Author: adaniel1960

By Lorna Dielentheis

The winter before last, I spent the whole season teaching myself trees.

I’d been introduced to tree ID before, had tried to memorize each species’ unique characteristics, and spent hours working my way through keys in various field guides. But the knowledge didn’t stick. It came and went, as fleeting as the leaves I pored over. Then in the fall of 2023 I was met with an incredible opportunity: to create an illustrated winter twig guide for one of my favorite clients, Vermont Master Naturalist.

On a sunny fall afternoon, Alicia and I sat on her porch and talked twigs. Alicia is the founder and director of Vermont Master Naturalist, a program that teaches natural history from a holistic perspective and builds community around conservation and local ecology. I completed the VMN program in 2021, am currently in the Tier II program, and can genuinely say it has changed my life. The first time around, VMN solidified my passion for nature study and now, it continues to instill the confidence I need to pursue this path in a more serious way.

I was both elated and overwhelmed as we looked through a stack of books together and started brainstorming what we wanted our winter twig guide to look like. I nervously admitted to Alicia that my tree ID skills were mediocre at best, and she reassured me that not only would I learn, but that my lack of knowledge was an advantage: I could use my own learning experience to determine what ID characteristics were most useful to a beginner.

twigs from left to right: striped maple, white ash, sugar maple

Throughout that fall and into early winter, I set my mind to learning trees once more. But instead of trying to memorize every single characteristic of each tree like I’d done before (bark texture, leaf shape, branch arrangement, pith, soil conditions, etc), I focused solely on the winter twig. It was this method of close study, careful observation, and of paring down the scope of my learning that finally made the trees stick with me.

Don’t get me wrong– at first, it was really hard. I didn’t trust myself; I was hyper aware of how much I did not know. What if a bud kind of looked like the pictures in a field guide, but not quite? How do I tell what’s natural variation, versus a different tree entirely? How hairy is “hairy”? Of course this is why dichotomous keys exist, but having a basic understanding of what a key is even asking requires a significant amount of knowledge. I found that when I was out in the field, and especially as the days were getting shorter and colder, I didn’t have the resources or time to look up every scientific term I didn’t know.

Instead, I began carrying a set of clippers and ziploc bags in my trail pack. I’d take pictures of a tree and note where I found it, taking a twig home with me for further investigation. Later, when I’d dump out my ziplocs of unlabeled twigs, sometimes finding one broken to pieces or otherwise compromised by the chaos of my trail pack, I’d worry my methods were haphazard. But over time I worked out the kinks and eventually the learning structure became routine.

After the first month or so, I began to have an awareness of what trees were around me, and my searches became more focused on seeking out particular species. Perhaps most importantly, my confidence grew– not only in my ability to identify trees, but in myself.

The finished winter twig guide I created 1/2

The finished winter twig guide I created 2/2

Notes on Self-teaching

It’s vulnerable to teach yourself a skill. You don’t know what you don’t know, and you’re responsible not only for the actual learning but also for creating the curriculum to structure it. It’s not like taking a class or going to school, where you’re provided with all of the correct information, and the guidance, expertise, and deadlines you need to absorb it. When you teach yourself a skill, you have to self-motivate and hold yourself accountable; you have to know when to trust yourself, and when to reach out for help.

As lonely and difficult as it can be, teaching yourself something is also incredibly empowering. It’s an exercise in self-acceptance and self-reliance, a test of dedication and grit. I have never been more proud than when I’ve taught myself new skills. And despite all of the challenges of self-teaching, you do have one key advantage: you can tailor your teaching methods to your individual style of learning. For me, this means a lot of visual and field study and less book learning. It also means incorporating art into my learning– photographing and sketching twigs helped them stick in my brain much better than flash cards or highlighting a textbook would have.

With that said, take the guidance I provide with a grain of salt; this is what worked for me, it may not be what works for you. But now, without further ado: my guide to teaching yourself trees in the winter. Or to teaching yourself anything in nature, really– though I am writing this in reference to winter twigs, the advice applies broadly.

twigs from left to right: swamp white oak, black walnut

Learning to Look

When you start learning trees, everything looks similar. There’s a period of time when you just have to soak up as much visual information as possible in order to calibrate yourself. Before you task yourself with identification, I recommend heading outside to look at a bunch of trees, any trees, to accustom yourself with the breadth of variation, the similarities and differences between species and individuals. It doesn’t matter if you know what kind of tree it is at this point, in fact I encourage you to put the urge to identify aside for the moment. The goal here is to familiarize yourself with the act of observation.

