Thin blue Lines

 

Thin Blue Lines

A plaque, inset in a concrete bridge constructed in 1923, spans the nameless stream, which now appears on the map as a thin blue line.

Its name long forgotten, an anonymous thin blue line drawn on the map comes to life.

The last image shows the stream as it exists today, just before it empties into the South Branch of the Raritan.

If all the water that ever flowed from the Raritan river drainage could be measured, its contribution to the depth of the ocean would be impressive. Think of that watershed as a collection agency for the world’s oceans.

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The South Branch flows into the confluence from the right, the North Branch from the left. They combine to form the Raritan River. This natural formation was an important landmark to the Lenape Tribe, which referred to this place as Tucca-Ramma-Hacking, “the meeting place of waters.”

 

An aerial view of the Raritan River clearly shows its two main branches, the South Branch and the North Branch. From the perspective of the confluence, its two main branches get their name, despite both arising north of their meeting place. The confluence marks the beginning of the Raritan River.

 

A closer look reveals the larger tributaries which feed the main branches; Rockaway creek, Black river/Lamington River and the Neshanic River, all of which are clearly noted on maps.

 

No less important are the numerous smaller brooks and creeks whose contributions are significant and whose names may appear only on old maps or engraved on marble plaques set in structures that bridge their banks. Peter’s brook, Chambers brook, Pleasant Run, Prescott Brook, Assicong Creek, Minneakoning Creek, Holland Brook and the First, Second and Third Neshanic Rivers, are identified on some maps though only Holland Brook has one sign along its nine mile winding course. Hoopstick and Bushkill are lesser known streams, within plain view, that bear no identifying signage and are often represented as nameless blue lines.

 

There are dozens more minor streams whose names appear nowhere except in obscure archives. Each one eventually feeds not the Raritan or its two main branches above the confluence. Knowing someone’s name is a sign of respect.

 

Calling someone by the wrong name can be embarrassing. However, the signs that misidentify the North Branch of the Raritan River as the Raritan River proper, have failed to embarrass those responsible for posting such signs.

 

Many smaller seeps and springs whose names have been lost to the ages add to the accumulated flow. Driving along the Lamington River for instance, there are endless watery traces arising from springs within the woods that empty into larger tributaries. Many are just moist creases worn through the soil over time, which collect rainwater and snowmelt to supplement the downstream daily flow.

 

Maps show endless springs, which make the cartographers final draft as thin blue lines. Often a network of converging shorter lines, each with a defined beginning, join to form larger streams like Pleasant Run and Holland brook.

 

Obscure water sources fascinate me simply because their anonymity and remote locations arouse my curiosity about the natural communities that might exist in such rarely visited places. Their presence represents a convergence of habitat types that attract birds and wildlife. Though they bear no labels to honor their faithful contribution to the next blue line and ultimate confluence, their importance must not be overlooked.

 

Many springs which appeared on old maps, no longer exist, eliminated by construction of sewer lines or otherwise diverted or filled in. As maps are revised and generations fade, these streams exist only in a cartographer’s archive.

 

My appreciation for these disappearing thin blue lines was heightened when I recently discovered that as a kid I walked over Slingtail brook every day on the way to school. At some point this little stream which bore a name, was diverted through a sewer line under the pavement. More amazing, even older residents had no memory of that stream, its presence and name lost to the ages. I did find a reference to Slingtail Brook in the Woodbridge, New Jersey newspaper archives dated 1939. The property through which a portion of the stream flowed was up for sale. A clause by the seller stipulated the brook not be diverted or covered over.

 

“Conveyance will be made subject to the following condition: That the course of Slingtail Brook as now existent, be not changed or diverted from its course or that said stream and flow of water therein be not blockaded, dammed or otherwise restricted.

Take further notice that the Township ………… “

Fords Beacon, May 12, 1939”

 

Somewhere in time the requirement that Slingtail remain unmolested, was lost to progress and legal wrangling. Such is the fate of so many smaller streams, especially when their names only exist in oral history and no signage marks there presence.

