Eviction Notice

Posted on May 10, 2016 by Kim

Sometimes Mother Nature throws us a curve ball. Last week I wrote in depth about the nest a Northern Flicker pair was making in my birch tree. Today I am sad to report that they have abandoned the nest.

The Flickers were at the hole constantly for over a week, busily excavating and enlarging the cavity. After that activity ceased, I didn’t see much of them, except for a Flicker head appearing at the hole occasionally. I figured the Flickers were incubating eggs and soon there would be babies. I figured all was well.

Then Saturday my friend Robb asked to see the nest. We walked over just as a gray squirrel scrambled down the tree trunk, and plunged headfirst into the Flicker hole. He completely disappeared and we didn’t see him come out.

Well! This was a nasty turn of events. What happened here? Obviously the Flickers were no longer occupying the cavity, but why? Was the female unable to produce eggs? Did too much human activity near the tree scare them off? Did a European Starling, a frequent nest competitor, interfere with the nest? Did some critter eat the eggs?

Was the squirrel the culprit? Squirrels will eat bird eggs from time to time. Or was the squirrel just taking advantage of the previously abandoned cavity?

We’ll never know. It’s sad that the Flickers’ nest failed. I am disappointed that I won’t get to watch baby Flickers grow up, especially since the cavity was in a terrific location for photography.

This happens with some frequency in the natural world. Flickers raise one brood a year, but they will lay more eggs if the first ones are lost. They expended a lot of energy excavating that cavity. They may try again in the same hole, if the squirrels (or the House Sparrows I saw there today) haven’t moved in permanently. Or they may have to start again somewhere else. But they will start again. As I write this, I can hear the loud WIK-WIK-WIK-WIK-WIK-WIK-WIK call of a Flicker nearby.

There’s a lesson for me in the saga of the Flickers. Though the past year has been filled with wonderful adventures, I have also been struggling with some old familiar failures. Self-critical perfectionist that I am, I find it extremely difficult to let go of those failures. Like the Flickers, I need to shrug it off and start again. Put yesterday in the past, and start each day anew.

Life lessons from the Wild Edge.

Excavation

Posted on April 28, 2016 by Kim

The upcoming third anniversary of the Wild Edge finds me in a reflective mood, pondering the purpose of my blog. My original reasons for starting a nature photo essay blog were trifold.

To share my adventures, writing and photography with friends and family.
To share the joy and solace I find in nature.
To inspire readers to take notice of the natural world around them.

We humans share our planet with billions of other living things. How many of us pay attention to this? How many of us live from daybreak to dark only seeing the roads, the traffic, the office building, or the inside of our home?

Outside there is a world of creatures going about their family lives right under our noses. In our backyards, in the schoolyards and playgrounds, even in the strips of grass and shrubs that border our parking lots.

Like the Northern Flicker couple starting a new home in my backyard. They’ve decided that a decaying trunk of my old gray birch tree is the perfect place to build a nest. They’ve been working hard for more than a week, excavating and enlarging the cavity.

Hello? Anybody home?

Like all woodpeckers, Flickers have large sturdy beaks for drilling into wood. Not for food, though. They prefer ants and beetles found on the ground, which they often reach by drilling into the soil.

Papa Flicker nearly disappears as he reaches deep into the hole to do a little housekeeping.

He emerges with a piece of wood in his beak…

…And shakes his head vigorously, tossing wood and sawdust in every direction. That tiny bit gone, he disappears again to dig out more wood from the inside of the cavity, then tosses it away from the tree. Over and over and over again. Building a snug home is hard work.

Mama Flicker arrives to take the next construction shift. She perches behind Papa, waiting her turn.

Papa Flicker launches himself from the tree trunk…

…And flies off. Northern Flickers were once thought to be two species. The eastern birds were called Yellow-shafted Flickers, because the feathers of their tails and wings have yellow shafts. The feathers of western Flickers have red shafts.

The yellow shafts are easy to see here, though the bird is a blur of motion.

Mama Flicker approves of her new home. Soon there will be eggs, and then babies. And I will have a front row seat to watch them grow up. Right in my backyard.

Right at the Wild Edge.

What’s going on in your backyard?

My Happy Place

Posted on April 22, 2016 by Kim

Everyone needs a place of retreat, a place to restore one’s soul. Through the long winter I pictured it only in my dreams. Serene. Meditative. Calming. My happy place.

