Welcome Spring

“Naturalist’s Eye” column for Pennsylvania Game News, March, 2007

I’ve closed our gate behind me after crossing the Little Juniata River and the main railroad line from New York to Chicago. Almost immediately I step into a different, older world this breezy, blue-skied day in late March.

For weeks spring has played with us, blowing first warm and then cold, but today spring has truly arrived. Everything shines in our north-facing hollow–the leaf duff, the stream, the hemlock needles, the tree trunks, the few dried, beige leaves still clinging to the American beech trees, the moss, the Christmas and evergreen woodferns, the rhododendron leaves. Still, gray and black, brown, beige, and green are the predominant colors of our hollow before spring bursts out with flowering trees, shrubs, and wildflowers of every imaginable color, giving solace to my color-starved eyes.

I start up the first steep stretch of our mile-and-a-half access road where rocks have slid into the road. I pick one up and notice how

It gathers light, [...]
a mountain in miniature, notches and ridges
carved by weather, strata and stria,
the pressure of time,

as Barbara Crooker writes in her poem “Geology.”

That time is almost beyond belief. The dark red rock outcropping on the right side of our road, which has spewed out the rocks, is part of the Juniata Formation. Although it is the “newest” formation in the Ordovician System, it dates from 360 million years ago. Because the Juniata Formation is composed of a softer sandstone than either Sapsucker Ridge on the right or Laurel Ridge on the left, our small stream was able to develop and form our hollow.

Laurel Ridge is made up of rock even older than the Juniata Formation, called the Bald Eagle Formation, which is also a sandstone in the Ordovician System. Sapsucker Ridge is younger rock–Tuscarora quartzite in the Silurian System.

Unfortunately, the Juniata sandstone soil is unstable. In the 1970s, geologists from Penn State studied and mapped numerous fracture traces and lineaments in the hollow. These fracture traces and lineaments are faults in the underlying rock structures that conduct water and cause slope instability, rapid runoff, and earth slide conditions. Most springs we have a few small slides into the road, but so far there have been none this year. Still, it is easy to see the patch of muddy bank where nothing much grows because of the frequent slides.

At this time of year, when the vegetation is not as dense, several large, rectangular stone blocks, in a circular area 20 feet across, are visible on the far side of the stream. Those blocks are all that is left of a cistern that was built in 1850 by the Pennsylvania Railroad to supply water for the steam locomotives using the new railroad line between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The rest was washed away in the great flood of 1936.

As I near the top of the steep stretch and round the bend, I fully enter into the life of the hollow, leaving all sight and sound of civilization behind me. The first rhododendron appears down by the stream, and the first white pines and hemlocks grow on either side of the road, casting dappled shade in the mostly deciduous forest.

White pine cones cover the road wherever a white pine grows, and large clusters of cones still dangle from its topmost branches like Christmas decorations that hang too long on doorways. American basswood, tulip poplar, and cucumber magnolia trees stand straight and tall along the road and beside the stream. While tulip tree seeds, beige-colored and shaped like tulip flowers, still cling to their branches, providing black-capped chickadee and tufted titmouse food throughout the winter. The remnants of cucumber magnolia and basswood seeds have long been crushed into the road and dropped into the leaf duff.

Fallen trees, downed by hurricane, wind, and old age lie rugged in thick, green moss on the mountain slopes. Flat, wild hydrangea seed heads hang from dried branches on the steep road bank where they are safe from deer browsing. So too are clusters of rhododendron sprouts that form a deep green skirt around a moss-covered log.

A few invasives have made it up the road–Norway maples near the bottom, a Japanese barberry here, a privet there. And, of course, garlic mustard is already rearing its ugly head. But the hollow mostly supports native trees, shrubs, and wildflowers.

The stream, filled with winter runoff, tumbles over and around elevated rocks. One rock, shaped like a surf board, creates a miniature waterfall. I stop to sit beside the stream, my back against my favorite basswood tree, and listen to the music of the water. Across the stream, a recently uprooted hemlock tree sprawls over two oak trees it brought down with it when it fell.

A chipmunk dashes across the road. Then another. They first emerged in February to mate, and now they are out for good.

An elegant, cream-bordered, dark brown mourning cloak glides above the stream, and three reddish-brown, black-and-orange Compton tortoiseshells flutter over the road. Both butterflies are harbingers of spring. They overwinter as adults and share the genus Nymphalia with Milbert’s tortoiseshell. Mourning cloaks, known as Camberwell beauties in England, live throughout North America and west through Eurasia in almost any habitat. Compton tortoiseshells, named after Compton County in Quebec, prefer the woods and are not as cosmopolitan as their cousins, ranging across the northern United States and southern Canada.

