Tag: WinterBearRising

March Announces Spring’s Arrival and April Invites It In

Essay and photos by Joe Mish

There is magic in the first wildflowers which dare to dance in April’s cool breeze. Look closely at the pinstriped Spring Beauty to see the face of an impish sprite staring back.

March knocks on April’s door, and standing there on the dim lit stoop is a visage surrounded by swirling ice and snow, dripping mud and melting frost. Without hesitation, April invites the disheveled traveler in and notices a small parcel wrapped in green, wet with melted snowflakes. It is the gift of spring, and with it comes the remnants of the wintry month’s mercurial weather. As April encourages the sun to stay a while longer each day, the influence of March’s wintry heritage is diminished. A mere promise of favorable conditions is enough to encourage a veil of green to emerge from the cold ground in a resurrection of dormant life.

Within this transitional framework, the brilliant tints of green enliven the dull gray landscape to rouse curiosity and focus attention toward the earth. Energy is a key element in attraction and April is a time of palpable and boundless energy. The invisible movement of time appears betrayed as plants seem animated and grow before our eyes. Many spring plants have a narrow window of opportunity to emerge and mature, so their growth is accelerated.

Spring beauties are ephemerals which grow in isolated patches in open woods and among short pasture grass, their pink and white stripped flowers linger into May. Each short-stemmed flower is distinctly different in petal stripe and color. Some variants are almost all white with faint pink stripes, while a neighboring patch may be dominated by deeper pink petals and dark pink stripes. Color and pattern variations are the rule, which makes this flower so interesting. The variation in a way, compliments the vagaries of early spring weather and the individual character each April presents.

A calendar is not needed to know April has arrived. The appearance of native columbine on the red shale cliffs along the South Branch of the Raritan are as dependable a sign as any numeric score card. There is security in predictability and despite changing weather patterns, columbine remains faithful to April.

Native columbine is a delicate long stem, dark red, inverted, single bloom, composed of four or five individual vase shaped tubes, which collectively terminate in the appearance of a crown where the inverted flower meets the stem. Each tube within the red flower is lined with bright yellow. A distinctive broad, three lobed, pale green leaf adorns each stem and easily catches a breeze to help disperse seeds when the plant matures in early May. Columbine does not grow in profusion and is best described as being found in isolated villages, tucked in among the maroon cliffs. I wonder how many Aprils these cliff dwelling plants have seen, as their existence in such an austere shale environment is not conducive to random dispersal. I think of Brigadoon, a mythical village that appears once every one-hundred years, when native columbine appear during April, on the face of ancient cliffs, otherwise devoid of life.

April’s charm and promise find a spokesman in the form of Jack in the pulpit. As the name implies, this early spring plant appears to portray a minister standing in a raised pulpit, leading the congregation in prayer and praise for the gifts of nature. The personification of this unique plant, based on its shape and form, perfectly fit myth, magic, and folk lore promoting a human/ plant interface. The appearance of Jack standing in a pulpit, could be perceived as a reincarnation or memorial to a revered patriarch.

Any natural phenomenon begs for an explanation, and in this way, April delivers a lesson in the most critical of survival tools, creativity, and imagination. The earliest flowers to appear under April’s umbrella are a sign of hope as they stand in sharp contrast to the stark landscape about to awaken. Consider that flowers are living things that in some magical way, recruited man to further their propagation in exchange for a glimpse of eternal beauty, dreams and imagination. All combined to expand the universe of human potential with unbounded creativity and expression.

April has opened the gift of spring March delivered, and has swept its fresh green carpet clean of any wintry remnants tracked in when the gift was delivered. Conscious of its fleeting time allotted, April honors the delivery of the next month’s explosion of blooms by taming the weather and warming the soil. When may flowers arrive, April deserves a special thanks. 

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author.

The Edge of Winter

Article and photos by Joe Mish

A fox sparrow takes refuge from a late March snowstorm as it migrates north to its breeding grounds

The fluffy white blanket of an early March snowstorm, preserved by the cold days that followed, began to shrink as the sun fought the darkness for dominance. The snow cover was still unbroken as it grudgingly settled lower each passing day. Eventually the white blanket would lose its loft and become threadbare, unveiling the gravid brown earth.

The days following the storm dawned clear and cloudless. The night sky was a showcase of brilliant white diamonds, alive with energy as they sparkled in the infinite celestial darkness.