 

 

 

One small trickle of a stream that has miraculously retained its nature and name, is Cattail Brook.

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Cattail brook arises from a convergence of network of bubbling springs, supplemented by runoff from rain and snowfall. It begins as hardly more than a trickle, directed by gravity, from the south facing ridge of the heavily wooded Sourland Mountains, near East Amwell, NJ. Cattail brook gives birth to Rock Brook, a tumultuous and moody stream that joins the more sedate Bedens Brook on its way to the Millstone River. The Millstone joins with the Raritan River to make its final contribution to the earth’s deep blue oceans.

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Rock Brook derives its character from the influence of gravity and its bed of stone, which can change its mood from this idyllic mountain brook into a raging torrent

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Where water trickled most of the year, a biblical flood now ensued on Rock Brook.

 

An extended winter freeze, preserving snow from a previous storm beyond its expected stay, was interrupted by a thaw and heavy rain. The melting snow joined the torrential downpour as it flowed over frozen ground to collect in every shallow crease leading to the river. The water’s velocity was enhanced by the decreasing gradient of deep well worn pathways etched into the earth.

 

 

The banks of successfully larger streams barely contained the accumulation of water delivered from the network of anonymous thin blue lines. Acting as a single entity, the collection agency, if you will, of the Raritan River drainage, faithfully delivered its contribution of sweet water to the world’s salty oceans.

 

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The Raritan River becomes the Raritan Bay downstream of the New Jersey Garden State Parkway Bridge. With a poetic flourish, the salt water bay and lower Raritan River are stained blue, saturated with the blue ink used to represent the thousands of nameless pale blue lines drawn on maps of the extensive Raritan River watershed.

Aerial images taken on flight provided by Lighthawk compliments of No Water No Life

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By the Light of the Silvery Spring Moon

Along the South Branch

March 2020

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In the dark of night or by the light of a full moon, screech owls are on the prowl for food. Spring peepers sound a dinner bell for a hungry owl and are the perfect size for the diminutive screech owl.

By the Light of the Silvery Spring Moon

The last full moon of winter rose in the night sky to escape the clouds which hung just above the horizon. As the moon passed above this dark velvet curtain, an infinite army of dark shadows suddenly appeared and stood tall in contrast to the silver-gray tinted background. Though the moon light turned night into day, all color melted into shades of gray.

 

A chorus of spring peepers provided backup music to solo performances by pickerel frogs, toads and green frogs. The sound ebbed and flowed with brief moments of sudden silence as if to gather audience attention. The amphibian love fest seemed heightened by the silvery mood light hovering high above. The calls professing infinite amphibian love, also attract predators whose love extends only to a dietary delight. The flash of a low flying owl, was revealed as moonlight reflected off its white under feathers during a sharp turn. This aerial pirouette coincided with a dead silence from the chorus of frogs. When the sounds of love returned, haltingly at first, then to full volume, it was impossible to tell if there was now one less second tenor.

 

Turning back from the meadow, I began to scan the moonlit surface of the gently flowing river. Any disturbance in the perfectly smooth, glass-like water surface would reveal the presence of some otherwise elusive creature or unfolding drama. Locally common aquatic furbearers, mink, beaver, muskrat, along with land dwellers, especially raccoon, are most active at night and may be occasionally be seen.

 

There was a substantial inventory of sticks and barely exposed rocks causing irregularities in the smooth water that had to be checked off as false positives It became a game of concentration to recall which disturbance to ignore. One sure sign of interest is the half circle pattern of ripples moving out from the shore, perpendicular to the water flow. Many a muskrat leaving its submerged bank den will send telltale ripples to preface its appearance. Same goes for mink or raccoon investigating nooks and crannies in the labyrinth of tree roots. One night, a large wake appeared to reveal the presence of a barge size raccoon, paddling from shore to island. The moonlight revealed a perfectly dry ball of fur, slowly swimming, as if to not get its hair wet. It soon disappeared into the deep shadows of the island’s trees.

