Gulick Park: It Takes a Fantasy Village

The stereotype is that "kids these days" tend to stay indoors, discouraged from outdoor adventure in part by woods that have become impenetrable thickets of thorny invasive shrubs. A striking counter-story to that stereotype played out in Princeton's Gulick Park this past summer. Some of Princeton's open space has very little native plantlife on the forest floor, due to past plowing. In areas where the invasive shrubs haven't filled the void, the combination of trees, sticks and empty ground can make an appealing canvas for the imagination--essentially a natural playground for kids. Some schools, such as the Willow School in Gladstone, NJ, and the Princeton Friends School, incorporate natural playgrounds into their campuses. Attendees of the Princeton Environmental Film Festival will remember a wonderful documentary called School's Out about a completely outdoor kindergarten in Switzerland. Princeton's evergreen forest in Community Park North, planted back in the 1960s, was a natural playground until most of the trees blew down during Hurricane Sandy.

My first inkling that not all kids were spending the summer huddled in front of computers and lounging on sofas with cell phones came when biking through Smoyer Park. There, in the open woods near Snowden Lane and Van Dyke was a shelter carefully constructed out of sticks. The workmanship, or workpersonship, was impressive.

Weeks later, during a nature walk I led through Herrontown Woods, the leader of the informal Friends of Gulick Preserve, Ed Simon, told me of a whole village constructed there by teenage girls. He mentioned Narnia as a possible inspiration. (Update: Though mentions of Narnia are being left in the post, the actual inspiration for this village was other books. See comment below, sent by one of the daughter's parents.)

Here's what I found on a recent visit. There were promising signs of construction along the main drag, a broad trail that extends into the woods from a little deadend fragment of Terhune Rd near Dodds Lane.

Those lean-to structures are mere prelude to the village further in. Small abodes fashioned of sticks and yarn--shall we call it Yarnia?--stretch along leafy trails that hint at a matrix of streets. Might the streets have names, and if so, would they be like Princeton's tree streets, except that Sweetgum Lane would actually have sweetgums growing along it? Or would the streets have far more fanciful names from some other world entered only through the imagination?

This one reminds me of a shelter that some friends and I made deep in the woods when we were kids. The project ended when my face broke out in a poison ivy rash from digging roots out of the ground to make a nice floor. Poison ivy roots have the same oil as the leaves, apparently. The rash gave me Nixon-like jowls for a week. Still, it's a very positive memory.

At times like this, it would have been helpful to have read fantasy fiction, to better understand whether these pebbles are a literary quote or, perhaps, some sort of currency for use in transactions with other forest dwellers, with protective netting to keep the Rock Doves from stealing them.



A bit of speculation here, that the village's proximity to Gulick Preserve's pond is not coincidence. Wikipedia tells of the Wood between the Worlds, "a pond-filled forest in The Magician's Nephew (1955), the sixth book in The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis. Each pond is a portal that provides instant transportation to a "world" such as ours and Narnia's."

The kids must have been surprised, one fateful day in early September, to step into the pond and be instantly transported to school.

Coralberry: Late-Bloomer in the Whole Earth Center Raingarden

The narrow little raingarden in front of the Whole Earth Center, along the Nassau Street sidewalk, is a bit of an anomaly. It flourishes beyond all expectation and despite several factors that could easily work against it. Portions of it are covered by a canopy, which means those areas receive no rain. And though I weed it periodically, do some thinning and trimming, and clean up any trash that blows in, there are others who take care of it as well. A professional landscape crew comes in each spring and lays down fresh mulch. I see signs now and then that someone on staff is also paying it some attention. That none of us communicate or coordinate would normally lead to problems, and yet it all works out.

There are, too, a few plants in the raingarden that wouldn't normally be considered ornamental. Fringed sedge and deertongue grass are wild natives, and yet provide a look of surprisingly attractive grassy opulence along the sidewalk's edge. And the native coralberry in these photos, taken a few weeks ago, makes a nice mound at the building's corner.

Bees, I discovered one day walking by, take an interest in coralberry deep into the fall.

A closer look was rewarded by this scene. Turns out the coralberry has its own brand of commerce--a sort of roadside stand set up in front of the Whole Earth Center, serving organic nectar to honeybees.