An hour before sunrise the west facing snow covered hillside reflected enough light to reveal the fine detail of the skeletal silhouettes of every tree and bush that stood above the white ground cover. Even as the sky began to brighten, the entire hillside remained in shade, preserving the dramatic pre-dawn contrast. For a few slow minutes, the sky above the hill was bathed in a diffuse aura of gold, fading into white, which blended into the palest blue, growing more intense as the brightest stars lingered and were lost among the deepening blue background. For a long moment, night and day, past and present coexisted at one glance. The dynamic scene, frozen on an imaginary vertical tapestry, the black and white hillside held in sharp contrast to the gold and sunlit blue sky above.

In a way, that dawn was symbolic of the dichotomy of March, as the month ushers in the last cold breath of winter and departs amid life emerging from dormancy under the influence of increasing daylength.

Maroon, orange, green, and red buds decorate the bare tree branches to rival fall color, as early spring flowers tolerate the mercurial weather and defiantly poke through any errant late Match snowfall.

Bird migration is now in full swing as flycatchers, osprey, and colorful warblers make their appearance.

Great horned owls, hatched a month earlier, are flightless and near adult size.

March is the best time to find migrating woodcock and observe the unique mating flights performed by the males at dusk, choreographed to impress a potential mate. Woodcock were common locally in open woods and damp fields. As habitat dwindles, any sighting becomes a rare treat. When March rolls around I head for a likely spot where a swale is formed by the earlier mentioned hillside. The hillside is drained by a seasonal stream which remains wet where the gradient levels. The saturated soil creates a perfect environment for earthworms, the main food source for migrating woodcock. Woodcock, also known as Timberdoodles, will often sit tight and allow a close approach.

All migrating birds must deal with unpredictable weather anywhere along their migration path. So, arrival at any one location will vary from year to year. It is somehow comforting when birds that migrate through, show up on schedule. All is right with the world. When snow buntings, headed to points north, stop over at a specific location year after year, a dependence of sort can develop on behalf of the observer. The snowbirds become a reference point, much as a birthday or anniversary.

March provides the ‘wind beneath the wings’ of migrating birds as well as sweeps the land and grooms the trees, wind and March are inseparable.

March has earned the reputation as the month of relentless wind as it rushes mercurial weather on and off the stage to stir the breeze. Think about the wind and the scale of expression from hurricanes and tornadoes to a gentle whisper, where the wind uses a dried stem of grass or tree branch to etch its thoughts in the snow or on the side of an old wooden barn.

The first day of spring will happen on the nineteenth day of March, 2024, at 11: 06 pm. Day and night reach perfect equilibrium for a split second as winter surrenders to spring.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author.

Where the Raritan Flows No One Knows

The rebirth of the Raritan River is symbolized by a waxing moon hovering above a Bald Eagle, perched along the river, teeming with ancient fisheries, whose recovery is a result of recent dam removals. A birthstone to define the Raritan River as an entity removes its status as a documented enigma and affords it the respect and honor it deserves.

The Raritan River is the longest river that flows within NJ, its rich, pre and post-colonial history well documented in archives and books. Surprisingly, its location has confused state and federal authorities who have mislabeled the North and South Branch of the Raritan River as the Raritan River. Signs on interstate 78 in Clinton identify the South Branch as the Raritan River. Further east on I-78 the North Branch is designated at the Raritan River. State road 202 at the border of Branchburg and Bridgewater claim the North Branch of the Raritan River as the Raritan River.

Last of the cast irons signs which correctly identify the North Branch of the Raritan River. I know of only two other cast irons signs, long gone, which marked the course of the South Branch and Raritan River proper.

To further muddy the waters of the Raritan, an online search of the River’s length will show anywhere from 69.60 to 115 miles. Imagine, a defined measurement of a major river’s length cannot be established! For the record, based on my two canoe trips down the entire Raritan River, I estimate its length at 33 miles. Given the margin of error, 33 miles referenced against the lowest published estimate of 69.60 miles, creates more of an enigma than a reality.

To bring the Raritan River in focus from an enigma, and accord the respect it deserves, it must be properly defined and labeled. Once the river’s identity is established, a gravitational pull of curiosity arises and compels a quest for more information. A better understanding of the river’s role in its watershed and the community it supports can provide critical perspective needed to make sound land and water management decisions.

The first step in establishing respect, whether a person or a river, is to know their name. It is innate in our nature to respond kindlier when a name is offered upon introduction. Consider a hiker walking across a field, free of obstruction, the path will be a straight line. Point out a single species of grass, and the hiker will alter their path to avoid stepping on the now identifiable plant.

Toward that end, an effort is underway to define the beginning of the Raritan River with a boulder placed at the confluence of its north and south branches. A bronze plaque will be attached and petroglyphs carved into the boulder to memorialize native animals and first people.

This indelible marker will, in a way, serve as a birth certificate in the form of a ‘birthstone’ to legitimize the Raritan River proper.