 

Another moonlit night, during very low water, the smooth water flow was interrupted by something walking from shore to island a distance away and partially obscured by branches. I fully expected to see a deer as its relatively long legs dismissed the possibility of a raccoon. I was shocked to see a fox walking in the water. The digital image captured is visual blur but clearly shows a red fox willing to get its feet wet for something its nose demanded to investigate.

 

Though the natural world is a never ending, non-stop feature film, we see only out of context isolated frames which are inadequate to understand the complexity and co-dependence of the natural community of which we are an inseparable part.

 

The light of a full moon becomes the movie projector used to provide an opportunity to see what goes on in the dark of night and add needed perspective to our knowledge of the natural world.

 

Note some moon fun facts. The diameter of the moon is less than the width of the United States. A case of “objects in the mirror appear closer than they really are.” The moon’s axial rotation matches exactly the time it takes to orbit the earth. The moon is capable of raising and lowering the sea level, triggering migrations and influencing animal and human behavior. Bird migrations are associated with the full moon and in the case of woodcock, provide a well-lit stage for a display of early spring mating flights. A recent study has found that a protein exists in birds’ eyes which allow it to actually see and navigate by the blue light generated from the magnetic poles. The influence of moon phase on migration and animal activity is well documented.  See Solunar Tables by John Alden Knight, Also Richard Alden Knight https://www.usprimetimes.com/theory.html  for more information on sun, moon and tide affects on behavior.

 

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What Does the Fox Say?

 Along the South Branch

February 2020

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 Look in to my eyes and tell me you know I exist, hear my voice and know I am near

 

The hiker, skier and the fox

Passed this way on a snowy walk

The same path was taken on that day

Though each saw things a different way

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What does the fox say?

A series of hair raising, high pitched screams pierced the darkness, made blacker by the invisible February new moon. The sounds echoed in the still night, their source, initially speculative, was attributed a red fox.

 

Late winter marks the renewal of life for many wildlife species including red fox. What set fox apart from most other wildlife, are their screams made during the night time mating ritual. Mating fox do not confine their mating ritual to the night and may on occasion be heard during the day.

 

The screams sound quite like a screech owl or a young great horned owl and the range of vocalization is wide and varied. That is what makes differentiation between owl and fox calls so initially challenging. The sound they all share is like a ‘blaat’, elongated into a screech. The giveaway is that an owl will move locations while the fox screams are stationary and muted because they are made close to the ground, the sound obstructed by trees and brush.

 

Male fox referred to as dog fox, roam far and wide looking for a mate and are often seen during the day. South facing hillsides are a favorite place for a fox to fall asleep. 

 

The air currents travel uphill in the warm sun and carry delightfully interesting scents to a nose that never sleeps.

 

Additionally, any approaching danger will be detected at a distance, allowing time for the alerted fox to seek secure cover.

 

 

It appears more of a magic trick for a red colored fox to hide in the middle of a pure white expanse of snow. When observed, is akin to an apparition performed in a magic act. You can’t believe what you are seeing.

 

A male will court and mate with one or more females, also known as vixens. It is interesting, that like mink and other wildlife, the implantation may be delayed several days or more as in the case of mink. Theory suggests the first mating may not be with the ideal mate and when a better male comes along it allows his genetics to be passed on.

 

Late one January, among a jumble of boulders on a snowy hillside in mature woods, a female was preparing a den, as evidenced by the fresh orange earth scattered on the deep snow. Dens may be used year after year but the generally a new den site is selected.

 

The initial den site may be abandoned and a new site selected for the growing pups. I imagine security and cleanliness are some considerations in moving a litter, though there are many examples of a single den serving until the pups explore on their own. One female moved six pups from a pasture to a groundhog den nearby. Mom picked up each pup by the scruff of the neck, head held high and carried them a couple hundred yards to their new home.