It's not coincidental that this native shrub looks reminiscent of the nonnative and frequently invasive honeysuckle shrubs. Both are in the family Caprifoliaceae. Grab your botanical latin books to find out the meaning buried in the scientific name, Symphoricarpos orbiculatus.

At the other end of the raingarden are the more mainstream native shrubs, favored for the showy flowers and bright fall colors that the coralberry doesn't deliver on. Fothergilla (witch alder) turns brilliant orange, contrasting with the purplish oak-leaved hydrangia behind it.

One nice trait of the corralberry for us lazy propagators is that it makes new plants when its branches touch the ground. Each can be dug and grown into a fullsize shrub. From old raingardens, new ones can be born.

A Modern Times Moment With Persimmons

There's a scene in Modern Times where Charlie Chaplin's fantasy of domestic bliss includes reaching out the window to pluck some grapes. A cow comes to the back door to supply milk. Nature is cleverly tended to put its bounty within arm's reach.

I think of that scene every time I bicycle over Princeton University's graceful Streicker Bridge above Washington Road, ever since I noticed some native persimmon trees rising up alongside the bridge. They were planted intentionally, like Chaplin's grapes, and each year they've gotten higher, pressing their leaves and fruits closer to the fencing .

Posts from 2014 documenting the persimmon trees' rise can be found here and here, and a 2015 post is entitled "Close but no persimmon".

There's a catalpa growing within reach as well, but that's not as appetizing, somehow.

This year, the long awaited casual Chaplinesque reach was finally possible. Heading to a university soccer game, I'd check their progress.

The fencing is a real deterrent, though, as if Chaplin's dream of domestic bliss were set in a high-crime neighborhood where all the windows were barred.

At last, time and fruit seemed ripe. But wait, one problem. It's a persimmon. Can't they be astringent in the extreme? So much expectation, only to have a very pucker-mouthed ride home.

The soccer season passed less than gloriously into history, the leaves fell. A few persimmons remained on the tree, but out of reach.

Giving it one last try, I gave up on the fruits coming to me and went down below the bridge to see what lay on the ground. There, preserved on top of a leaf, was one ready to taste. It was sweet, without a hint of astringency, delicious beyond all expectation.

Sometimes dreams don't play out the way you imagined, but they can still come true.

The Giving Plant--Christmas Cactus

A christmas cactus is like a chicken: it has beautiful plummage, gives and gives and asks for little in return. The world's artesian wells may have long since dried up, but nature still supplies fountains of generosity. Somehow this plant survives our minimal attention, then blooms in abundance each fall. Unlike storebought orchids, which clearly require more disciplined care and understanding than we have to give, a christmas cactus seems to accept that we are imperfect, highly distracted human beings with lives to lead and places to be. "Don't worry," it seems to say, year after year. "Water me when you think of it, and in the summer you can put me out on the patio and pretty much forget about me until the fall. No worries. All good, though not too much sun, if you think of it. Thanks. And if a squirrel or the wind knocks me over and some of my stems break? No problem, just

stick them in a pot and make a new plant."

Ours is a secular christmas cactus, blooming as it does during Thanksgiving. Like a volunteer hardwired to serve the community, it needs no coaxing or pampering, but seems intent on making the world a better place, thriving on little more than inner drive and our gratitude.

Norway Maples, and Seeing the Future

One purpose of this blog is to help people to look at nature now and see where it's headed. Every gardener imagines the harvest while planting the seeds. In science, one extrapolates from past and current trends to predict the future. With practice, one can look at a woodland and see not only the present but past and future as well. As a land manager, one envisions two futures--one without intervention, one with. Because we've altered local habitats so much--through altered hydrology, past farming, introduced species, banishment of important forces like fire and predators like mountain lions and wolves--intervention can help restore functionality that no longer happens naturally.

Autumn is the easiest time to divine a woods' future, because each species shows its colors, making trends easy to spot. For instance, learn the Norway maple's brand of yellow this time of year, and you'll start seeing them all over town. Unpalatable to deer, they rise unnoticed until they become full-sized trees, mostly along backyard fencelines.

That's what's happening on a larger scale in the hidden valley between the Princeton University chemistry building and Washington Road. That mix of yellow and lingering green indicates that the Norway Maples are taking over the top of the valley,

and extending downstream. This is the perfect time of year to see the extensive invasion by this nonnative tree. Why have I on multiple occasions urged the university grounds staff to cut or girdle these trees, despite their attractive yellow in autumn?