In what our late neighbor, Margaret, called “the dark place,” thick with hemlocks, a moss-covered nurse log nurtures two hemlock seedlings. Large beeches share this section of the forest with the hemlocks. I peer down the steep bank and watch the stream shoot over rock ledges wedged between the bank and the mountainside, while a winter wren, which has spent the winter here, calls and bounces like a child’s windup toy. This is the wildest part of the hollow with the most old-growth characteristics.

Beyond the dark place, only a scattering of hemlocks and a few white pines loom amid the deciduous trees, including a steady lineup of mature beeches. If you know where to look, a few small ironwood or hornbeams grow along the road. Other deciduous trees include white ash, sugar and red maples, black cherry, chestnut, red, scarlet and white oaks.

A large white oak tree looms on a bluff above the road. This most unnatural flat area was leveled off in 1813 to form a charcoal hearth, one of dozens of such places in the hollow and on surrounding ridges where colliers, employed by the local iron company, piled up log billets into dome-shaped mounds, covered them with earth, and slowly burned them down into charcoal. Then they hauled the charcoal to an iron-making community at the bottom of our mountain, where they used it for forge fires. The iron industry based here and in other nearby communities clearcut the mountain in 1813 and again in the 1840s to supply charcoal for the forges. Even today the charcoal is evident when I stick my finger into the soil. This particular hearth nurtures several spring wildflowers such as round-leaved violets, round-lobed hepaticas and jack-in-the-pulpits.

At the base of the hearth, one of several side streams that flow off Sapsucker Ridge, this one along what we call Pit Mound Trail, disappears under a road grate and joins the main stream. The trail is named for the many large, uprooted trees whose roots pull up mounds of earth and leave a pit below. Locally, folks refer to them as “Indian graves,” but instead of places for the dead, these pit mounds create conditions for new life. By mixing zones of subsoil with topsoil, they produce rich micro-habitats where patches of rich, herbaceous understory plants thrive on the forest floor.

Above Pit Mound Trail on the Laurel Ridge side, the first mountain laurel appears. More upland hardwoods, especially the oaks, abound. One large snag, hoary with age and lichens, contains five old pileated woodpecker holes. Up Sapsucker Ridge to the right is a large sugar maple. Young black birch trees grow out of the road bank, and I break off a fresh branch to smell the “chewing gum tree,” as our granddaughter Eva calls it. That same wintergreen flavor also permeates the evergreen teaberry leaves and bright red berries growing on top of the road bank.

Still another exercise in spicy aroma are the many spicebushes growing in the understory on the flattened, floodplain-like area beside the stream. Again, scoring a fresh twig with my fingernail releases the allspice smell of this attractive shrub. Because the hollow is not so steep during its last half mile, it receives more sunshine and is warmer, which encourages the difference in forest composition. Clubmosses green the road bank, along with patches of partridgeberry, still sporting twin red berries.

The stream has shrunk and quieted as I reach the forks. I am close to its origins now. Another side stream leads past the abandoned home of our deceased neighbor, Margaret, and the parking lot my husband Bruce built for our hunters, and it seeps from the hillside across from the lot.

But I continue up the left fork in our road along the stream. A brown creeper calls and forages above the forks. The last quarter of a mile the road bank on my left harbors several patches of trailing arbutus, the shining, evergreen leaves a promise of the pink-and-white, sweetly-scented flowers to come. A cluster of large white pines again paves the road with crushed pine cones. Along the now trickle of a stream, the only grove of big-leaf aspens grow. Half uprooted across our old corral fence over the stream, a willow displays its gleaming, gray pussies. In the middle of the driveway, the first coltsfoots have turned their butter-yellow disks to the warm sunshine.

I pick my way across the stream and push through the cattails of our small wetland. From there, I follow the thin stream of water up First Field where it gushes out of the ground, gurgling its welcome to spring.
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Photos: eastern chipmunk; mourning cloak butterfly. Both taken in Plummer’s Hollow in March, 2006 by Dave Bonta.

In Search of Old-Growth

Every time our son Dave suggests a field trip in search of old-growth forests, I get nervous. I also grab my walking stick. That’s because these rumored old-growth remnants are always on steep rocky slopes that discouraged loggers back in the late 1800s. They also discourage me. Navigating up boulder-strewn mountainsides is not my strong suit.