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This nursing session coincidentally took place on Mother’s day, May 15th. Mom moved six pups 400 yards up from the river flood plain just in time before a heavy rain covered the pasture with 4 feet of water.

 

Gestation is generally 60 days and litter size may vary from two to six. I have observed a litter of six pups though four or five are more commonly noted.

 

As the newborn pups are totally dependent upon mom for food and warmth she rarely leaves the den and depends on the male to bring her food. When the pups are old enough to control their body temperature and require less attention, mom will begin hunting again. I have seen one fox, hunt and kill several mice in one session. She then picked them all up, at least three tails dangling from her mouth, and trotted off to her feed her pups.

As I was writing this, I heard intermittent screaming, which sounded quite like a yapping ten pound lap dog. the sounds were consistent with mating fox, though it was nine in the morning. The strong wind carried the sounds afar to confuse the location of the fox. At one point it sounded as if I was just yards away. Nothing! As I returned I heard the sound again at a distance, closer to home. Unexpectedly, a fox trotted across my path from where to barking originated. So I mark this day to project a birth date sure to take place nearby in about 65 days.

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Dog fox on the run, love on his mind, suddenly appears and then is gone. Quick draw photography a requirement.  

 

 

When we go beyond text books and actually observe wildlife, we come to appreciate individual personalities that stand in contrast to the declared behavioral generalizations. We are misled in that way to think of wildlife as isolated, inanimate objects, predictable in nature and nothing more to see, that’s all there is.

 

The fox that came into a neighbor’s yard and began tossing a dog toy in the air, pouncing and leaping in a playful moment, fits no description of its kind in any Wikipedia summary.

 

Another neighbor further down the road noted a fox to be a regular visitor and she discovered the fox would steal her pony’s rubber boots. I wondered how common it was for fox living near homes to steal or play with dog toys or other objects a dog might be expected to have fun with. There seems to be enough anecdotal evidence of fox engaged in such antics.

 

During late spring on Sandy Hook National recreation Area, I watch a family having a picnic and observed a fox sitting perfectly still and upright about 30 steps away in the open. The picnickers saw the fox and tossed some food his way. The fox came forward, took the food and retreated to his original position, politely waiting for a second handout.

 

We all have our own unique style and flair as does every individual wild creature. Fox display an intelligence and creativity, as if to say, “Look in to my eyes and tell me you know I exist, hear my voice and know I am near.” A plea often seen in the eyes of little children and the elderly; We are kindred spirits with all living things and share many needs in common, the fox is an animal spirit guide in that respect. That’s what the fox says!

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This fox says…….

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January Snow, An Open Book Exam.

 

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A red fox walks along the South Branch following rabbit tracks and unaware it is being observed from the water below. Following an animal’s tracks in the snow to see where it goes and what it does, is like having an open book exam with answers to the questions in the back of the book.

January 2011

Along the South Branch

January Snow, An Open Book Exam.

 

 

The snowflakes reflected in the street light outside my bedroom window to give hope to a day off from school and a predawn visit to the land where the wild rabbits roamed. Rabbits were at the far end of the spectrum of big game animals but shared the stage with cape buffalo, lions, leopards, rhino and elephants. Locally, rabbits were the best we could do and were attributed full big game status typically accorded to the celebrated, ‘dangerous five’ that roamed the continent of darkest Africa.

 

Rabbit tracks are easy to recognize with the two widespread hind feet and two centered front paws. The obvious first question to be answered when first seeing rabbit tracks is always, ‘which way are they headed’. Seeing a bunny and backtracking it will reveal the important directional information.