Run your hands over the bark of the tree and think about the texture– what words would you use to describe it? Is it corky and pliable, flaky, rough, or smooth? Look at the way the branches sit. Do they grow perpendicular to the trunk, or curve upwards? Do they zig-zag or tangle? Find something about the tree you think could easily go unnoticed, then let yourself be drawn to a part of the tree you find beautiful. Maybe it’s a bright yellow bud, or the tiny white dots speckling a young branch. Step back and look out at the landscape, and down at your feet. What is the soil like, how does the air smell? There are a million things to notice about this tree, and none of them require prior knowledge. You will learn all of the terminology in time; what’s most important at the beginning is learning how to look.

leaf scars from left to right, top to bottom: shagbark hickory, basswood, white ash, black walnut, red oak, another shagbark hickory

This practice applies to most forms of nature study, and beyond that is an exercise akin to meditation. As a person who struggles with anxiety, I’ve been suggested a very similar methodology countless times: “have you tried doing a grounding exercise?” The core actions are the same– engage your senses and notice what’s around you in order to guide your anxious mind back to your physical body. Although I roll my eyes a bit at the simplicity of it, I have to admit it often works, at least temporarily. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that each time I come home from a nature excursion, I feel lighter, more secure, and more attuned to myself and to what’s important in life. Even if you never learn the names of trees, being in the moment with what’s around you is a habit worth cultivating and can have a profound effect on your state of being.

twig of a red oak

Curate Your Resources

When teaching yourself anything, it is critical to have good resources, though what constitutes a “good resource” will look different to each person. For me, it’s got to be detailed, but also easy to find the information I’m looking for. I like field guides that are largely visual and don’t require me to hunt through paragraphs of text to glean important information.

The best way to figure out what resources are going to be most useful to you is to start with far more than you think you’ll need. Check a bunch out from the library, peek at what your friends are using. Familiarize yourself with each of them, and see which ones you reach for. It’s unlikely you’re going to be able to rely on a single field guide; instead, plan to refer to a few trusted books and websites in order to paint a full picture of your subject.

These are the guides and websites I use most frequently in tree ID, and why I like each of them (and keep in mind, I am in the Northeastern United States, which many of these guides are specific to):

1. The Forest Trees of Maine, by the Maine Forest Service.

This is the first tree guide I used. I was introduced to it through VMN, and it is still the guide I reference the most. It is simple, easy to carry out into the field, and has all the right information. It’s relevant for most of the Northeastern United States, not just Maine. If you can only get one tree guide, this is the one. It’s also available to view/download free as PDFs from the Maine Forestry Dept. website.

2. Winter Keys to the Woody Plants of Maine, Illustrated by Mary L.F. Campbell

This book is filled with highly detailed illustrations of winter twigs. It’s out of print, and hard to find for a reasonable price. I was lucky to find a copy on eBay for $50, after borrowing one from Alicia while working on my twig guide. I wouldn’t say this book is necessary to have, but if you’re getting really deep into the subtle differences between closely related species’ winter twigs, this is a great addition to your collection. And the illustrations are so, so gorgeous.

3. Woody Plants of the Northern Forest by Jerry Jenkins

This is a great one for beginners because it’s photo-heavy and provides direct comparisons of visually similar twigs and leaves. You can also view and download this resource for free on the Northern Forest Atlas website, along with several other invaluable photographic guides. The only downside to this book is that it’s not great for taking out in the field– it’s large (though thin) and awkward to stick in a backpack.

This author/organization is also coming out with a far more robust version of this guide on Nov. 15, which includes a lot more species (not just trees, but many other woody plants too), called Field Guide to the Woody Plants of the Northern Forest. I pre-ordered it from my local bookstore and they goofed and gave it to me early! Lucky me. I haven’t taken it out in the field yet, but I can already tell it’s gonna be a go-to, and especially useful for my natural community visits. However, for a beginner, I’d recommend starting with the pared-down version.

