The Thriving Marsh at Princeton High School

All the finest native wetland wildflowers of the DR Canal, Carnegie Lake, Rogers Refuge and Mountain Lakes continue to thrive in that walled-in marvel of serendipity called the PHS Ecolab. The "PHS Ecolab" sounds like a ship, and it is in a way, an ark that survives flooding just fine but whose long term botanical prosperity and diverse portfolio of native species depends on the sweet, cool waters that flow from Princeton's version of Old Faithful--the sump pump that delivers doses of water from the high school basement every fifteen minutes or so, day in, day out. Yes, when the day is done, the property taxes paid, and Princeton's mood turns to romance without finance, many an evening walk begins with "Honey, lets go watch the sun set over the athletic fields, and see what's blooming in the high school wetland."

On this particular day, peering through the bars is a swamp rose, with a refreshing fragrance that cuts through the summer heat.

Green frogs and crayfish hide amongst the pickerel weed that continue blooming through the summer.

The blooms of lizard's tail don't last as long, but have a jazzier look. Impress your sweetheart by offhandedly pointing out that, unlike pickerel weed, Lizard's tail need not be in standing water to thrive.

See deeper meanings in the miracles a little basement water can work if allowed to see the light of day.

Note, with a knowing nod of the head that suggests great wisdom, that even metaphors for personal growth need tending. As in the story of Noah, there are points along the way where human intervention is necessary, where the natural energy must be steered, lest this highly naturalistic garden tip out of balance. Small interventions, really--countering the imperialistic tendencies of otherwise lovable cattail, pulling out any stiltweed or carpgrass that sneaks in. Maybe undercut the curly dock and plantain if they're getting too numerous on the elevated ground. Pull some of the goldenrod that's leaving no room for the cutleaf coneflower.

Or else, don't mention all the mechanics and let it all seem easy and natural. It is easy, except for a few hours a year, because working with nature rather than against it makes life easier in so many ways.

Hunchbacked Butternut Tree Leads to Sleeping Farmstead

This is the story of how serendipity can come along for the ride when you follow your passions. It begins with a tree at Autumn Hill Reservation in eastern Princeton, surrounded by other trees and yet genetically alone.

No one would mistake this hunchback for beautiful, with its skewed limbs reaching awkwardly this way and that. In fact, I'm sure no one noticed it at all, until arborist Bob Wells happened to be walking by one day, looked up and saw that it was no ordinary tree. No ifs, ands, or buts, he thought. That's a butternut.

Now, ask most anyone what a butternut is, and they will tell you they have no idea. The latin name Juglans cinerea is even less likely to ring any bells on Nassau Street. It's getting harder to be acquainted with butternuts, because the species has been laid low by a fungus imported some fifty years ago, that left most dead and the rest alone in the woods. Without a mate, they cannot cross-pollinate, which explains why the last time you ate a delicious butternut was, well, never?

Bob told me about the tree, perhaps because he knew I'm the kind of guy who cannot abide the thought of the last butternut in the forest. Fortunately, I happened to have another friend, Bill Sachs, who had taken it upon himself five years ago to seek out the last butternuts in Princeton. Bill happened to be doing some consulting for the Textile Research Institute, which is on a beautiful site overlooking Carnegie Lake, with rock bluffs, a ridge of mighty white oaks, and a small stream near which Bill found two mature butternut trees. Two is just enough to make nuts, which he carefully collected, had genetically tested for nativeness, planted and grew. It's a good thing he did what he did when he did it, because those two trees have since fallen, one from wind, the other by accidental cutting.

This chain of knowing and caring led to the day earlier this week when I headed into Autumn Hill to plant two young butternuts in the vicinity of the mature one. With me were Sally Curtis and Kurt Tazelaar, the extraordinary trail-tending members of the Friends of Herrontown Wood.

It can be hard to find a spot to plant a four foot tree in the forest. Most of the sunlight is already claimed. It's even harder to plant them when you've been so preoccupied with bringing all the necessary tools that you forgot to bring the trees along. I discovered this only after hiking deep into the woods, and had to head back home to get them. Passion and absent mindedness sometimes keep company.