 

For a budding naturalist, fresh fallen snow is akin to taking an open book exam and a guaranteed A+. Animal tracks were everywhere and in the best tradition of Sherlock Holmes, invited investigation, imagination and a theory of resolution. The maze of rabbit tracks evident in the predawn light were nearly impossible to untangle. It appeared as if hundreds of bunnies randomly danced to some mysterious tune leaving footprints reminiscent of an Arthur Murray, ‘learn to dance’ floor mat with outlined footprints. The foxtrot and bunny hop surely had to popular among the cottontail youth.

 

If you find tracks in the early morning snow, realize they were made hours earlier and appear to trace endless miles of travel in a rather confined area. “What was this bunny thinking?” would be a valid question.

 

Food is a primary concern and feeding areas will have the most tracks as local bunnies recognize where the supermarkets grow. Of course an active social life interferes with nibbling an oak twig or a withered raspberry leaf and that is reflected in the snow lining the aisles of the cold food section.

 

The obvious conclusion to unraveling the confusing tracks was to wake up earlier in hopes of finding a single track or perhaps actually seeing a bunny. Problem was the snow had already been tracked up in an undecipherable mess that required tracking abilities far beyond boyhood skills. The only hope for another chance was a new snow fall.

 

Flipping the tv dial from the Our Gang Comedies to catch the next day’s weather forecast seemed sacrilegious or perhaps antagonistic to my little sister but anticipation of new snow was insatiable. Loss of faith in the weatherman led to observing the nighttime sky for signs of impending snow. If the temperature hovered at or below 32 degrees and there was a ring around the moon, hopes were high that snow was on its way and the next trip to Bunnyville would be a resounding success.

 

What would success look like if it were to happen?

 

Though rabbits were substituted for leopards, the hope was to unlock the mystery of a wild animal’s movement to reveal its most intimate secrets and eventually accumulate skills appropriate for tracking lions and African elephants.  None of this could ever happen unless fresh snow covered the cold ground and school was cancelled.

 

The most fun is to find the tracks of a startled rabbit and pace off the distance between leaps. I watched a fox sneak up on a pair of bunnies and it was clear the fox couldn’t make a decision as to which critter to take to diner. His indecision left him looking like a foolish fox, who, after a short chase, failed to appreciate the acrobatic display the two rabbits put on. The tracks they left were decipherable only because the scene was observed.

 

Favorite foods will be surrounded with tracks and the telltale sign of an angled cut, sliced as if with a razor, are a rabbit’s trademark. Deer, on the other hand, have no upper front teeth and leave a ragged tear as they trim your shrubbery.  Cottontail rabbits actually have four upper front teeth which classifies them as lagomorphs rather than rodents

 

Persistent pursuit over brimming with hope, fresh snow and rabbit tracks eventually began to unravel and reveal a satisfactory knowledge of what rabbits did and where they did it. Not surprising, the rabbit tracks led to a lifetime of curiosity and wonder which spread out as a ripple in a quiet pond to reach far beyond the shores of the neighborhood claybanks.

 

Following rabbit tracks in the snow had become the loose thread that begs attention and always leads to reveal the weave of the cloth. Overwhelming and complex concepts or problems are best approached by following what appear to be insignificant loose threads.

 

A fresh snow, imprinted with deer, rabbit or fox tracks, is sure to arrive this January. Some curious person will be compelled to follow those tracks that will lead to a lifetime of natural curiosity, wonder and transferable skills, useful in as yet, many unimaginable ways.

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Whispering Shadows Tell Their Mid-winter Secret

Along the South Branch

December 2019

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A female cardinal fluffs her feathers and settles in to wait out a midwinter snowstorm

Whispering Shadows Tell Their Mid-winter Secret

The autumn light gradually dims, as it follows its well-worn path deeper into December. Like a long circular tunnel with a vanishing point, the swirling colors fade away until they disappear, engulfed by dark shadows on the threshold of winter.

From this darkness, caused by the celestial despair of the planets, new light instantly begins to grow while shadows hidden on the far side of light begin to withdraw.