4. Bark by Michael Wojtech

Bark is what it sounds like– a field guide to trees based solely on bark. This is a great accompaniment to your twig learning. I learned twigs alone, and am aiming to get better at identifying bark this winter, but learning them together would provide you with all the tools you need to ID a tree in any season. I’ve taken this guide out in the field a few times now and wish I’d bought it sooner.

a few examples of trees with really distinct bark, from left to right, top to bottom: red pine, shagbark hickory, yellow birch, beech (diseased)

5. Go Botany, an online resource by Native Plant Trust

There are numerous online resources, but this is the best and most reliable source of information I’ve found for plants, including trees.

6. iNaturalist, a global community science database

I know I plug iNat every chance I get, but I can’t stress enough what a powerful learning tool it is when used correctly. By this I mean– don’t use it to ID the trees. You won’t learn by doing that. Use it for finding particular species of trees, tracking patterns (what grows where? etc.), and keeping a digital log of the trees you’re learning. It’s also great for helping to gauge how much variation there is among species, since there are tons of photos to look at. 

Start Small

Once you’ve gathered your resources, you’re ready to begin your study. Again, you don’t need to know much before you go out to look at trees. Familiarize yourself with some basic terminology, then get outside with a field guide or two! You will learn more through curiosity and observation than you will studying from a book. Let yourself explore and form questions, then bring those queries back to your stack of resources.

a diseased beech on a beautiful winter day

I like to start with a single tree (or bird, or flower, or whatever you’re studying, again this method applies broadly), the first one that piques your interest. Spend some time with it, use whatever guides you were able to carry into the field, and see what you can figure out. Don’t beat yourself up if you get stumped (pun intended). You probably will if this is the first tree you’re trying to ID. Remember you are learning something new, and it will take some time to feel competency. Start small and return to the sensory exercise if you get stuck. Take pictures/notes and look it up later if that works better for you.

The Tiny Beauty of Twigs

Trees are fun to learn in any season, but there’s something particularly magical about learning trees from their winter twigs. They look like tiny fairy scepters, wizard’s wands, or elaborate walking sticks in miniature. Each twig is unique, each a work of art. Finding beauty in their minute yet ubiquitous presence can transform your experience of the bare winter season.

one of the most fairy scepter-like twigs, that of a shagbark hickory

Twigs hold a lot of clues that can aid in identification. Buds alone contain so much detail– their arrangement, shape, color, number of scales, and texture are just a few of the traits that point to an ID. And then the twig itself: its thickness, pores, hairiness, pruinosity… the list goes on. And although the winter twigs are just one small part of a tree, I guarantee as you learn them you’ll pick up other knowledge, too. You’ll notice shagbark hickory’s distinct bark, and the way its branches curve enthusiastically, like arms thrown up in celebration. You might see a strange, target-like pattern on a tree’s trunk and find that it can be a useful field ID for red maples. Maybe you’ll start to wonder why the majority of the ash twigs you study are on small saplings, or shoots regenerating from stumps (more on that here).

a shagbark hickory’s distinct bark, target canker on a red maple trunk, an ash sprouting from its stump

The more you look, the more you learn. Developing a sense of wonder and curiosity, which you no doubt have already or you wouldn’t be reading this, will lead you to knowledge. That, and putting yourself in nature again and again— practice, time, and experience are essential.

As you cultivate the habit of looking closely at twigs, you’ll begin to grasp the complexity and nuance of each individual species. You’ll start to notice and unravel the million other small mysteries that await each time you go outside. And, undoubtedly, you’ll come to recognize the beauty in all the minutiae of this world.

quaking aspen twig

This post was originally published here.

By Kate Taylor

Recently I spent the day as part of the Vermont Master Naturalist Program learning about world history. I don’t mean wars and kings. I mean the movement of continents and glaciers. I mean history where time is measured in eons and eras. We were taught by Craig Heindel, a Vermont hydrogeologist as well as a fascinating and enthusiastic instructor.

Camel’s Hump was covered in ice. Mount Washington was likely topped with ice. There was so much water trapped in the glacier that it lowered the ocean level by around 600 feet (six hundred feet!). You could have walked over ice to George’s Bank. It would have been an unrecognizable landscape.