Y’all close your eyes now. Let’s go there in our minds…

Ah, that’s better. Wave goodbye to the dark, dreary, landlocked days of winter. Shed the layers of thermals and fleece. Wade through the shallows, and settle into the kayak. Turn your face to the warming rays of the sun.

Now, dip the paddle blade into the water, and smoothly, gently, pull. Feel the boat glide effortlessly forward.

Ahhh. That’s better.

After six long months on land, I am once again a creature of the water. Blessed with a warm sunny day in the middle of April, I pack up my kayak and head for the Pine Barrens. Lake Oswego awaits, glittering indigo under a clear blue sky. No longer a dream, my happy place is now reality.

The water of the lake flows dripping off my paddle, and runs chuckling down the length of the kayak’s hull.

Ssssshlooooop -drip-drip-drip – drip – d r i p – d r i p – gurgle – gurgle

The first strokes are awkward, and I find myself paddling not across open water, but through a mass of lily pads and dark green pondweeds. Oops! Better watch where I am going.

Hmmm. That looks interesting on the other side of the bridge. I wonder if I can fit under there?

Easily spooked, turtles dive at the mere hint of my presence. I stow my paddle and drift, and soon a turtle forgets me and begins to nibble at a nice wet salad.

My happy place. Around the upper curve of the lake and down the far shore, past the dam and the portage beach. Blue sky, green trees, dark blue water. Ahhh.

At the southeastern end of the lake, I find this fantastical sculpture, the twisted remains of a long-deceased tree.

Lakes don’t occur naturally in the Pine Barrens. Something had to die for the pond to be born.

Gone, but not forgotten.

My happy place is… a cemetery. The ghosts of drowned cedar trees haunt the shallow places, a reminder of the forest that once was.

Yet life abounds among the tree spirits. A fallen phantom attracts a turtle, very much alive. Several of his shelled buddies are also soaking up the sun nearby.

Bleached cedar tree trunks are the totem poles of the Pine Barrens lake, the resting places of arboreal souls. I drift among them like the clouds wisp across the sky, soaking up the twitter of tree swallows.

A spectral white trunk leans on another for support. Like the wrinkles of an old woman’s face, its weathered skin whispers of all that it has seen. Wait – what is perched on the right end of the log? Photobombed by a dragonfly!

There’s that sound again. QUONK! Like a metallic thunk. I heard a few of them near the launch, but at this end of the lake the sounds are much more numerous. No bird I know makes that sound. It has to be a frog. But what one? No matter how close I get to each QUONK, it’s not close enough. I see no frogs.

One of my missions is to find where the Oswego River comes into Oswego Lake. I follow a pair of honking geese into a cove. At the far end is a narrow passage into another cove. Beyond that a thin little stream squeezes between trees and disappears.

Could this be the Oswego River?

But there’s another cove, with another stream beyond it disappearing into the trees. This one looks wider, more like a real stream. Hmmm. Mission postponed. Best to leave some mystery for another day.

Left also for another day is this inviting little pathway.

Journey’s end.

Ahhh, that’s better. My spirit has been soothed. Winter is past; its cold and confinement have faded. A season of warm days and blue water unfolds before me like a map. A map that leads to…

My happy place.

Cliff-hanger

Posted on April 8, 2016 by Kim

“Grandfather, look what I found!” said the young boy. “It’s a dragon egg!”

“No, my grandson,” said the old man as he stood along the river shore.

“It is indeed an egg, but not of a dragon, for they left our land many ages ago. This is the egg of an Osprey, the masked hawk that fishes in the River Delaware. But where did you find it?”

“In the grass at the base of the red rock cliffs.”

“You must return it to the nest. Mother Osprey will be looking for it. The cliffs are high and dangerous, but you are young and strong. I have confidence in you.”

“I will try,” replied the boy somberly. “But first, Grandfather, tell me again of how these cliffs came to be?”

“Very well, my grandson, I will tell you. Rest here amongst the flowers while I weave my tale…”

“The Nockamixon Cliffs tower 300 feet above the River Delaware. They are made of red shale, siltstone and sandstone.

“200 million years ago in the Triassic Era, hot molten diabase boiled out of the earth. Its heat baked the shale and siltstone to an unusual hardness.

“See how the rocks tilt to the northwest? Over time tremendous pressure twisted the stone just so, and weathering has left them exposed for us to view from below.