The apparent low orbit of the sun across the sky in winter produces the longest shadows. Shadows, which when measured at the height of the day, over time reflect the ebb and flow of the seasons. It is as if the shadows whispered their secret to early sky gazers, bestowing upon them, the gift of predicting the future.

When the position of stars and planets were noted in association with the occurrence of the longest and shortest shadows, a living calendar was discovered. Sunrise and sunset defined a day, full moon a month and the longest shadow to the longest shadow was a year. The concept of time was now measurable and the occurrence of future events predictable; predictability being an innate need and prerequisite to human survival.

As the primitive calendar became more refined, certain times were marked for celebration. Surely, the longest and shortest days were noted and given special attention. Humans will bridge gaps in knowledge with mythology and paleo societies revolved around myths used to explain natural phenomena.

In the northern latitudes, winter was a critical time of survival. During midwinter the sun appeared to stand still. If you look at a perpetual calendar of sunrise and sunset, the change in day length is minimal during that period.

Many were the rites and ceremonies during that period of darkness. Some gave rise to modern celebration when religious holidays overlaid pagan rituals. Druids burned a yule log to encourage the return of light. Holly, which was evergreen, was given as a sign of life. The birth of light marked a new year, a time to plan and celebrate future success.

I take comfort in celebrating the shortest day and birth of light with a campfire, lighting a cattail and roasting a piece of venison on the glowing coals. This day is my paleo New Year celebration, identifying more with primitive ancestors than ethnic DNA. January first is of no consequence.

To hunt with a traditional bow and arrow and bring a deer to ground to share with the clan is the ultimate act of caring and community. It becomes a communion of spirit and flesh where the animal is assimilated, a sign of respect for its sacrifice. It also transcends time and allows me to share in the emotions felt by my ancestors who looked to the sky and listened to the whispering shadows for guidance and survival.

Welcome to winter and new life. Sophisticated calculation of planetary movements indicates that this year winter will arrive December twenty-first at 11:19 am. Like magic, the descent into darkness instantly gives way to the ascent into light.

If nothing else, give a glance up at the stars on the twenty-first. Know the wonder your ancestors felt when they looked to the heavens in awe, their imagination encouraged by the stars and planets moving across the night sky.

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A female cardinal turned upside down, perfectly reflects the new year of light ushered in by the midwinter solstice. It is a chance to use the light to see your world from a different perspective and discover all the treasures hidden by unconscious routine and preconception.  A legacy of the ancient Roman midwinter celebration of Saturnalia where “social order was turned upside down” while merriment and wild celebration ruled the day.

 

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Good Bye Dam!

Along the South Branch

November 2019

Good Bye Dam!

 

The large letters written in white chalk on the old concrete dam simply said, “good bye dam”. That sentiment was accompanied by other names and sketches, not unlike a farewell card signed for a departing fellow co-worker.

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The dam on the Lamington River at Burnt Mills was scheduled for removal after several iterations of mills beginning in early colonial times circa 1754.

 

Dams and mills came and went on New Jersey rivers and streams. Some destroyed by floods, fire or angry upstream neighbors deprived of migrating fish. British troops did their part and burned the mill on the Lamington, in Bromley, which was henceforth named Burnt Mill. These days the dams are being removed by private organizations and groups in cooperation with the National Fish and Wildlife Service. These organizations are dedicated to the restoration of rivers and the downstream benefits to native wildlife and soil stability.

 

Hundreds of dams across the country have been removed or are being scheduled for removal. The results are, for the most part, shockingly positive. From California to Maine, stories of returning fisheries, reduction in sediment accumulation, reduced flooding and a greater diversity of wildlife have been documented.

 

Every dam is its own story, its significance dependent on location. Downstream of the Lamington, on the lower Raritan, removal of dams allowed the upstream travel of anadromous fish.

In colonial times, netting alewives and shad as far upstream as Raritan, generated a profitable commercial fishery. Mills and dams put an end to that business.