Rocks are defined by the minerals they contain and the molecular structure of those minerals. The structure determines the hardness of the rock. Some rocks are soft, while other easily chip or flake. Some seem indestructible. Rocks can be boulders, sand grains and everything in-between. Rocks are easy to take for granted.

(A bobcat for instance, crouching to drink at the river’s edge will lap up the minerals in the water it drinks, or your well dug 200’ into a subterranean lake contains minerals leached into it from the surrounding soil. Plants too, drink in those minerals with roots stretching down into the soil.)

When the river reaches a wide, shallow area, it can create a lake or pond. As the water slows it dumps the heavier particles first, while the lighter ones drift further out until they eventually settle. That means that near shore the soil is sandy and contains heavier particles while further out the sediment becomes finer. When the river changes course or the lake disappears the soil remains behind, stones, sand, clay or some mix.

It’s a reminder of how we are not separate from this great planet we live on, but rather fit into our own specialized niche as does all life on earth.

*Disclaimer: My knowledge is shallow and my explanation is an oversimplification. Craig is a great instructor, and any mistakes are mine alone.

Thanks for looking,




Stay well, be curious, love diversity,

Kate

July, 2025

This post was originally published here.

By Lorna Dielentheis, VMN Mad River Tier II participant

Note: I wrote this reflection and then realized I never properly introduced the natural communities I visited! The two communities I focused on while at Peacham Bog were the Black Spruce Woodland Bog and the Dwarf Shrub Bog. At Peacham Bog (and this is the case for many bogs), there is a gradation between related communities which also includes Black Spruce Swamp and Poor Fen community types. 

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At last we emerge from the damp, buggy woods. The open blue sky greets us, sunshine pouring over the expanse of mossy peat stretching out into the distance. The whole basin seems to glow. Towering black spruce trees loom like sentinels as we step onto the narrow, overgrown boardwalk, while little tufts of cotton grass cheerfully dot the lush greenery beneath. The strange waxy forms of purple pitcher plant flowers lend an air of surreality to the landscape, as if we’ve just stepped into another world entirely. In some ways, we have– the ecology here is completely different from that of the land surrounding it. Though perhaps stepping into another time would be a more appropriate description.

The entrance to Peacham Bog

Tussock cottongrass, purple pitcher plant flower

13,000 years ago, a melting glacier left a shallow depression in the earth where we now stand. Acidic rainwater collected in this basin. Stagnant and cut off from other water sources, this nutrient and mineral-poor water lacked the aquatic microbes that would normally aid in decomposition. So as sedges, sphagnum, and other plants invaded the water, their intact remains accumulated and compressed over time to form a floating mat of peat.

The sphagnum moss, which thrives in these tough conditions, now blankets the peatland as far as the eye can see. This dense layer of saturated moss insulates the acidic water beneath and reinforces the cold, low-oxygen, nutrient-poor conditions, encouraging more and more peat buildup. Eventually this self-fulfilling cycle can (and does, at Peacham Bog) form a dome that elevates the acidic center of the bog above the surrounding water table.

me photographing a pitcher plant flower, sphagnum moss

The overgrown boardwalk

As we venture further into the bog, I’m struck by the vastness of this place. I’ve been to a few other bogs, but never one this big. And never to one where I’ve felt such a palpable sense of fullness– as if the bog is bursting from its container (it literally is). 

The worn wooden planks depress as I walk on them, small amounts of water seeping through the slats. I wonder whether they’re secured at all or just set gently upon the peat. It feels as though, given a few days without human presence, the bog might swallow them up entirely. The low shrubby plants brush wetly against my legs, and when I kneel to photograph a pitcher plant I imagine sinking into the surrounding sphagnum. How quickly would it grow up around my body, my face?

Pitcher plants (and other bog plants) emerging from the sphagnum

I continue on, setting aside the urge to examine each plant and instead tuning into the otherworldliness of the ecosystem as a whole. There will be plenty of time to survey the plant species and take photos later. So much of my enjoyment of nature comes from its indescribable presence, the sense of place that forms when I spend time simply absorbing the interconnected beauty of it all. 