Fortunately, there was a hole in the canopy right next to the mature butternut. Unfortunately, holes in the canopy promote the growth of a dense layer of invasive shrubs. The perfect spot to plant the trees, I determined, was right in the middle of a formidable patch of 15 foot high autumn olives, honeysuckle bushes, and thorny multiflora rose. At this juncture, Kurt and Sally could understandably have considered mutiny. The potential longterm payoff of butternuts had to be measured against the immediate prospect of doing battle with thorn-laden brush on a hot afternoon. But Kurt and Sally are not easily daunted, so we started hacking away at the wall of invasive shrubs.

It turned out that serendipity was on our side. As we lopped and sawed our way deeper into the tangle, I saw what looked like a deep hole in the ground, which turned out to be a hand-dug well, beautifully lined with field stones.

A bit farther in was a rock wall that formed a raised area in the shape of a square,

and beyond that was a small dug-out area that looked like a root cellar. At this point, we had pretty much forgotten about the butternut trees and had assumed the role of explorers having stumbled upon Princeton's version of Mayan ruins long lost in the jungle.

Now, what are the chances that the old homestead would have been in the one spot we decided to clear? It's a variation on one fairy tale or another, with the butternut species playing the damsel in need of rescue, left to wait while the matchmakers check out the really cool castle.

We did get around to planting the two young butternuts, as evening approached. Later, I checked a map made long ago by Jac Weller, who ran the last microfarm in the Herrontown neighborhood. (His farm was later turned into Smoyer Park.) The map shows where all the small homesteads were, back in the 1870s. The closest to our discovery appears to be either the Scudder or Goeran farmstead.

There's also the possibility that the butternut or its predecessors were planted by the farmer a century or so ago, making the proximity of the farmstead less than accidental. This NRCS website says it was a common practice, as does this one. Either way, it's actually very convenient to find a homestead nearby when you plant trees deep in the forest. The well, if it still has water, will come in handy if we need to water the trees.

Note: Here's Bill Sachs' advice for distinguishing a butternut from a black walnut:

"The nut in a butternut is distinctly oblong or football-shaped and also hairy with a sticky texture. When in doubt, snag a low hanging branch if there is one and check a leaf or two and twig. The rachis, leaves and terminal of a butternut tend to be hairy or fuzzy (pubescent); in black walnut, smooth. If you slit the twig with a pocket knife, you will find a chambered pith. In butternut it is chocolate-brown in color; in black walnut, buff or pink. There are other distinguishing characteristics, but these are the ones I depend on in the summer."

Requiem for an Elm

The lovely, spreading American elm at the corner of Harrison St and Hamilton Ave. has finally succumbed to Dutch elm disease. Not that many people will have noticed. Thousands of cars pass through this busy intersection every day, their drivers seeing only a blur of green. And there are many trees in the neighborhood that even those of us who walk will find conspicuous only in their absence, when we encounter a stump and a large gap in the canopy and wonder what was there.

This elm is one of the trees I noticed, so well matched to the space it was given, its long limbs spreading the gift of shade. And though I grieve its passing, it has lived a longer life than any American elm could be expected to live. Coming to New Jersey from Michigan and North Carolina, I had largely conceded the elm to fringe status, its glorious, towering vase-like form living only in memory. But in Princeton, American elms are more than a memory. They may sometimes be downed by the disease, but are not out. Nine years ago, the famous elm in Princeton Cemetery finally succumbed, but not before making the front page of the New York Times and spawning a generation of disease resistant elms, some of which were chosen to grace Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.

By chance, I happened to be walking by the elm at Harrison and Hamilton recently when a man was standing beneath it with a clipboard. It was Arborist Joe Christopher, who oversees treecare at the housing development there. He said the tree has to come down, and recalled stories of how, when Dutch Elm disease swept across America, chain saws could be heard all day.

We agreed that Princeton is on the cusp of a similar era. Christopher predicts "a decade of mayhem", beginning when the emerald ash borer sweeps into Princeton as it has all over the midwest and now in the east, killing any ash tree that hasn't been inoculated against it. Over the years, Princetonians have rallied to protect this or that beloved tree from being taken down by developers. But there's a much bigger battle going on, one that has to be fought by government agencies, regulators and inspectors, to protect America from the radical change that comes when a pest like emerald ash borer is introduced.