 

Most early mills were situated on feeder streams to avoid seasonal floods and raging current. The Lamington dam was perfectly situated in that regard.

Mature trees lined the banks to stabilize the soil and as a result the streambed suffered minimal erosion during seasonal flooding. Runoff was minimal due to the surrounding land being unsuitable for farming. Even today as development has exploded, the streambed of the upper Lamington and Rockaway is mostly sand and gravel. The difference is striking when compared to the nearby lower South Branch which suffers from erosion and a build up of silt.

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This image above the Burnt Mills dam captures the character of the Lamington and South Rockaway. Mature trees lock in the soil and a heavy canopy shades the shallow water. 

 

The low concrete dam across the Lamington had been breeched in the early 1950s and misdirected the streamflow into the opposite shore causing severe erosion. An aerial view comparing the intact structure in 1953, to breeched version in 1956, shows the progress of the resulting erosion. An aerial view as seen today, compared to 1956, is even more dramatic.

The image on the left show the intact dam in 1953. the second image shows the impact of erosion caused by the breeched dam in three years time in 1956.

 

The Lamington is the recipient of water released from Cushetunk Lake and Round Valley reservoir via South Rockaway creek as well as runoff from extensive upstream development. The added flow into the lower Lamington has hastened its meandering as directed by impervious shale cliffs and the concrete dam. Concrete walls designed to prevent erosion, speed the streamflow otherwise slowed by natural shorelines. Concrete walls line an upstream golf course, and another wall lines an outside curve along the road about a half-mile above the dam. During times of planned water release and seasonal storms, the water volume and speed create a high-pressure nozzle at the point of the breeched dam. The sum of upstream water, that makes up the Lamington, flows around a sharp bend a few hundred yards above the dam, careens off the high straight wall of red shale, slams into a concrete barrier perpendicular to its flow, then left, into a bank of unstable soil.

 

Free flowing rivers exhibit pure energy and it is energy and movement that define life. Science aside, it is the magic of perpetual motion and endless flow that we embrace. Flowing water is a magic carpet which requires no effort to travel, whether it be by vessel or imagination.

 

Any interruption of the energized free flow is representative of progressive pathology and an existential threat. The ‘damnation’ of rivers and streams represent stasis, blockages and clots; their removal, a life saving intervention.

 

So it was, the landmark Burnt Mill dam came down. Mixed feelings for those whose youthful memories were cast into the concrete substructure. The sight of the dam served as a reminder of an idyllic time and sunny days. A momentary retreat from the harsh reality that, on occasion, bites us all, was erased.

 

The removal was well planned and orchestrated as opposed to a charge of dynamite and a call of, ‘fire in the hole.’

 

The course of the river needed to be shifted and so large boulders were placed strategically to form the foundation of a left bank to replace that which was lost.

 

A 323 Caterpillar excavator fitted with tracks, moved into the river above the dam and began to scoop river bed gravel to line the upstream side of the length of the concrete dam. Apparently, this prevented water from flooding the work area during removal. Boulders in place, a second 323 Cat positioned on the downstream side, fitted with a ram driven spike, began to break up the concrete starting at the midstream end, working toward the right shore. It appeared the first foot and a half was easily penetrated. The second and third pass strained the hydraulic ram, the concrete’s resistance futile. After each session with the spike, the front-end loader scooped up the rubble and dumped it in-line with the boulders to form a new shoreline. The effort continued and half the dam was broken up and redistributed in about four hours. https://vimeo.com/367086739

Before and after images show the progress of the removal. Images 3 and 8 are the same view. Images 1 and 7 represent the same view. This work took place over three days.

Work continues as the removal of the dam was the first step in restoring the Lamington to its original course, pre-1754.

 

A new generation will know a different river, just as the last generation knew only a river interrupted by a dam.

 

Contact jjmish57@msn.com. See more articles and photos at winterbearrising.wordpress.com.