It’s easy to zoom in on singular details –the strange plants, the rare butterflies, the birdsong– and boy do I love that type of niche observational study. But each of these pieces interact with each other and the whole in a way that, when understood, touches on the profound. Imagining a place as an entity unto itself composed of many smaller entities, each essential, imparts a sense of both the fragility and the expansiveness of the natural world. Compromise one element of this carefully balanced system and the repercussions can be catastrophic.

Peacham bog viewing platform

The sign at the lookout platform reads: “Peacham Bog… Nature’s Pickle Barrel.” And indeed, the acidic peat is known to preserve the remains of any creature who dies here– “bog bodies,” they’re called. I envision the peat extending deep below us, wondering how far down it goes and what creatures lay suspended in its spongy murk. 

The lack of decomposition that leads to these preserved corpses also means that the bog stores carbon that would otherwise be released back into the soil or atmosphere. Peatlands are one of earth’s most efficient carbon sinks, covering a miniscule portion of earth’s landmass —about 3%— yet storing twice as much carbon as all of earth’s forests (NYT 2022).

Read that again: peatlands cover only three percent of earth’s land, but store twice as much carbon as all of its forests combined.

And yet, these ecosystems are imperiled. Peat has been harvested for fuel, peatlands drained for agriculture and architecture. Consequently, immense amounts of stored carbon are released back into the atmosphere as CO2, warming the earth. And as climate change worsens, more peatlands dry out, releasing yet more carbon: another self-fulfilling cycle.

To say nothing of the beauty of these places, it’s easy to understand why their existence is essential. It’s shameful that we’ve taken part in destroying them. We are only beginning to pay the penalty for it.

Mae & Kim

After reading the interpretive sign, my friends and I eat our snacks, each of us in contemplation of our 30-something year old bodies surrounded by this 7,000 year old bog. I think about the cycles of life and death that have sustained this place, the animals that walk upon the moss and later rest beneath it.

Eventually the eerie, single-note song of a white throated sparrow echoes across the open peatland. The bog’s reverie now broken, we chat and laugh and after a little while I wander off to start cataloguing the plants.

It’s astounding how many species grow here, each with its own unique adaptations to survive. Compared to the surrounding landscape, the bog isn’t what you’d call biodiverse, but given the conditions I am nonetheless surprised at the array of plant life.

Purple pitcher plants

Perhaps the most fascinating of the bog species are the pitcher plants, who get their nutrients not from the substrate or water, but from the bodies of insects that fall into their hollow tubes.

Purple pitcher plant, or Sarracenia purpurea, is the only pitcher plant native to New England. These alien-like plants collect water in their hollow leaves, in which insects drown. The insects, attracted to the fleshy red/green/purple pitchers, land on them and are then guided downward (and prevented from climbing back up) by directional hairs at the mouth of the tube-like leaf. 

Young leaves secrete a digestive enzyme that aids in the breakdown of the drowned insects into nutrients the plants can absorb. Older leaves, however, also rely on the invertebrate and bacterial community that develops in the collected water to help break down their food. In turn the plant oxygenates the water held within their modified leaves, so these organisms can survive. Little oases of livable water within the bog’s acid nutrient desert.

Me holding one of the many newts we spotted in the forest on our way to the bog

While researching this post, I was startled to find that in addition to insects and other invertebrate prey, Sarracenia purpurea has also been discovered to capture young salamanders! Though, the plant’s ability to digest these much larger prisoners is unclear.  Read more about it here.

Tamarack, tamarack close up with mosses and lichens, and a barren black spruce trunk

Left: tamarack, right: black spruce

A lone black spruce, tall with a lollipop top. Thanks to Mae for this photo.

I’m surprised any tree can sufficiently anchor itself in the springy bed of moss, but black spruce and tamarack both find a way. The lack of nutrients stunts their growth, though the black spruce in particular seems to dwarf its surroundings, growing tall but rather barren aside from their “lollipop” tops. They emerge from the shrubbery like street lamps in a parking lot, scattered and solitary. Their leafless trunks are perhaps due to nutrient deficiency, but also may serve the purpose of helping them avoid blowing over during high winds.