Other tree species are also threatened. Thousand cankers disease, a major threat to black walnuts, was found recently in Bucks County. The Asian longhorned beetle, another accidentally import that threatens many hardwood species, particularly maples, has been found again on Long Island, and is proving hard to eradicate in Massachusetts.

We're in for a rough patch with our trees, and all the myriad kinds of insects and other wildlife that depend upon them, which is why the loss of our elm at the corner is by comparison a positive story. It lived a good and fairly long life, despite considerable odds. Efforts are underway in town to bring back the American chestnut and the butternut. Ash may still persist as small individuals in the woods after the emerald ash borer sweeps through. But the beauty and diversity that was once ours for free is now having to be worked at. What we're losing, species by species, is that easy grandeur that has long defined America.

Nature Steals the Fireworks Show

It looked like nature was going to steal the show on July 2nd. The sky that evening was supposed to be reserved for Princeton's fireworks display, but nature didn't get the memo and showed up for open-stage night with a very impressive light show and sound effects. Nature proved once again it can be a brilliant performer, but remains stubbornly improvisational, refusing to stick to a schedule, or observe our own. Fireworks are more dependable, and can work hard to impress with light and din, but we were reminded that there's nothing like a good thunderclap at close range to send a jolt of awe and trepidation through the nervous system. It's a sustainable form of fireworks--no mined chemicals needed, no fossil fuels. There's some danger involved, but usually it leaves in its wake nothing more than a pleasing aroma of ionized air to sooth our rattled nerves.

And, of course, a bit of rain, which proved handy for upstream Princeton, nicely cleaning off the streets and quenching the thirst of gardens.

Downstream Princeton did not fare as well. Down where Meadowbrook Lane meets Braeburn Drive, the flooding was as flashy as the lightshow. This is "the flood house", at 59 Meadowbrook, the rental that town council recently voted to buy (mostly with federal funds) and tear down.

You can see that the house (its patio is on the right in the photo) was built a wee bit too close to Harry's Brook. Whatever regulatory lapse long ago allowed the construction of the house at that location has triggered over the years a flood of FEMA money flowing out of federal coffers to deal with the resultant mess. More on that at this link. On this 4th of July, we can celebrate the sorts of regulations that make it less likely that the public sector will get called in to clean up problems created by private entities.

While the pulse of stormwater continued on its way to Carnegie Lake, upstream Princeton's fireworks rose improbably in the light mist, delayed but not deterred, their detonations ringing through the neighborhoods and drawing the more adventurous down to the athletic fields for a view. In a populace so saturated with highly visual electronic stimuli, fireworks don't hold the same allure they once did. I've heard tales of the '70s, when Princetonians are said to have gathered in large numbers on the green, bringing lavish table settings, dining while serenaded by symphonies, all as prelude to the fireworks at nightfall. Some of this may still endure. Before the storm hit, strains of Souza and Gustav Holtz drifted into my backyard garden from the direction of the fields. Still, something's changed. In our 21st century version, even among those of us who ventured out, many were experiencing the fireworks as much through their iPhones and iPads as by looking directly up at the fireworks themselves.

Sustainable PawPaw Liberation Service

As someone highly empathic towards plants, I woke up today sensing that something was amiss. Somewhere, a native pawpaw was being shaded out by a Norway maple. Now, I like Norway, and I like maples, but a Norway maple tends to sprout unasked along the fencelines of our fair town, then cast its over-the-top stifling shade upon all hapless plantlife that, through no fault of its own, happens to be growing nearby. Many plants suffer in silence. In fact, just about all of them do, if they happen to be suffering, and it's up to those of us bestowed with special powers, caring, and knowledge to act for their welfare. The situation is all the more dire when a pawpaw is not getting enough light to make flowers and bear that delicious tropical-tasting fruit.

As the founder of the Sustainable PawPaw Liberation Service, it's my job and perhaps solemn duty to rescue pawpaws in distress. A deep commitment to botanical justice and increased pawpaw productivity moves me at times like this to finally stop posing in front of my garage with my pawpaw liberation saw,

and put some mettle to the pedal. Useful tip: Riding while holding something in one hand is probably not a good idea, but if your hat looks alot like Lancelot's, or at least you're holding something that looks alot like a lance, you'll find that car drivers suddenly start showing some respect.

