.



He was, however, thrilled to be back on the ridge and in the sun. Haze obscured our westward views but not joy of sitting and enjoying them.

Once Every Other Year

The Japanese passion for cherry blossoms is strongest when the petals are released from the tree and drift to the ground. Gardens are landscaped around capturing that moment. The crab apple trees in my yard were not placed with such care. In fact, one of them blocks a fine view of October Mountain. But for one week every other year I am treated to such a riotous display that I am persuaded not to improve the view for the other hundred and one.

Peak Forsythia

The picture of my house on Google Earth is sharp. The outline of the roof is clear, trees stand out as individuals. It was taken on a day much like today. And at exactly this time of year. I know because there is a big patch of yellow at the end of my driveway. The forsythia. It peaked today. Last week it was still snowing; today it is in the eighties. Tomorrow the forsythia petals will blanket the ground.

Google's spy cam was not sharp enough to show the mailbox polo hits, however. Or which hero scored the winning blow.