From left to right, top to bottom: swamp laurel, leatherleaf, northern wild raisin, swamp laurel, sheep laurel, bog labrador tea

Most of the shrubs in both the Black Spruce Bog and the Dwarf Shrub Bog are in the heath family, which are largely evergreen: producing leaves once takes far less energy than doing so annually. Plants in this family are adapted to acidic conditions and are among the few species that grow well here. Leatherleaf, sheep laurel, and bog labrador tea are just a few of the ones I found.

Left to right, top to bottom: a bulrush, three-leaved falso solomon’s seal, fringed sedge, tall bog sedge, star sedge, and either two- or three-seeded sedge

Closer to the sphagnum I spot the petite, delicate white flowers of three-leaved false Solomon’s seal, several sedge species, and the tiny round leaves of the vine-like creeping snowberry. I look for sundew, another carnivorous plant common in Vermont’s bogs, but don’t spot any. Thankfully I’d be visiting two more bogs in the coming weeks and would find some there.

I wonder what makes this pitcher plant flower yellow?

Close up of the bright yellow pitcher plant flower

Kim & Mae enjoying the bog

I wander and photograph and wander some more, apart from my friends now but happy to hear them laughing a little ways off. I see butterflies and dragonflies and one pitcher plant flower that is bright yellow rather than the usual red. I am humbled by this place. I feel alive in a way that is both invigorating and nostalgic; perhaps the bog’s ancient spirit has touched my own.

My friends call me over to watch a tiger swallowtail meander lazily through the sun-soaked bog. I feel calm as I watch the elegant creature drift and flutter, swoop and cruise. She is in no hurry. 

Luckily, neither are we.

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If you are considering a visit to Peacham Bog, I highly recommend stopping into the Groton Nature Center. Not only is this where the trail begins, but the wonderful interpreter there was able to give me detailed information about the bog, plant life, and trail conditions (shoutout to Brian!). The center also features an array of beautiful exhibits ranging from glacial history to bog species. Well worth a visit. 

All photos are my own unless otherwise noted. © Lorna Dielentheis 2025

This post was originally published here.

By Leslie Spencer, VMN Lower Winooski participant

This weekend marked the bittersweet conclusion to my year in the Vermont Master Naturalist (VMN) program. Our cohort has come together for five field days in Burlington, learning to read the “layer cake” of Vermont’s landscape, from bedrock to birds. Each field day made me feel more connected to this place that I am lucky to call home.

We began with bedrock geology, to understand the foundation of our region, which was then followed by glacial geology, where we explored the imprint left by the last glacial maximum, when New England lay beneath a mile of ice. Next came winter tree ID and wildlife tracking, then cultural geography, examining how humans have shaped and used the land over time.

I’m a Vermont Master Naturalist now — woohoo!

For our final gathering, we met in the woods for wildflowers and graduation festivities. Wildflowers are a perfect topic to end this course on, as their story ties together all of the layers of the cake that we’ve studied – both ecological and cultural. Their presence here in the Champlain Valley is rooted in ancient history, in the bedrock story we learned on day one. And their absence in places where they once thrived tells a more recent story—one of development and overharvesting, which have erased these blooms from parts of our landscape.

Our wildflower story begins 500 million years ago, when what would become Vermont lay below the equator, at the bottom of the Iapetus Ocean (which was named for Iapetus, the father of Atlantis, as this ocean was the precursor to the Atlantic that we know today). This was long before humans or flowering plants were in the picture, but the planet was teeming with marine life. Over time, as sea creatures with calcium rich bodies died, they settled at the bottom of the Iapetus and lithified – turned to stone.

About 500 million years ago, Vermont (the red dot) lay at the bottom of the Iapetus Ocean, on the ancient continent of Laurentia (what later becomes North America). This is an annotated screen shot from this plate tectonics animation.

Fast forward about 50 million years, and the calcium-rich rock from the bottom of the ancient ocean was thrust up high when continents collided as the Iapetus closed (think of it like a multi-car pileup, but with tectonic plates). This event is called the Taconic Orogeny – it’s when the Green Mountains formed.

Today, we have strips of calcium-rich bedrock in Vermont thanks to the ancient ocean (see anything blue in the map below). In places where the glaciers did not bury the bedrock too deeply in sand (a story for another post!), calcium-loving plants, like our spring wildflowers, thrive in rich soils.

Ecological classifications of Vermont’s bedrock. Figure 2 from Wetland, Woodland, Wildland. What’s important? Blue = calcium = wildflowers.