Dave first tested my mettle back in late February of 2002. He had been intrigued by a research paper entitled “Relating Land-use History and Climate to the Dendroecology of a 326-year-old Quercus prinus Talus Slope Forest,” by Charles M. Ruffner and Marc D. Abrams of Penn State University. It wasn’t so much the subject matter that caught his attention but the location of the forest–on the top of Thickhead Mountain above the Detweiler Run Natural Area in Rothrock State Forest. The 463-acre old-growth hemlock/white pine forest in the natural area is one of our favorite places in Pennsylvania. Yet somewhere high above it grows a 65-acre old-growth chestnut oak forest. We had to see it!

Accompanying the article was a rough map of the area. Dave and my husband Bruce studied that map, cracked out the corresponding topographical map, and carefully plotted our route via gravel roads to the closest access point. The winter of 2002 had been snow-free, and we knew that the forest roads would be open so off we went one sunny day.

We left our car by the side of the road and bushwacked through the woods near the rocky mountaintop that rapidly became a talus slope. After carefully picking my way over and around rocks for a half-mile and slowing down the men, I told them to go ahead. I would sit on a rock and wait for them. They weren’t gone for more than a few minutes before the talus slope erupted with chasing, courting chipmunks, providing great entertainment for me during my long wait.

After an hour the sun disappeared and the day turned gray and damp. I put on a second jacket and pulled up the hood. Canada geese honked in the distance and, as the sky darkened, a pair of great horned owls hooted. A couple raindrops pinged down. Then more raindrops fell. Still there was no sign of the men.

I looked around for shelter and spied a white pine tree that appeared to be denser than the others. Just as I headed toward it, I heard Bruce calling to me. They never had found the old-growth. As cold rain pelted down, we made our slow way back to the car, getting thoroughly soaked in the process.

Since we hadn’t actually found the site, I took solace in reading the description of it in the Ruffner/Abrams paper. The “extreme talus conditions of the site [had] prevented exploitation of the timber resources” by charcoal and logging operations. Fairly well-distributed old growth chestnut oak trees dominate the overstory while black birch, red maple, and black gum represent understory trees. “The stand,” they write, “is characterized by low-branching, twisted, sparse-crowned individuals typical of old-growth forests.”Of course, old-growth oak forests on poor sites, such as dry talus slopes, don’t look like old-growth on well-watered and fertile sites. “More important than size,” says eastern old-growth guru Robert Leverett in an Orion article by Tom Horton, “are [the trees'] tops, broken and contorted, flattened in broccoli shapes, craggy limbs devoid of the fine, twiggy branching of younger trees.” Leverett also looks for thick moss growing several feet up a tree because he says that it takes moss centuries to grow half an inch thick.

Such a description was in our minds when we set out on our next search for old-growth forest last November. Ecologist Beth Brokaw, working on the Huntingdon County Natural Heritage Inventory for the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy, had discovered old-growth characteristics in another portion of Rothrock State Forest, what she called the Seven Stars Biodiversity Area. That was only 20 miles from our home and on a brilliant autumn day we went off again in search of old-growth. This time we had more precise directions, we thought.

We took a road that climbed up the side of Tussey Mountain from Colerain and afforded lovely views of the valley below. After several miles of gravel road, we reached the Seven Stars BDA. Dave had been eyeballing the trees above the road on a steep slope strewn with large boulders. Many large chestnut oaks had contorted shapes and broccoli tops. A few of the largest trees had thick moss several feet up their trunks. To me it looked like a troll’s forest and unlike any forest I had seen in Pennsylvania.

“It won’t bring in the ecotourists,” Dave said.

Once again, though, we had looked in the wrong place. It was the forest below the road that most interested Brokaw. That forest had fewer boulders and was more diverse with a fair number of large tulip trees, cucumber magnolias, black gums, and chestnut, red, and white oaks. It also had several charcoal flats and the remains of an old charcoal haul road. Tom Thwaites, author of Fifty Hikes in Central Pennsylvania, maintained that both the flats and the road were evidence that trees had been cut to fuel the Colerain Forges from 1805 to 1850. Could trees not much over 150 years in age be old-growth, Thwaites asked?

“Second growth can be considered old-growth,” Dave said, “depending on how you define ‘old.’ The minimum definition used by Marc Abrams calls for simply a majority of canopy-height trees over 150 years old. But the more standard definition of an old-growth stand is that the median age of canopy height trees of any given species should be half the normal expected lifetime of that species.” Since the life span of chestnut oak trees is 200 to 300 years old, 150-year-old chestnut oak trees could be considered old-growth.