I arrived on the scene without a second to lose, although if I'd waited a week it probably wouldn't have made much difference. Just as I suspected, a friend's pawpaw was being heavily shaded by a Norway maple. The pawpaw's endearingly obovate leaves were literally, or at least laterally, crying out for sunshine.

Elsewhere in the yard, its faithful companion pawpaw, long liberated, kissed by sunshine and now thirty feet high, had borne most nobly a thousand blooms this spring just past, yet for lack of a companion to cross--pollinate with, it had not one fruit to show for it. Clearly, action was needed so that this fine upstanding couple might share their pollen and bear most heavily many a pawpaw in years to come.

A few deft strokes of the pawpaw liberation saw were all that was needed to, well, at least get the lowest maple branch out of the way. You can see a little gap in the canopy where the sun can shine through. A higher branch will require even more chivalry, and a good ladder.

Though logistics prevented a fully accomplished mission, the intervention may still bear fruit.

Questionable Tree Cuttings

Update, July 1: Princeton's town arborist, Greg O'Neil, who was out of town when this incident occurred, reports that a permit had been granted to remove six trees, and that four additional trees (evergreens that were apparently not covered by the ordinance) were taken down.

Original post: My arborist friend Bob and I were driving down Snowden yesterday, on our way to plant two native butternut trees at a local church, when we passed by this scene. 25 trees had evaporated from the front and back yards of the property. The house looks like it will meet the same fate. Did the owner have a permit to take down so many trees?

Later, I heard from a fellow member of the Shade Tree Commission that two policemen and the town's lead engineer had visited the property. The owner reportedly is claiming that a permit had been applied for but not yet granted. The red marks on the stumps in the background may indicate that the stumps, being evidence, are not to be removed until the matter is settled.

As it happens, a tree ordinance for the consolidated Princeton has just been completed by the Shade Tree Commission, and introduced with minor revisions by town council. Both township and borough had tree ordinances that are still in effect.

Another tree in the neighborhood came down yesterday--a 4 foot diameter pin oak in the 200 block of Hamilton Ave. The presence of a town truck at the scene suggested it was in the public right of way, even though it was on the owner's side of the sidewalk.

Princeton has been losing a lot of pin oaks and red oaks to bacterial leaf scorch, though the reason for this tree being lost awaits confirmation.

Bacterial leaf scorch, as can be seen in this tree on Franklin Ave, expresses itself through dieback at the top of the tree.

This pin oak, just across the street, though it's showing less dramatic symptoms, is still clearly thinning out at the top.

Unlike many towns, Princeton has an arborist, and an excellent, devoted one at that. If you have a tree issue on your property, contact public works, either directly or through your arborist, to come up with a solution that meets your needs and the requirements of the tree ordinance.

Fancies Worth Passing Close By

They pass us by if we don't pass by them at the right time. The last few days have been a very fragrant time to pass by linden trees that line streets like Bayard Lane. or along the sidewalk leading to the public swimming pool. You can even find them on Linden Lane, a street that takes its name very seriously. Look up and you'll see the two-tone, grey on green effect of the leaves.

This beautiful shot of a Magnolia blossom being visited by a bee on the Princeton campus was sent to me by Karla, taken on her iPhone.

The native butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa) is always a treat to encounter. This one's at the corner of Linden and Hawthorn. We can hope that a monarch butterfly might one day pass by and lay some eggs on the underside of this milkweed's leaves.

The Magnetic Quality of Herrontown Rocks

Do you ever feel some invisible force drawing you up the trails to the boulder fields along the Princeton Ridge, whether at Herrontown Wood or Witherspoon Woods? It just might be their inherent magnetism interacting with an iPhone, binoculars, or, if you've been to the shop, one or another artificial joints. I had no idea until a neighbor approached me at the annual Memorial Day picnic at Potts Park, introduced himself as Jon Johnson, and then proceeded to tell me all sorts of interesting things about a part of the woods I thought I knew pretty well.