“These palisades host an arctic-alpine plant community that is rare in this land, as well as more than 90 bird species, including peregrine falcons and the Ospreys who are even now looking for their egg.”

The boy looked up at the towering cliffs, swallowed hard, and nodded. “I will do my best, Grandfather.”

“Do you see the Indian carved in the stone?

“If you lose courage, look to him; he will give you strength.”

The boy nodded again, tucked the egg carefully into his clothes, and began to climb. It seemed easy at first, as he pushed his way through the leafy branches at the base of the cliffs.

He came upon a small waterfall spilling in sinuous braids down the ledges. How slippery the footing was here! “I shall be as supple as this water,” the boy said to himself.

Along the way, he marveled at the perseverance of the plants. Ferns, bushes and even trees seemed found no difficulty in rooting themselves in face of the stone. “I shall be as tenacious as these trees,” he said to himself.

As he neared the top, the boy found the climbing difficult. So high up he was! He tried not to look down. Slowly he moved, clinging to the rocks, wedging his fingers and toes into any crack he could find. “I shall be as strong as these cliffs,” he thought to himself.

At last the boy reached the top. Gingerly he took the egg from his clothes; tenderly he placed it in the Osprey nest. Mother Osprey watched him intently, fierce emotion hidden behind her glittering golden eyes. “I shall be as fearless as this Osprey,” the boy thought to himself.

Then he looked over the edge of the cliff, down to the riverbed and the old man far below. The boy gulped.

Now what?

Feeling Like a Million Bucks

Posted on April 1, 2016 by Kim

It was a beautiful day yesterday at John Heinz National Wildlife Refuge at Tinicum.

Not just because the weather was warm and dry, and the birds were singing. Because it was raining – money!

In a ceremony outside the Visitor’s Center, attended by Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney and other dignitaries, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director Dan Ashe announced that the Service will invest an additional $1 million annually in the Refuge.

“That’s not a one-time grant, that’s $1 million that will be here this year, it will be here next year, and it will be here the years following that,” he said. “And that money is going to support additional work here, it’s going to support additional work in educating young children, it’s going to support additional work in connecting the surrounding communities to the refuge.”

Three years ago, recognizing that 80% of Americans live in urban and suburban environments, the USFWS launched the Urban Wildlife Conservation Program. Yesterday, Heinz Refuge – America’s First Urban Refuge – became its latest Million Dollar Refuge.

The money will allow the Refuge to continue and expand the environmental education program it started last year in three Philadelphia schools. Other priorities include working with surrounding communities to promote conservation and nature, connecting them with green spaces.

On the Refuge, the grant will make possible new signs on the trails, new displays for the Visitor Center, and a host of other projects. The small staff – dedicated, talented and enthusiastic, but undermanned and overworked – will be getting much needed reinforcements in the form of additional personnel.

If you’ve followed my blog for any time, you know that no matter how far I wander, I always come back to Heinz Refuge. In the past years I’ve made friends here, volunteered here, and gotten involved with the Friends of Heinz Refuge who do so much to support the Refuge. I’ve made my own investment of time, and actual blood, sweat and tears, to make my home-away-from-home a better place. Which is why I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face.

All of us who love Heinz Refuge are feeling like a million bucks!

Early Green

Posted on March 25, 2016 by Kim

I’m not fond of the color brown. In fact, I don’t even think it’s a color. It’s more like a background, and one I’m tired of. For most of my life I lived in a beige house, which is brown in a wishy-washy mood. With apologies to my U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service friends in their brown and tan uniforms, the only good brown thing is chocolate.

As mild as this past winter was, I really have no cause to complain. But since the trees and shrubs lost their leaves in November, life outdoors has been a sea of brown bare trees and beige dried foliage. Now, I admire the structural bones of a single bare tree as much as the next person, but this is too much of a good thing. Momentary escapes to the Pine Barrens and Jersey Shore offered only momentary relief from the monotony. After five months, I am ready for change.

Nothing says “change” like green. Pale yellow-green. Bright kelly green. Deep forest green. The green of Nature. The green of Spring. The green of New Life.

What a relief to see green in all its variations on a recent evening walk at John Heinz NWR, and soak in the sights and sounds of the new arrivals early Spring brought with it. Like the willows dancing in the breeze while a jet contrail slices the clear blue sky.