We call many of these wildflowers “ephemerals,” because they bloom briefly right now, while sunshine can reach the forest floor, before the trees leaf out. By the time the summer solstice comes around, many of these flowers will already have disappeared without a trace, storing energy underground (e.g., in rhizomes or corms) so they’re ready to pop up again first thing next spring.

Some of our calcium-loving spring wildflowers in Vermont: hepatica, blood root, dutchman’s breeches, bishop’s cap, jack-in-the-pulpit, red columbine, largeflower bellwort, red trillium, trout lily.

After a beautiful day of admiring wildflowers, we gathered in a circle for one last time to close out the program. Going around, one-by-one, we shared favorite moments and takeaways from the program. Fellow naturalist, Lena, shared their reflection about the connection between ancient history and ephemeral flowers – the amazing duality that something so fleeting comes from something so incredibly old. 

I’ve been ruminating on this idea since – how I already loved wildflowers, but now, thanks to VMN, I see them not only as beautiful and fleeting, but also as rooted in a story that is much older and bigger than all of us. That’s so humbling. This program deepened my sense of connection to Vermont, wonder about the world, and responsibility to protect it.

We then closed the day with a sweet treat… layer cake, of course.

To my Vermont friends out there, I can’t emphasize enough how amazing the Vermont Master Naturalist program is and how much everyone should do it. Reach out to me if you have questions about it!

This post was originally published here.

By Lorna Dielentheis

Have you ever heard the shrill cries of spring peepers on a warm April night? Or the bizarre quacks of wood frogs, resounding deep in the forest?

I remember the first time I heard them. I was walking a trail at Missisquoi Wildlife Refuge several years ago and thought I heard ducks in the distance. I followed the sound, but every time I got close, the quacking dissipated and began again further away. Not one to shrug off a mystery, I followed the sounds for nearly an hour, at one point convinced there must be a secret duck oasis hidden among the brambles. I wasn’t far off– except the “ducks” were actually wood frogs, the “oasis” a massive vernal pool.

Vernal pools are seasonal accumulations of water caused by spring rain and snowmelt. They provide essential habitat to breeding amphibians, many of which return to the same pool year after year to mate and lay eggs. Spotted salamanders, jefferson salamanders, blue-spotted salamanders, wood frogs and spring peepers are just some of the pool-dwellers you might see. Look closer, and you’ll find tinier inhabitants: fairy shrimp, diving beetles, water striders, and many other invertebrates. It’s easy to understand why these temporary wetlands are considered natural communities; they are miniature worlds unto themselves.

a wood frog hovering in the vernal pool, skunk cabbage

Last night I visited one of these pools. Accompanied by my friend Alicia and a couple other amphibian enthusiasts, we arrived just past sunset and made our way into the woods. It had rained all day, and I hoped the wet, warm environment would mean lots of activity surrounding the pool.

The woods were silent, a bad sign for us frog-seekers. We proceeded to the pool’s edge nonetheless, illuminating the placid water with our flashlights. Skunk cabbage and dead branches interrupted the glassy surface but nothing moved; the damp, mute air hung around us like a fog. We maneuvered around tangled shrubs and fallen logs, each of us stopping occasionally to peer into the shallow basin. Alicia spotted a single clutch of frog eggs, and on closer inspection informed us they were nearly fully formed tadpoles. It was beginning to look like we’d missed our ticket to the amphibian nightclub.

Alicia inspecting the eggs

I ventured out on a wobbly tree trunk, hoping the deeper part of the pool would reveal its secrets to me. I noticed frog eggs smeared along the log, signs a predator of some kind (probably a bird) had enjoyed an easy, protein-rich meal. Nearby, another tasty treat: a munched-on frog leg floating just beneath the surface.

caviar et cuisses de grenouille, or, frog eggs & a frog leg

I continued along the edge of the pool, leaving the others to marvel over a graceful diving beetle they’d spotted. I saw a couple wood frogs, a fairy shrimp, the fuzzy white fiddleheads of a cinnamon fern poking out of the leaf litter. And eventually– the motherlode. Just a foot from the pool’s edge, I spotted a fresh cluster of frog eggs, and as I glanced around, I saw that every branch within ten feet had multiple egg bundles clinging to it. I scooped up the nearest clutch, the jelly-like egg sacs trembling in my palm. Small orbs containing the possibility of life. They clung firmly together, the embryos reflecting the light of my headlamp. I wondered how many would survive, and how many would instead provide nourishment to some other creature. I wanted to kiss them. Instead, I silently wished them well before returning them to the black water.

the motherlode

Alicia, Heather and I picked our way along the muddy bank. We spotted a wood frog resting among the leaves and sat down next to it, commenting on the frog’s white lips and adorable little face.