“Raritan River Birthstone” (DRAFT for plaque) “This stone marks the beginning of the

Raritan River and defines this natural treasure as an entity. The Raritan River’s legacy of beauty, inspiration and use, has nurtured all life since its post glacial formation. Arising from the confluence of its north and south branches, the Raritan River begins its thirty-three mile journey to the sea. The petroglyphs carved into this stone represent wildlife and symbols of the Unami, a branch of the Lenape tribe, which would have been seen in glyphs carved by the earliest people”. “Dedicated by the Lower Raritan Watershed Partnership 2023.”

Placement of the ‘birthstone’ and the location of the Headgate dam at the very top center of the image. Image taken on flight compliment of LightHawk and No Water No Life.

In 2023’s Raritan River, dolphins and seals ply the waters up to New Brunswick, while young Hudson Bay striped bass and alewives make their way up river to Bound Brook. As dams are removed and historic fisheries revitalized, the Raritan River is in a way reborn and deserving of a ‘birthstone’ to finally mark it place of birth.

The Burnt Mills dam on the Laminton River which flows into the North Branch and eventually into the Raritan river was removed in 2020.
The Headgate dam on the Raritan River, built in 1842, is scheduled for removal. This dam is located a few hundred yards below the beginning of the Raritan River at the confluence of the North and South Branch. The hydraulic created by the dam has caused several deaths over the years.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Winter Abbreviated

Article and photos by Joe Mish

A flightless great horned owl, born in the dead of winter, now thrives in the late February sun, surrounded by maroon tree buds which began to emerge around the time the owl eggs were being incubated.

Imagine a door with twelve windowpanes, each frame a portal into a month of the year, and every time you turn away and look back, the scene changes. Some views, in a series of glances, stand out out more than others, and from that subjective perspective we link an emotion to an image that is different from anyone else’s interpretation. 

This perfectly describes how the impression of each month and season is characterized in our mind. 

The image of each month has been generalized to create a static image to establish its collective reputation. December is always dark and snowy, July is always hot and dry, while February is portrayed as a full month of winter, a time of hibernation, deep snow and howling wind. February becomes an abbreviated but intense survival test where only the strong survive. Sometimes February’s visit is tempered with warm weather and no measurable snow. So, having been visited by February each year of our life, what image appears in our mind when we think of February?

Reality is that each month demonstrates a flexibility in the character it portrays and together with the rest of the cast, summarizes that season’s show. A back up actor follows the same script, while using nuance, expression, and timing to elicit audience reaction. A Broadway play is always a different experience with a new lead actor.

Our impression of the month, yet to unfold, is really artistic expression. Each person who peers through the portal of February sees that view differently. Barely tolerable to some, this mid-winter month represents a never ending imprisonment in darkness and cold. Stripping away the emotion, February delivers a full hour and seven minutes of daylength in just twenty-eight days to flood the earth with light and shrink the long shadows that grew in the low winter sun.

The bright light of sunshine forces the darkness into retreat to make legible an early promissory note, guaranteeing the arrival of spring twenty days after February’s departure.

The leafless gray brown stands of trees, as seen in the distance as muted vertical brush strokes, now wear a dark maroon veil as color seeps from emerging buds to signal change is in the air. The increasing daylength promotes the flow of energy in the form of sugary sap to awaken the buds and give them their burnished blush. Freezing nights halt the flow of sap which resumes when the daytime temperature rises above freezing. Ice shrouded fine tree branches hanging just above the surface of the river are often broken during strong winds and by large shards of ice and debris carried downstream by raging flood waters. The broken ends drip with concentrated sugary sap and form long icicles during the cold night to provide a passing paddler with a sweet icy energy boosting treat.

Among the treetops, bald eagles and great horned owls are incubating eggs or brooding hatched chicks. Winter is now well aware its days are numbered when new life appears despite the inexhaustible supply of cold, snow and ice that remain in winter’s armory. Live eagle cams make it possible to watch a brooding eagle, covered with snow, faithfully await an early morning exchange with its partner. Both parents share brooding, feeding and incubating responsibility as they defy the threat of winter’s oppressive cold that stands opposed to emerging life.

Bird migration is well underway in February to brighten the stark frozen landscape, soon to be liberated by planetary position and tilt of the earth in relation to the sun. Brilliant colored warblers and waterfowl are the first to journey north to summer breeding grounds. Blue and green wing teal, ring neck ducks mingle with winter holdovers who are herded short distances by the vagary of unfavorable local weather. Small flocks of boldly colored male warblers light up the dull landscape and foliage as bright as a string of multicolored miniature lights hidden within the branches of a Christmas tree.