Spring greens are subtle. Pussy willow along the water’s edge.

Sometimes the green is the canvas on which other colors are painted. Just the carpet of green leaves would be welcome sight. The golden flowers add that touch of flair.

Sometimes spring greens are red! At this time of year, many of the trees are bright crimson, as the red maples burst into bud…

…And flower.

Sometimes the green is not so welcome, like new shoots of Phragmites, an invasive plant found throughout the Refuge that a friend and I are trying to eradicate from a small plot. We knew it would come back. The fight is renewed for another growing season.

The greening of the land brings with it new arrivals freshly returned from their wintering grounds. Red-winged Blackbirds have been back for a few weeks. Their CONK-ER-REE calls are anything but musical, but nonetheless music to my winter-weary ears.

The air is filled with the songs of birds. Song Sparrows, Carolina Wrens and Cardinals join the blackbird chorus. There’s an amphibian choir singing as well, as frogs have come out of the mud where they spent the winter to look for mates. The aptly named Spring Peepers make a surprisingly loud, high-pitched PEEP continuously. These are tiny frogs, no bigger than a fingernail. In all my searching, I have never seen one, though I have been nearly deafened by their noise. Singing tenor to the peepers’ soprano are the Wood Frogs, who sound more like ducks, with their ragged QUACK call.

Snapping turtles have also come out of the mud, and cruise along at the water’s surface.

Tree Swallows came back recently. Now the sky over the impoundment is filled with the little blue jewels hawking insects. Which means, of course, that the insects are back too. The marshy environment of Heinz Refuge would be miserable with mosquitos were it not for our swallow friends. Which is why we have nest boxes for them.

Frequent squabbles break out over those nest boxes. This is prime real estate.

Great Egrets arrived last week. This one was enjoying an hors d’oeuvre, hoping for a more filling main course.

Here’s the greenest photo of all. Yes, I know – there’s no green, just the dreaded brown. This is one of our Bald Eagle pair sitting on its nest. Inside that nest are one or more eggs. Any day now (it might already have happened) a tiny, fluffy eaglet will break its way out of the shell and start its new life.

New life. It just doesn’t get any greener than that.

My Frozen Valentines

Posted on March 11, 2016 by Kim

Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined spending a Valentine’s Day on a beach with not one, but two, well-dressed men.

Well-dressed for the Arctic, that is. Because that’s what Point Lookout in Maryland felt like on this Valentine’s morn.

Robb, Don and I had come to the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay mostly to look for the fossils of Calvert Cliffs. Never ones to pass up a lighthouse, though, we drove to Point Lookout State Park at the very tip of the peninsula between the Chesapeake and the Potomac River.

On the way, we passed a weathered wooden barn at the edge of a slumbering winter field. My companions couldn’t resist a little tomfoolery. Don decided we should reenact an Andrew Wyeth painting, and made Robb lie down and pose in front of the barn. Laughter is the best medicine, and these guys keep me laughing all day long.

We found the lighthouse unimpressive, spoiled as we were by Drum Point the day before.

I was more intrigued by the ice coating objects along the shoreline. Not sure what these are. Can you guess which way the prevailing wind blows?

Nearby, a section of fallen chain-link fence arched gracefully to the ground, providing the framework for a fascinating ice abstraction.

Robb and Don are always changing plans on the fly. I love it because I always get to see lots of different things when I’m with them. I don’t do spontaneity well. They push me to expand my horizons, while being endlessly patient as I adjust to stepping outside my comfort zone.

Sometimes they move too quickly, though, and miss what’s right in front of them. Cold as it was, they were keen to leave Point Lookout for our next destination. It took more than a little effort to convince them I’d spotted a neat beach to explore.

My parents inspired a love of beach glass collecting many years ago. For a long time, that glass came exclusively from the Jersey Shore ocean beaches. Now I am collecting it in many other places – rivers, lakes, and bays. Point Lookout yielded several pieces of glass, my first from the Chesapeake Bay.

This one wasn’t coming home with me, though. Couldn’t budge it.

Ice on the half shell.

The rocks of the jetty formed a luscious confection, topped with terraced frosting that oozed into bubbles, then drizzled off the edges.

There were no fossils here, since we were south of the end of Calvert Cliffs. Instead, our focus was on pebbles. One of the things I love most about my friends is the variety and passion of their interests. Their enthusiasms change as quickly and as intensely as cloud formations in a summer thunderstorm. I am swept along with the gusts, learning along with them.