The problem is an ecological one. This forest, one of Princeton's oldest, is steadily shifting from native trees that feed local wildlife to nonnative vegetation that does not. As the shade-tolerant Norway Maples push up into the native canopy above, their competition for water and nutrients weakens the giant oaks and black gums, hastening their decline and increasing their susceptibility to wind storms. Young native trees--preferred by deer and less shade tolerant--can't compete with the Norway Maples, which grow quickly, green up sooner in spring and drop their leaves later in the fall. This photo shows a 1-2 centuries old oak with a sea of Norway maples rising underneath.

Fortunately, most Princeton woodlands have not been invaded by Norway maple, though it would be worth it for land managers to take a walk through the woods to see if they are starting to get established elsewhere in Princeton's open space.

Except in that Washington Rd. gorge woods, they have proven invasive only in people's yards, showing highly localized invasiveness much like Japanese maples and Rose of Sharon. This photo, taken along North Harrison Street, shows the classic problem with ignoring the silent ascent of Norway maples, in this case under a powerline. Chances are they grew unnoticed by the homeowner, and now will require repeated pruning to keep them from threatening the wires.

At least the half of the tree closer to the street shades the pavement in the summer,

but another annoying aspect of the species--their dense shade and aggressive roots that leave little sun or water for the lawn--has made it impossible to grow grass on the steep slope.

Like climate change and the nonpoint pollution of our waterways, the Norway maple silently transforms the world, undermining food chains and biodiversity, while our attention is elsewhere.

Nature/Geology Walk at Herrontown Woods: This Sunday, 1pm

This Sunday, we'll gather at Herrontown Woods to 1) be out in the woods on a brisk day and 2) learn something about the magnetite that's in some of the boulders and streams there. All are welcome.

A few years ago, one of our Friends of Herrontown Woods board members, geologist Jon Johnson, discovered that some of the boulders in Herrontown Woods are magnetic. He tested pebbles in the streambed and tracked the magnetism upstream to its source in the boulders of the ridge. It's a non-extractive and, of course, non-remunerative version of prospecting for gold. There's a previous post on the subject at this link.

We'll also aim to pass by the area where large boulders were quarried at some point in Princeton's history, leaving big holes in the ground where a boulder had been.

Meet this Sunday, Nov. 27, at 1pm at the Herrontown Woods parking lot, off Snowden Lane. Maps can be found at http://www.fohw.org/p/maps. html.

How to Thank a Leaf

On this day of gratitude, I would like to thank leaves of all kinds for all they do, for all the CO2 they eat, and all the treats they make possible, with their patient translation of sun into sugar. As if that weren't enough, they close the summer's show by becoming candy for the eye, then fly and fall in a dance with gravity, to blanket and feed the earth upon which all depends, though we pretend otherwise. How do I thank them all, where they lay in humble anonymity, while we brag and boast and think ourselves the center of the world? And how do I thank the windblown leaves that raced along with my bicycle a week or two ago? The wind at our backs, they cheered me down the sidewalk like a tickertape parade, as if all the world were going my way.

Trees By the Light of the Supermoon

By the time we saw the supermoon last night, it had risen well beyond the horizon. My older daughter wasn't impressed. "I've seen it bigger," she texted. Au contraire, mon fille. The last time the moon was this big was before our time, in 1948.

Don't ask me why the moon would want to venture closer to the earth, and thus look bigger, given all that's going on here. I'd recommend that all heavenly bodies keep their distance, lest we decide to export our brand of planetary stewardship.

The moon made a fine backdrop for scrutinizing the twigs and acorns of a pin oak,

and the leaves of a red oak in the front yard.

That's Quercus rubra to botany types, with hints of Batman.

The neighbor's spruce tree got in the act.

This shot managed to capture some of the texture of the moon's surface along with a few scraggly pin oak leaves.

Given a preoccupation with earthbound interests, this is one of the few times I've pointed my camera skyward, in contrast to my father, who as an astronomer spent much of his time photographing the universe, and then developing the images in a darkroom in the basement of Yerkes Observatory. The school librarian back then made this lamp, with images captured by the observatory's famous 40" refracting telescope.





The moon will be pretty super tonight, too, if the clouds hold off.