February fights a losing battle as the walls of a depleted winter fortress begins to crumble and the month surrenders days in frustration to become the shortest month of the year.

Though February is devoted completely to winter, it cannot conceal the increasing daylength nor suppress the awakening of life that begins before winter can exit the stage.

A male ring- necked duck in full breeding plumage, rests on a local pond during early migration north to traditional breeding grounds. Migration may be early or delayed, depending on the variable weather conditions each winter brings. 

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

It’s Carved In Stone

Article and photos by Joe Mish

Message from the early nineteenth century remains in place. Hand carved declaration memorializing the men involved in the construction of the bridge. No so different in style and material than petroglyphs from paleo times. Words replace symbols to convey a message deemed important to future travelers.

The stone plaque set in the fieldstone bridge over Cat Tail Brook is crudely chiseled with the date 1825 along with the name of the mason and men who directed its construction. 

The graves of the early settlers preserved in a small patch of land are marked with red shale stones, some with hand carved epitaph’s, other small, weathered stones barely decipherable, some messages completely eroded. 

A block of shale rests in the river with the inscription J N Stout along with the Roman numeral XVI. Well into the twentieth century, property lines were represented by rocks or trees with slash marks. 

The need to communicate is an innate human behavior, messages scribed on whatever canvas is available, whether it be scribbled on a napkin, roadside billboard, or graffiti on the side of a building. From the Chauvet Pont d’ arc caves of France and their well-preserved pictographs, to the Parsippany petroglyphs in north Jersey, each generation of humans, worldwide, expressed themselves in the most rudimentary ways, using whatever medium was on hand.  

My interest is in the paleo or pre-colonial people who lived in our area whose rationale for leaving signs and messages is no different than those seen today. Messages that were the precursor of books, told stories of the hunt or other rituals in pictographs, dendroglyphs and petroglyphs. Pictographs are paintings placed in a protected area, dendroglyphs were images carved into a tree who bark had been partially stripped, petroglyphs were figures carved or etched into stone, usually in the open for travelers to see. 

Just as the local Indians used trees to convey messages along travel paths, the desire for humans to communicate is as strong today as it was when paleo people walked the North and South Branch of the Raritan river. The search for petroglyphs is not confined to the realm of certified experts.

In the book, “Rock Art of Eastern North America”, the author notes the scarcity of primitive art in the eastern woodlands versus the numerous examples in the western states, primarily due to climate. As trees were the dominant canvasses of the woodlands, trees carved with dendroglyphs are not likely to be found. The rock strewn Sourland mountains would be a prime location for glyphs, while in the glacial scoured highlands of northern NJ, petroglyphs been authenticated.  

An example noted in the book explains dendroglyphs were located on well-travelled trails, river crossings and prominences. The topography of the land was also a factor as it restricted or directed travel around obstacles, along rivers or mountain trails. Humans as well as wildlife seek out paths of least resistance as well as places which provide a view. What traveler has not succumbed to the temptation to climb a huge boulder alongside a hiking trail? In paleo times that rock was a safe place to camp, seek refuge from a wolf, or ambush a deer. Some successful hunter might leave a mark to commemorate his luck. 

Without having read or heard of such a ritual, I would leave a coin where a deer fell to my arrow. I don’t know why I did that; no one will ever find that coin. Maybe a lingering primal behavior acted out to ensure my clan’s survival by telling another hunter, that the location was a good place to hunt. 

The South and North branch and Raritan rivers are prime places to look for petroglyphs on the shale cliffs. You are not likely to discover one, but certainly these would be the places to look. Indian artifacts abound and stories of local collectors are many. The cliffs protruding from the flood plain attracted passersby to the precipice, to see what they might see. We can only imagine a glyph carved into a nearby tree by the Unami clan, represented by the image of a turtle. Perhaps it marked territory, a place to camp or images of a turtle holding a tomahawk to signify a war party, as mentioned in the Rock Art book. Chance of finding artifacts at these outcroppings are greater than finding stone carvings.   

Knowing that our rivers were the highways of pre-colonial times, I cannot resist re-examining one particular, smooth red shale cliff, for the remains of an eroded petroglyph. That rare, smooth red shale canvas must have served as a primitive billboard with images of fish and deer taken by the Unami clan. I can’t find a sign, but I keep on looking at that cliff as if the imagined carvings were somehow transcribed to mental images perceived only by kindred spirits who traveled the same watery path.