And here they are, my frozen Valentines, bundled in parkas and balaclavas. Without them my Valentine’s Day might have been warmer, but not nearly so sweet.

Snow Scenes

Posted on February 21, 2016 by Kim

Winter can be such a drab season. Everything is bare and brown. There’s no green anywhere, save for the invasive vines that are so obvious at this time of year. Trips to the Jersey Shore and the Pine Barrens (evergreens!) break up the monotony. But it takes a good snowstorm to really shake things up. Suddenly all those bare brown branches are sugar-coated and the ground is clean crisp white.

After our January blizzard, I went walking every day to enjoy the snow. There’s a local park with a trail that parallels Darby Creek. Of course I took my camera along.

While I was watching the wildlife, the wildlife was watching me. I’m pretty sure this is a Red-tailed Hawk. I’m out of practice identifying birds. Been spending a lot of my time with plants and pebbles.

Snow-covered rocks in the stream – Mother Nature’s cupcakes.

Memories of summer days.

Carolina Wrens are tiny birds with BIG voices. I usually hear them long before I see them.

Same storm, different location. Lancaster County barn.

A couple of weeks later Don and I went to the Pine Barrens on a Thursday to look for, what else, pebbles. On the following Saturday, Don, Robb and I were concerned that our chosen destination for the day would be too icy. So we debated an alternative. Don suggested a return to the Pines. I said “But, Don, you know the Pines got 4 inches of snow Thursday night, right?”

“Nonsense,” he replied “my family drove the Atlantic City Expressway right through the Pine Barrens yesterday and they said there was no snow.” So that’s where we went.

Um, Don, no snow? What’s all this white stuff on the roads?

We tried to drive to Apple Pie Hill. I’m pretty intrepid on the sand roads, but not when they’re covered with snow and crisscrossed with icy truck tire tracks.

Eventually we turned back, and opted for a short walk in Penn State Forest. The white snowy roads were the perfect complement to the evergreens against crisp blue sky.

Pine cone icicle.

The perfect shelf for a miniature moss garden. Look very closely for the red moss sporophytes just at the left edge of the snow.

Ahh, the essence of the Pine Barrens in any season. Pitch Pine cones, snow frosted.

Perfectly lovely photo of snowy pine boughs, photo-bombed by Robb.

We are trying to learn about geology, and the identification of rocks. It’s a tough thing to learn on our own without experts to guide us. We’ve had an ongoing argument about whether the pebbles we see in many places are naturally occurring rocks, or from fill placed by man. Don had a point to make in that debate.

Our boot prints. From left to right: Kim, Robb, Don. The sizes are deceiving; my foot is smaller than the guys’. Really it is.

Our “short” little walk didn’t go at all as expected. Mistaken shortcuts took us far beyond the bounds of Penn State Forest into unexplored territory. The Pines are a mysterious place filled with unmarked sand roads, and even Pines veterans can find themselves bewitched and bewildered. We ended up having to retrace our path; though we were certain of the route back, we were grateful for the confirmation of our boot prints. We left at noon, and hours later found ourselves back at the car, hungry and thirsty.

Just in time to see the sun set on a lovely day in the snowy Pine Barrens.

At the Top of the World

Posted on February 12, 2016 by Kim

The Winter Queen is imperious and aloof, demanding and notoriously fickle. This year she opted to remain far to the north, leaving us in the gentle arms of Lady Autumn until late in January. Then Her Majesty swept in on howling winds of ice, and buried us in feet of snow.

She is beautiful, and her passage leaves a photographer is eager to get outside to admire the winter wonderland. But first her demands must be met: two days of shoveling, and the passage of enough time for the roads to clear.

Many are the photos I have of the lowlands wreathed in snow: Heinz Refuge, Valley Forge, Ridley Creek. Lacking are any images of snowy scenes from on high. Nearly a week after the blizzard, I set forth on a journey to visit the Winter Queen in her mountain fastness.

Cardinals kept me company as I hiked up the narrow channel of compacted snow where others had walked before me. The soft sigh of the wind in the trees whispered above the rhythm of the wet crunch of my footfalls and squishy creak of my trekking poles.

I wondered what I would find when I reached the Pinnacle. How would the Susquehanna River below be dressed? Open dark water? Or would it be garbed in Her Majesty’s mantle of white?