Nature Walk at Herrontown Woods: the Color-Coded Forest, Sunday, Nov. 13, 1pm

Trees and shrubs are still showing their true colors up along the Princeton ridge this week, making it possible to tell at a glance what species surround us. We'll decode the forest, see what we can see, and find some solace in the woods. All welcome.

Meet this Sunday, Nov. 13, at 1pm at the Herrontown Woods parking lot, off Snowden Lane. Maps can be found at http://www.fohw.org/p/maps. html.

This photo of hazelnut is from a 2013 post on the color-coded forest at this link.

Hidden Nature and Drama at Quarry Park

It doesn't look like much of a nature trail, this paved walkway that makes a broad circle around the perimeter of Quarry Park.

But what's this? On one recent visit, it was clear some youthful imaginations had turned this peaceful park into something far more dramatic. There was evidence of defenses assembled against attack, Swiss Family Robinson-style. A wall of sticks had been constructed across the trail, to slow any invaders, and caches of ammunition the size of small cannonballs stashed here and there. It took me back to my own childhood landscape, stashing horse chestnuts in strategic spots for later use. I don't remember any actual attacks, but the preparations were serious business.

A stump and a clearing near Spruce Circle are the legacy of another bit of drama, when powerful winds swept through a few years ago, knocking down a grove of trees.

One of the resprouts, a black locust, bears thorns that may once have provided vital defense, but now seem, like the kids' defenses, to be aimed at imaginary foes.

Head down the path at the lower end of the park, and the plain lawn yields to some diversity. Here's a smooth sumac,

and a white pine dropping its older needles.

It's been a good year for white snakeroot, whose scientific name was recently changed from Eupatorium rugosum to Ageratina altissima, apparently to vex botanists who commit scientific names to memory. The plant is common in part because it is toxic, discouraging the deer.

Japanese knotweed can form dense, exclusionary masses along the banks of the StonyBrook elsewhere in Princeton, but on this upland soil in the shade it seems benign,

with attractive seed structures.

Sure enough, growing in the midst of a default thicket of honeysuckle shrubs at the bottom of the park, one osage orange tree, bearing not oranges but these curious green balls, which may once have been dispersed by megafauna, but now clearly get around thanks to kids. The tree has a rich history, with remarkably dense and rot-resistant wood used for bows and fenceposts.

What a Little Dew Can Do

Here's a bit of serendipity. Shadows play upon the grounds of Princeton Battlefield, charmed with dew on a Saturday morning.

Ever the resident tourist, a shadow selfie with Mercer Oak II. Had no luck getting the shadow to smile.

Sorry, but you can't look at any screen--TV or computer--without at least one obligatory car commercial popping up. The sound track runs something like, "If George Washington were alive today, ...", though he might eschew fossil fuel altogether and stick with a horse. Those founding fathers thought about long term consequence. What ever happened to that kind of thinking?

The original motivation for stopping during a drive by of the Battlefield was documentation, not aesthetics: to photograph the invasive porcelainberry overgrowing flowering dogwoods planted as part of the nation's bicentennial celebrations in 1976.

One of my recurrent cause celebres is to save the Dogwood Garden Club's dogwood legacy from the aggressive vine growth. From the green/yellow of the porcelainberry vines crawling over the red leaves of the dogwoods, you can see who won this year's skirmish. The Dogwood Garden Club doesn't know who I am, and for all I know they've forgotten that they ever planted these trees along the field's edge in the first place.

There was also an obligatory photo of the great disappearing bamboo patch. Two years ago, this was a thick clone of bamboo growing out over the path down to the Quaker Meeting House, but a series of well-timed cuttings with magic loppers over the past couple years have sapped vigor from the bamboo's giant root system. The decisive strategic intervention came this past June, when Kip Cherry and I cut down the regrowth from a cutting in the spring. It was some inconvenient toil, but deprived of any payback from that big investment in regrowth--two years in a row--the bamboo has nearly given up. A visit next spring should be light work, followed by a refreshing beverage on the Clark House porch.

Dew was also working some magic on the vista on Quaker Road near the towpath. Scattered pin oaks in a field of goldenrods.

Thanks goes to my daughter Anna for getting me out that way early on a Saturday, to drop her off for a busride to Philadelphia to do some canvassing. Otherwise, that encounter with morning dew would have never happened. Finally, a reason to be thankful for this election season.