Brokaw, on a field trip she led to the area late in November, told us that she had talked to a forester from Rothrock who had mentioned that there might be pockets of old-growth chestnut oak in the area, but that most of the forest was maturing second growth. If left alone, it would attain old-growth status in not too many more years.But who would decide when it had crossed the line? Leverett contends, in an article he wrote called “Old-Growth Forests of the Northeast,” that “…there is never a point when a forest becomes clearly identifiable as old-growth… [because] forests do not progress toward the old-growth phase via a single path.” He and other old-growth researchers are finding that different kinds of eastern forest age in different ways. For instance, old-growth oak and hickory forests are probably impacted by wind and fire disturbance and may not have thick organic soil layers like old-growth conifer forests.

Then, too, many anthropogenic changes have been wrought on the eastern forests. Original Appalachian oak sites, such as the Ruffner/Abrams research plot, were also dominated by American chestnuts and were called, by earlier researchers, oak-chestnut forests. Today the chestnut component is gone.

Size is also not a reliable indicator. Big trees are not necessarily old trees as we found out on still another old-growth expedition. This time we decided to visit an old-growth site in a state forest natural area, one that I had been told years ago was difficult to reach via a steep powerline right-of-way and not terribly worthwhile. On the other hand, Chuck Fergus, in his excellent and recently-published book Natural Pennsylvania: Exploring the State Forest Natural Areas, had given alternate, more accessible directions to the Mt. Logan Natural Area in Bald Eagle State Forest. Dave was keen to see the place, and I must admit that I hadn’t read Fergus’s account of the site as carefully as I might have. Luckily, though, I did remember my walking stick and Bruce’s.

After a bumpy ride to the end of Nittany Ridge Road, we parked the car and followed a deeply-rutted, mud and water-filled old road, passing two ephemeral ponds on the right. Just before we reached the blue-blazed Winchester Trail, I spotted a porcupine walking along a parallel white pine branch above the road. Then, as we started up the trail, a noise to my right alerted me to another porcupine, high in a large oak tree, peering down at us. Already, this seemed like a great place.

At first the trail was easy. I admired the white pine regeneration in the forest even as the mountain slope steepened and more and more rocks appeared. Ever upward the trail went to over 2100 feet. It wasn’t the ascent so much as the rocks themselves that slowed me down. How would I ever get down in one piece? Still, I persevered.

When we reached the base of the crest, I was almost defeated. Layers of Tuscarora quartzite formed a hogback 20-feet-high and there was no way around it. The blue blazes snaked back and forth up the rocks. Dave had long ago reached the crest. Comfortably seated on the rocky top, his back against a white pine, he egged us on. My walking stick was no help at all. I had to use my hands to pull myself up, and I was a quivering mass of nerves by the time I reached the top. That was when I looked at Fergus’s account more carefully. “The rock [Tuscarora quartzite] is a pale tan, almost white, and on top of Mt. Logan it stands in low cliffs ten to twenty feet in height. Below the cliffs lie boulder fields, also known as talus slopes: jumbled, tilted, clack-together slabs ranging in size from dictionaries to pool tables.” Exactly.We sat on the crest to eat our bag lunches as turkey vultures floated past and we enjoyed a view of blue mountains through the trees. The forest had been silent on our way up the trail, but once we reached the summit we could faintly hear the traffic from U.S. 220’s four-lane, limited express highway to Lock Haven below us.

Somewhere below us also was the old-growth hemlock forest. I groaned when I saw that it too was strewn with boulders. I not only struggled over rocks but through almost impenetrable thickets of mountain laurel. I made it to the edge of the old-growth, and once more found a rock while the men continued on. Still, I did see the difference between the surrounding second-growth oak and the old-growth hemlock. Thick, thick layers of moss covered the leaf and needle duff on and between the rocks. Long ago fallen large trees were hoary with moss and the live trees had the reddish-brown bark of old-growth hemlock.

Bruce soon joined me as Dave went farther afield to explore the 50-acre site. As we sat under the swaying hemlocks waiting for him, a common raven croaked past. Then we heard the clear “fee-bee” of black-capped chickadees and three surrounded us and scolded “dee-dee-dee.” No doubt humans were a novelty to them in this remote place. We saw no sign of deer. Surely no self-respecting deer would risk their graceful, thin legs in such a pile of rocks. A coyote would, though, and we found a pile of very fresh coyote scat.

“This is what I wanted to see,” Dave said when he returned. “This is what our mountain probably once looked like.”

How I got back down the mountain is probably better left unsaid. I did make it on my own after I inched my way off the crest with Bruce’s assistance. Otherwise, I blessed my walking stick many times and made a vow (as I have on other trips) that if I made it safely back, I would never again climb a steep, rocky trail.

On the other hand, seeing more “old-growth” is a mighty motivator. “Time travel,” Dave calls it.