The wind quickened as I neared the Pinnacle. The first glimpse through the trees made me gasp.

My heart soared and I hurried to the overlook.

Yes! The Winter Queen has indeed been here!

The evidence of her frigid touch is everywhere, frosting the hills rising above the river…

…and tracing the surface of the ice in intricate swirls and waves.

On previous visits to the Holtwood Gorge Pinnacle, we discovered a wondrous place just down the trail.

It’s a place where pine trees and rhodendrons stand guard over a garden of rocks.

In dry weather, it is a fun boulder scramble to the farthest of the rocks to look straight down to the water. When the Winter Queen is in residence, it requires much more caution. I clambered carefully down the rocks, often on my butt, very tentative when on my feet. Sometimes my foot plunged through the snow to my knee.

There was the point beyond which I would not go. The Winter Queen cares nothing for the safety of her admirers.

But, oh, what there was to admire! I sat on a dry boulder for a long time, soaking in the sights and sounds of the Gorge in snow. The wind howled through the trees, a whisper no longer. I felt it stinging my face, as the cold seeped into my legs from the rough rock below me.

Boulders loomed above me, their surfaces braided in stripes of dark grey, white and rust, dusted with lichens and puddles of snow. Three Bald Eagles circled past, and a kettle of Turkey Vultures.

A flock of Robins passed through, flitting noisily through the shrubs. Did the Winter Queen take offense at the cheery presence of these harbingers of spring in her frozen domain?

Slowly I made my way back up the boulders.

The climb was tricky; I had learned the hard way not to trust that there would be solid ground beneath every patch of snow.

I used my hands and knees more than my feet.

Walking the trail was easier.

At the top, I turned once again to drink in the wonder of the Her Majesty’s creation, the pearly white ribbon winding through dark hills and twisting out of sight.

As if to remind me of the Winter Queen’s capricious temperament, when I reached my car, it began to snow.

Finding Refuge in the Snow

Posted on February 5, 2016 by Kim

This has been one weird winter. December and January were abnormally warm. Philadelphia set a new record for latest first snow.

Then the meteorologists started beating the drums for a winter storm of near-blizzard proportions, a full week in advance. When it finally came, it was a doozy, dumping 30″ of snow in some locations, and 22″ at the Philadelphia Airport. It took two days to clean up.

Finally, I escaped to John Heinz NWR to enjoy it.

Looked like we weren’t the first to venture out.

Who goes there?

Great Blue Heron, definitely.

Red fox, perhaps. Or maybe one of the feral cats that hang out at the Refuge.

We weren’t the first humans out either, judging by the well-beaten path.

Everything looks new in the snow. Darby Creek was frozen on a gray day…

…and the impoundment wore a mantle of white.

The snow storm brought strong gusty winds, which created some intricate patterns on the surface of the impoundment.

On this walk we had one destination in mind, and we were going to reach it, no matter what. And what, pray tell, was the object of our desire?

The Refuge’s big pride and joy – our new Marsh Boardwalk. A year in the making, it extends hundreds of feet into the freshwater tidal marsh, and gives visitors and schoolchildren an up-close look at the ecosystem. This was the first time I’d seen it in snow.

This is the marsh in winter. Because it’s tidal, the water rises and falls beneath the ice, and the ice rises and falls with it, fracturing into frozen plates. No smooth skating rink here!

Darby Creek flows through the marsh in braided channels. Where water ran, the ice yielded to its passage.

One week later, the sun was shining. Another oddity. We’ve had more than our share of blue-sky days this winter. This Downy Woodpecker was busily looking for something yummy to eat.

The impoundment was peppered with little balls of snow. Or so I thought. On closer inspection, I discovered they were balls of air bubbles that had puffed out of small holes in the ice.

The duck icebreakers were hard at work. This Mallard hen was determined go somewhere new. She would try to climb up on the ice to walk, only to break through to the water. Rinse and repeat. After a while she had opened up quite a channel.

A Great Blue Heron fished in the golden glow of sunset.

Geese streamed in with the dying light, ready to call it a night.

Two weeks after the Big Storm, the temperatures have rebounded. The snow is all but gone. Darby Creek is ice-free. The trails at Heinz Refuge are clear. People were seen in shirt-sleeves. One weird winter!

The Wild Edge

Opening eyes to the wonder around us

Category Archives: Nature