I keep staring at this smooth cliff face along the river, hoping imagination will be the key to discovering an actual petroglyph. There is no way an early traveler could resist leaving a message on that unusual, smooth red shale tablet!
Further proof of the unbroken, innate need for humans to communicate along travel routes. Just as in paleo times a message board would be updated with symbols perhaps to show the results of a raiding party or successful hunt.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Forever Summer

Article and photos by Joe Mish

Fresh picked bright red dewberries, packed in open top containers, cooling in the shade on a partially submerged rock, in a shallow flowing stream, elbows its way to mind when thoughts of summer arise.
Cattails grow in profusion and provide food for humans and animals. Golden cattail pollen used as flour is a summer treat, while its roots are edible year round. Burned for entertainment or mosquito repellent, the fluff of the brown heads have been to stop bleeding from deep cuts.

An hour past dawn, the source of daylight was still obscured, as if the sun took a holiday and to honor its daily commitment, left its dimmest bulb to light the overcast mid-summer day. The reference points of shadow and light, used to mark the progress of the day, melted in compromise to obscure the passing of time. The temperature change from night to day, that stirs the wind, was on this day, unable to raise a breeze. The stillness and faded light were precursors to either rain or bright sun, as the saying goes, “a morning fog burns ere the noon”. Either way, this quintessential day defines the comfortable retreat into the natural harbor of deep summer.   

Summer may be considered the offspring of the coordinated efforts of winter, spring and autumn. All preparation for a time, when new life and old, can strengthen and renew energy spent on elemental survival. Summer temperatures reduce the energy cost of life to maintain its existence. A savings that allows imagination and creativity to be directed to places other than immediate survival and to accumulate warm memories to heat the cold days of winter.  

Stacking the wood shed with summer memories leaves no carbon footprint, is considered renewable and burns as an eternal flame. 

Images of fresh picked bright red dewberries, packed in open top containers, cooling in the shade on a partially submerged rock, in a shallow flowing stream, elbows its way to mind when thoughts of summer arise. Enough berries to make two batches of jam, used to spread summer throughout the year, to share with family and friends. 

The light show performed by fireflies, in the meadow along the river, is a legacy act that reaches back in time to childhood and a world of wonder. The purpose of the display, critical to the lightning bugs, is lost to the magic of tiny incandescent dots of yellow light, floating in the air above the darkened meadow. Magic is the honey tasted by the mind that initiates a journey of exploration. Its direction and depth as unpredictable as the choreography of this mid-summer light show.  

Cattails are another image stored in the summer album of memories and trademarks. They grew in profusion along with swarms of mosquitoes which would forage for fresh blood when the sun went down. The summer heat would force neighbors outside to sit on porch steps, their presence betrayed in the darkness by the red glow of their burning cigarettes. The smoke was a deterrent to the mosquitoes, though restricted to smokers and anyone immediately downstream. Through primitive oral history, the legacy of burning sun dried cattails to keep mosquitoes at bay and safely light fireworks was kept alive. Cattails would be cut and brought home, muddy dungarees a dead giveaway that you roamed beyond the territory deemed safe by mom. The price of the harvest was a lecture from mom about being swallowed up by quicksand in the swamps. Cattails were picked while still slightly green as they could be stored over winter without losing their fluff. Courting danger, I would scramble up to the neighbor’s low, flat garage roof then take a running leap onto our peaked garage roof and set the cattails out to dry. After a week on the garage roof aged the cattails were ready to be lit and fend off the nightly aerial attack and defend the blood supply. Waving the burning cattail produced a cloud of smoke and unlike the anemic volume of cigarette smoke, could be directed upwind to wash over the legs or neck. Aside from the favorable aroma and copious smoke, you were sanctioned to play with fire and produce your own light show by waving the glowing brown magic wand, to create the illusion of circles, figure eights and words, which disappeared as if using invisible ink.   

The images and memories contained in your summer archives are yours alone, collected at a moment when time stood still, indelibly etched, to be released when the right combination of summer conditions align.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Spring Flows Seamlessly Into Summer

Article and photos by Joe Mish

The gentle rain falling on the reflective water, lined with muted shades of gray and green foliage, combine to create a scene so peaceful, you must remember to take a next breath. 

The late spring rain continued without interruption into summer, though the shower only lasted two minutes. 

Somewhere within those two minutes, the earth’s position in its yearlong orbit around the sun, triggered changes in daylength. The change from spring to summer appears seamless though the end of one season and the beginning of the next is measured to the nanosecond. Life on earth has evolved to respond to the predictable ebb and flow of daylength. Light sensitive receptors direct chemical changes within the body affecting behavior and development as seen most obviously in trees and plants.   

The weeks before and after the arrival of summer hold the potential for producing magical moments of timeless beauty and peaceful retreat when nature takes a deep warm, relaxing breath and exhales.  