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A Final Blast of Flaming Fluorescence

Along the South Branch

October 2019

 

thumbnail_DSC_1973Another autumn, like no other, passes through an ageless portal, as all seasons must.

 

witeoakonfireAutumn’s final blast of flaming fluorescence is embodied in these black oak leaves that appear to be on fire.

 

A Final Blast of Flaming Fluorescence

 

A profusion of spider webs and hopeful strands of silk, looking for a second anchor point, weave throughout the late August woods in an attempt to hold the fleeting summer hostage.

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Though the formidable silken net poses enough of an obstruction to divert a hiker’s footsteps, its hold on summer goes unnoticed by the celestial choreography that declares the arrival of autumn.

Color begins to appear as careless drips and blotches on the faded green palette left behind by summer. Scattered specks of yellow mist the crown of a wild cherry tree, as if clearing the sputtering nozzle on a can of yellow spray paint.

Deep scarlet splashes onto leafy vines of virginia creeper to appear as strands of a necklace lying against the perennial greenery of an eastern red cedar.

Swaths and stripes of color appear in fields and resemble an artist’s palette, holding an array of colored oils.

Fields offer the greatest diversity of any stage of plant succession and so, are showcases of color in the fall. The earliest news of the changing seasons is published in full color ads in open fields for all to read.

Pokeweed, drooping with clusters of deep purple-black inkberries, standout among the yellow swaths of fully blossomed goldenrod. The main stem of polk weed always gets a second glance as it appears to be some odd placed artifact that does not belong. The arrow straight magenta stems are so dramatic in color they deserve a long moment of admiration simply for the boldness of nature’s artistry.

Native cardinal flowers which favor damp soil, is a personal favorite, which signals that the end of summer is near. Blooms begin mid-August and last well into September. A favorite of humming birds, this small, delicate tube-shaped flowers glow with a flat reddest red fluorescence and contrast beautifully against pale green cattail leaves, which often grow nearby. If ever a color was to catch your eye it would be an isolated cardinal flower bloom that glows with the power of a lighthouse beacon.

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Bright purple ironweed, swamp and common milkweed add to the scene of fall color. Begging a closer look, an isolated stand of ironweed or a yellow swallowtail butterfly on a cluster of milkweed, often offers a surprise in exchange for curiosity. Hidden among the dominant grasses and blooming plants, hide the volunteers. Long thin pods of dogbane, used to make bowstrings and cordage, odd placed wildflowers or other cultivated escapees, find safe harbor and anonymity within these trackless fields.

beard tongue foxglve.penstemon along the south branch

An isolated single plant of Beardtongue penstemon was an unexpected surprise hiding in obscurity among the dominant field grasses

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Dogbane

As summer begins and ends with colorful flowers, and Autumn, bearing genes of summer parentage, carries on that tradition of color in a final blast of flaming fluorescence.

Black gum and native persimmon begin the lightshow, subtly at first. Random isolated leaves are electrified and take on the appearance of old fashioned decorative light bulbs, salmon and orange, respectively.

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The concocted color combinations composed of various tints used during the early seasonal transition, now overflow, mix and explode in brilliant colors used by October to paint the tree tops.

Oak and sweet gum take the full blast of color shot from October’s paint gun. Add a clear autumn day under full sun and blaze orange oak leaves absolutely glow against the blue sky.

The sweet gum produces a kaleidoscope of color ranging from shades of reddish purple to pure red, maroon, orange and yellow. Individual trees favor one color over the other but all sweet gums offer the complete spectrum of possible tints and shades.

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It’s fun to imagine, spiders, as in Charlotte’s Web, spelling out the word, AUTUMN, in silken letters, to foretell the coming season.

Another autumn, like no other, passes through an ageless portal, as all seasons must, only to reappear and fade and reappear and fade again. The ephemeral concept of life seems at odds with the reality of nature.

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