If you take a strong magnet along (keep it away from any electronics like phones or cameras), you can test the gravel in various tributaries to see if there's magnetite in the rocks. It can vary from 2% up to 20%.

Some boulders will be magnetic, too, but only portions thereof.

A more elaborated post on this subject can be found at VeblenHouse.org.

Persimmon Finally Within Reach

Knowing plants can change the way you see a town like Princeton. Students crossing this bridge over Washington Road to the new chemistry building might appreciate its form, but I doubt there's one in a thousand who would find great meaning in the tide of foliage that has finally reached parity with the railing.

I, however, have been waiting with anticipation, invested with special knowledge of what that foliage bears.

There, in the leaf nodes, can't you see it? Persimmons, or the beginnings thereof. By luck or the planter's intent, this persimmon is a female, which means this could be the year that we can, at last, reach through the mesh with a Chaplinesque nonchalance, and pluck ripe fruit from a persimmon tree.

Monarch Update

Anyone seen a monarch butterfly yet? You can get the latest update from "Journey North News," and even help track the monarch migration by reporting any sightings in our area. Their June 19 update says that, though the monarchs reached their north central breeding range four weeks ago, there have been no sightings of eggs as yet in the northeast U.S.. Their map shows one sighting reported in New Jersey, but it's not clear where. There's a good map here showing how important the midwest is to the survival of monarchs, and how that is also the area where Roundup-ready corn has obliterated much of the milkweed the monarchs have long depended on for raising the next generation.

Keep an eye out, and consider reporting any sightings.

Mulberry Splatterfest

This bird paid me no mind, gorging on mulberries at my feet. We could gorge, too,

but we generally don't notice this marvelous burst of generosity. And because mulberries aren't thought to much matter, and we don't tend to take walks while carrying ladders, the streets get all splattered

with mulberry juice.

Red mulberries ripen to black.

White mulberries ripen to  off-white or pink.  Unlike the kinds of fruits I intentionally grow--blueberries, for instance--both kinds of mulberries conveniently overwhelm the birds' appetites, leaving lots that we might eat, if we thought to pause, reach up or reach down, and eat outside the box.

Discovering the obvious about peonies

One strategic decision I made early on in life was not to learn everything I should have known. How wise I was, because an overabundance of knowledge would have deprived me of the pleasure of discovering things later on that should have been obvious from the get go. For instance, peonies in the garden--they're a clumsy lot, all top heavy with their blooms, not unlike our Pekin duck, which carries its cumbersome bulk with an exaggerated waddle.

Only last year I finally realized that peonies are not grown to stay in the garden, but are meant to be brought indoors, where their enlivening fragrance has a chance to permeate. The same cannot be said of a duck, by the way, unless I'm in for another belated discovery in years to come.

Mulling Over Mulberries

It's easy to tell white mulberry trees from red this time of year. Just look at the berries, perhaps while gorging upon them.

But what if a friend wants to find a young mulberry tree, before fruiting age, to dig up and plant in his yard, and prefers the native red (Morus rubra) over the introduced white (Morus alba)?

This led to a bit of scouting around, both on the internet and in the neighborhood. At first, I thought I had an easy distinction. The red mulberry's leaves come in three shapes, with two lobes, one lobe, or none, just like sassafras leaves. But then my friend sent this link that shows the white mulberries have the same variation.

Here you can see all three shapes on one branch of what is probably a red mulberry.

This known red mulberry with unripe fruit appears to have larger, duller leaves,

while this known white mulberry's leaves appear shiny.

Red mulberries can get bigger than white mulberries, and can tolerate more shade.

Here's a white mulberry that's appropriately smaller than the red mulberry in the prior photo, and is thriving in full sun along Hamilton Ave. Sometimes reality conforms to expectations.

In addition, you may find that the teeth running along the edge of white mulberry leaves are more rounded than those on red mulberries.

Even with all of these subtle differences, natural variation and hybridization may leave any tree's identity in doubt until it bears fruit. But that's what botany is about. It sharpens the mind by forcing one to look more closely and reach for subtle distinctions. And it can even cause one to ponder the deeper issues of life, like why such a delicious berry, as with so many things nature delivers, becomes devalued due to its abundance and lack of a pricetag.