A whisper of mist and gentle rain partner to dim the light, hide the sun, and erase all perception of time. The chill of spring and warmth of summer agree to mediation, making either imperceptible to detect. The wind’s contribution is so minimal, the moisture and misty curtain of fog offer more than enough resistance to silence all sound and movement. The only detectable motion is that of an isolated leaf rising from genuflection, after the weight of accumulated moisture forced it to bow to gravity.  

On just such a day, when the world was huddled and dry and nature between breaths, I stowed my carbon fiber paddles, lightweight fishing rod into my Kevlar canoe, shouldered my pack and walked toward the river. The trail through the succession growth, transitioning from tilled crop field to woodlands, is hardly recognizable to a stranger despite years of use. Intentionally so, following a philosophy of, “leave no trace” my path roughly sought the shortest route, ever changing so slightly as shade and sun tolerant plants competed for dominance.  

Passing first through a canopy of red oak branches, spawn of the giant that stood tall for a century, the thin bare oak branches performed a scratchy tune on the boat’s hull which magnified the uncomfortable sound to disturb the silence. Once in the open, tufts of amber grass, darkened by the rain to a rusty orange color, took advantage of a once mowed path to dominate as if marking the center of a road. Rose hips, escaped from the garden, and multiflora rose, spread their tentacles across the path, redirecting travel to avoid the curved thorns and torn clothes.       

As the field grew, the occasional black walnut would tower above the spreading rose bushes, small red cedars, dried stalks of swamp milkweed and dogbane, to act as a lighthouse beacon marking the faint trail. 

Breaking free onto the open flood plain, the river came into view. Isolated sections of its banks retained a few sentinel trees interspersed by a variety of brush and wild celery acted as a tattered tapestry revealing patches of flowing water.  

The variety of trees and woody plants shared the same pale green color to suggest all were kindred spirits. In the distance looking down river, the fallow crop field allowed an unobstructed view beyond the bend in the river’s course, a quarter mile away. The green belt was notched at the bend by a tall American sycamore tree whose characteristic white trunk stood in sharp contrast as a neon landmark. Approaching the river at a breach in the eroded riverbank, I waded in and set the canoe on the still water below an island, which was once part of the pasture. The remains of tree stumps underwater, mid river, validated that the land was subject to the meandering river.  

I set my pack behind the center seat and tied it to the slotted gunnel on a length of paracord. One bent shaft paddle was unstowed and leaned across the front thwart. Once aboard, I sat for a long moment to feel the gentle current, energized by gravity, magically carrying me downstream into summer. The sight and sound of the water’s surface, dappled by sparse raindrops surging from the falling mist, was meditative. I leaned forward, paddle across my lap, head pulled deep into my hood, I peered out of an imaginary cave, dry and comfortable, satisfied to move at the pace of the slow current on a journey from spring into summer.  

Jack in the pulpit announces the coming of summer and the passing of another spring

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Raritan River Birthstone

Article and photos by Joe Mish

During one, six thousand year moment, in the eons of glacial expansion and retreat, the Queen of Rivers was born. So described by an early nineteenth century writer, inspired by the bucolic Raritan River. The beauty of the river’s pastural floodplain dotted with colorful native flowers and grasses, stood in contrast to the intermittent high, red shale cliffs. Spring floods scrubbed the red shale soil from its banks to turn the raging river into a semi solid crimson torrent. The contrast in color is dramatic where gravel lined upland streams tumble into the main river current.   

From sweet water freshet to the brackish tide water of its bay, the Raritan’s unimpeded flow expressed its seasonal moods in uninhibited water-colored brush strokes across the landscape, as if it were a living canvas.  

So, the Raritan River proper, as it is defined today, deserves the recognition of a natural wonder, a reference point in geological history, worthy of attention in a state marked by an ever changing manmade landscape. 

The Raritan’s headwaters arise from two major sources in the north, the South Branch from Budd Lake, and the North Branch from a swamp in Chester. The confluence of these two rivers join (in Branchburg) to form the Raritan River.

Facing upstream at the confluence, the river on the left enters from the south and is so named the South Branch, despite its origin in the north. The river on the right comes in from the north and is aptly named the North Branch.

If ever a natural wonder needed to be celebrated it would be the Raritan River. Toward that end I always imagined a rough stone marker of an age befitting the river queen’s origin be placed at the confluence, “the meeting place of waters”, Tuck-ramma-hacking”. Informal and primitive to match the uninhibited behavior of this ancient watercourse, a perfect partner to mark the celebrated river’s place of birth: a monument that will be submerged during spring floods and bear the scars of ice flows.  

I imagine a bronze plaque bearing the name of the river and its birthdate set among petroglyphs of animal tracks and wild flowers carved into the stone by local artists to represent the community the river serves.  

The spot for eventual placement of a “birthplace of the Raritan” marker

Bringing a dream to reality often turns to fantasy. At least now an attempt is being made to explore the possibility of placing such a stone at the apex of the North and South Branch Rivers. Through a network of well-placed friends, we have approached the state with this request to determine feasibility. A labyrinth of permits and permissions remains to be navigated if given conditional approval. At the very least, the ship has left the dock and we will soon learn if it is seaworthy.  

A stone, not yet chosen, has been promised and placement will be included. The river deserves to have a name and birthstone. Erroneously, the North Branch has official signage that declares it to be the Raritan River. If nothing else, it would be a worthy accomplishment to establish the correct identity.  

“Like a pine tree linin’ the windin’ road, I’ve got a name, I’ve got a name…..” go the lyrics to a song. What is in a name is respect. It is our nature to treat anonymity differently than familiarity.  Walk through a field, not knowing one plant from another, go from point A to point B and we naturally take a straight-line course. Eyes planted on the far side, anything in the way gets stepped upon. Guarantee that if a plant is identified to the trekker, whether it be fleabane or little bluestem, the path will be adjusted to avoid stepping on the now identified plant. So it is with names that emerge from anonymity, they project some kindred link that brings conscious thought to bear. A good reason to identify the Queen of Rivers and engender some new found respect for a natural wonder that will be here after we and our kin are long gone.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Memories are Where You First Met Them

Article and photos by Joe Mish

This maroon shale cliff forming the river’s bend, serves as a memory retrieval bank for times gone by. I was canoeing with my late friend Jimmy, who caught and released a feisty smallmouth bass just upstream of that shale prominence. Memory storage may be why the shore of a river is referred to as a ‘bank’.

Over the course of time everything we experience is stored as a memory. Having limited capacity for recall, it is the most impactful memories that linger. By no means are memories ever lost, they are stored in pristine condition in unconscious archives. The key to recovery can be a scent, sight or a sound. Prompted by clues hidden in unrelated conversations, a single phrase or word can bring an experience back into sharp focus. Old, faded photographs of no particular beauty or composition can instantly bring the past into laser focus as the prompts to our memories are as individual as fingerprints.

So it is that each time I paddle the river, it becomes a physical journey through the accumulated memories collected over hundreds of miles, paddled on the same stretch of river. Each trip is like opening the old family album to add new photographs and seeing the older images as the pages are turned. It is as if a gravitational pull compels you to linger a bit longer in the realm of old memories.

There is hardly a location on the river that does not hold a memory for me. Digital images and photographs, abound, however, it is being present on the river that provides access to memories not captured by the camera or pushed aside by the endless flow of freshly minted memories.

Every time I pass the drainage above the mouth of Pleasant Run, my mind immediately plays the video of the snowy winter day I pulled out of the current into the safe harbor of a drainage stream to warm my hands under my arms. The heavy snow quickly covered me and my boat as I leaned forward, folded arms resting on my thighs. I felt safe and comfortable as the canoe was stabilized in the heavy slush and well within the six-foot-wide drainage stream away from the main current. The snow was almost a foot deep along the high bank and to my surprise a dark brown mink was porpoising through the deep snow toward the drainage and my canoe. The mink came within arm’s reach before it realized the convenient bridge and large lump of snow was an existential threat.

One summer day I had my young daughter in the bow of my canoe, as we approached the tower line near home, a large fish jumped clear of the water, hit the gallon jug of juice she was holding, bounced off the opposite gunnel and fell back into the river. Her expression was priceless, as was mine, to witness a scene that could only happen in a cartoon. Can’t pass under that tower line without reliving that moment! Though many years have passed, the clarity and even the emotion of that comedy is still retained in the tower line archives.

On an initiation canoe trip with my four-year-old grandson, I paddled close to a high shale cliff, as in my experience cliffs were a major attraction to young boys. Sure enough, Caleb was impressed and asked how to get to the top. Before I could answer I noticed a large animal on the narrow shelf at water’s edge below the cliff. We closed in on a supersized beaver munching some delicate vines growing on the cliff face. The beaver slowly moved into deeper water but not before swimming on the surface a few yards in front of the canoe. You will not be able to see it, but when I pass that cliff, it reveals a crystal-clear video of that priceless moment. Of course, the next day Caleb never mentioned the beaver to mom but was totally impressed by Grampy carrying the canoe over his head.

One early spring day after ice-out, the river was running high, and the only ice that remained was found in deep cuts into the bank where trees were washed away. As I rounded a sharp bend in the river, I kept about three feet off the left bank to avoid the main current. Immediately on my left was a large ice-covered cove about twelve feet into the high vertical bank. I could not believe what I saw! Standing in sharp contrast to the empty expanse of graying ice, was an otter!  As it ran toward me, I realized its only escape route was into the water next to my canoe. At less than two feet away I watched the otter dive into the fast-moving muddy water in the narrow space between my boat and the ice shelf. I thought I was hallucinating, perhaps hypothermic. I never saw an otter on the river before or since. Consider, this bend in the river projects the memory of my close encounter with an otter, exclusively for me. It is my personal archive, available to no one else.

Memories are where you first met them, they are safe from prying eyes and remain where you last left them. The storage capacity is infinite and the keys to unlock them are everywhere.

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

Fencing Hummers

Article and photos by Joe Mish

A small patch of red monarda grew wild in one corner of the fenced in garden, survivors of at least one deer who decided their minty flavor to be a perfect palate cleanser.  Much to the dismay of the late season hummingbirds, their over browsed food source left fewer opportunities for nourishment at a critical time, just prior to migration south.

The ownership of this last loaf of bread on the shelf, further intensified the territorial disputes that typically take place among hummers.

A young of the year male was feeding on the monarda, his dining strategy was to circle to the right, probing each scarlet tubule, then pulling back to hover for a moment, before repeating the flight pattern around the next floral head. Suddenly a second immature male appeared and the two began aerial acrobatics almost too fast to follow. Each bird disputed the property claim of the other. After close face to face sparring, they took off out of sight, separated by no more than a few inches.

It was impossible to differentiate one darting hummer from another, though the aggressor appeared to be the same bird, how many different challengers was in question.

Five minutes later another hummer appeared and began to feed with uncharacteristic speed, as if knowingly violating another’s territory, stealing as much as it could before the expected challenge from the self-proclaimed owner.

As expected, the challenge ensued. This time the interloper was inside the garden fence while the claim owner hovered outside the fence. So intense was their dispute, each floated in place commencing an aerial duel, with their needle like beaks, separated by the fence. It was a high noon showdown with unloaded weapons, as neither could be intimidated nor vanquished. The spectacle continued for a full minute until the aggressor realized the futility of his efforts and flew over the wire barrier to engage the trespasser. The two fencers immediately dropped their foils in favor of high aerial maneuvers to settle this territorial dispute.

While most hummingbird disputes consist of posturing, and aggressive aerial pursuits end harmlessly, another unexpected threat targeting hummers lurks among the flowers. The brown Asian preying mantis, an introduced species, will on occasion attempt to take and kill an unsuspecting hummer.  Having read about the relationship of mantis and hummer, it seemed a rare occurrence of low probability until one early September afternoon.

A female hummer was feeding on the blooms of native red cardinal flower. Being aware of how individual hummers have their own feeding strategy, circling always to the right or left, pulling back for a moment before going on to the next flower or just moving on to the next bloom without a slightest hesitation, I noticed something odd about this hummer. She seemed to take sideways glances diverting attention from the business at hand. Sure enough, there was the focus of her attention. A light brown Asian preying mantis whose body length exceeded that of the hummer. Likewise the mantis appeared aware of the hummer and waited to strike. As the hummer worked the flower, she always maintained awareness of the mantis and at one point faced it directly. All ended well for the hummer, though it is easy to imagine a new fledged hummer falling victim to this insect predator.

Two hummers in this image, one perched, the other making an intimidating fly by.

As delicate and diminutive as hummingbirds appear, they are tough, aggressive creatures whose late summer-early fall southward migration defies the imagination. Hummers are as close to magic and myth as anything in nature. The ability to hover and maneuver with almost invisible wings and float in the air probing brilliantly colored flowers, while robed in iridescent feathers that seem more metallic than organic and change color with movement, surely earns mythical status. As is within a hummer’s personality, it will often initiate a face face introduction as it stays suspended in mid air inches from your nose, looking directly in your eyes. It is a wild thought that the hummer has captured the image of your face as readily as you hold his image in memory, to be recalled and reviewed, perhaps in a future pleasant dream, whose memory fades upon waking, leaving only the hint of a smile on your lips.  

Author Joe Mish has been running wild in New Jersey since childhood when he found ways to escape his mother’s watchful eyes. He continues to trek the swamps, rivers and thickets seeking to share, with the residents and visitors, all of the state’s natural beauty hidden within full view. To read more of his writing and view more of his gorgeous photographs visit Winter Bear Rising, his wordpress blog. Joe’s series “Nature on the Raritan, Hidden in Plain View” runs monthly as part of the LRWP “Voices of the Watershed” series. Writing and photos used with permission from the author. Contact jjmish57@msn.com.

See more articles and photos at winterbearrising.wordpress.com

1 2 3 7