Then, an interruption— a single wood frog quacked, as if to join our conversation. We went silent. Slowly, more frogs began to join the first brave soloist: a handful, a dozen, then the whole pool coming alive around us.

We turned our lights off and sat enraptured as the chorus echoed through the dark, still woods.

The chattering steadily intensified, individual quacks growing closer and closer to us. Minutes passed. I thought about this sound, these frogs, what being here at this moment meant to me.

Ever since that first mysterious encounter at Missisquoi, I think of frog songs as a harbinger of spring. Each year I anticipate the first rainy, warm night when I can go help amphibians cross the road– an act of service, sure, but also an opportunity to touch the wet alien bodies of spotted salamanders. The deafening cries of spring peepers signal to me that ephemerals will soon emerge from the leaf litter, and Osprey will return to their nests.

a wood frog— note the white lips and adorable face

Witnessing these phenological events connects me to my animal body. Last night, as the watery chattering of the frogs washed over me, I realized these seasonal markers have become my self-recognized holidays, my own freshly hewn traditions. This year I will kayak beneath nesting herons and drive to see showy lady’s slippers. I will watch my porch fill with boxelder bugs and hear a pair of loons calling at sunset. The snow geese will return to dead creek. I’ll make my yearly pilgrimage to a trail that briefly fills with mushrooms and I’ll smell the bewitching scent of freshly fallen leaves beginning to decay. The first snowfall, the return of short-eared owls, bald eagles hunting on the ice. All the meaningful landmarks that make up a year. 

A little splash sounded a few feet away from us and the frog song began to dissipate. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I turned around to grin at the two women sharing this moment with me. I wondered if they were feeling the same indescribable emotion I was. Only a few frogs sung now, their final notes reverberating through the night air. Then as quickly as it had begun, the chorus ceased.

“How can anyone think of doing anything else this time of year?” Alicia whispered.

I have no idea.

This post was originally published here.

By Rachel Mullis, VMN Lower Winooski participant 2024

Under a canopy of red oaks on a balmy day in September, a couple dozen nature lovers descended on Burlington’s Killarney Avenue. As newly minted members of the Vermont Master Naturalist’s 2024/5 Lower Winooski River cohort, this was our first day getting up close and personal with Vermont’s natural history. Amid the thunk of acorns that fell steadily in the breeze, each person introduced themself and shared their favorite aspect of natural history. Some expressed their love for plants, others for animals or the interactions between the two. Few people had much to say about geology. 

Geology is the science and history of the earth’s physical structure and substance and the processes that act on it. VMN Director and Founder Alicia Daniel lamented that this oldest component of natural history — also referred to as the base of the layer cake — tends to get short shrift. It’s true that studying rocks may not seem as engaging as finding a rare plant or a set of bobcat tracks. But as Alicia and our VMN cohort leader, Laura Meyer, would show us, geology can be quite dramatic. And it sets the stage for everything that comes next.

Exploring Rock Point’s many natural mysteries

Red pine’s flaky bark is fire resistant. Shagbark hickory’s flaky bark acts as a nursery for Indiana bat pups. And a stand of sumac, which reproduces clonally, may consist of just one plant

We meandered down the Trail Access Road to an open field and three “steps to nowhere” that marked where a school once stood. We stopped often to consider mysteries large and small. One: bloated woody growths that turned out to be Bitternut hickory galls. Another: nut shells on tree stumps that marked where squirrels had dined and slugs moved in to clean up the mess. 

“The ‘places,’ some hidden, all around us tell their stories: stone walls, foundations, old roads and fields, rock outcroppings, tree species, planted grids of trees, and bodies of water (or lack thereof),” Mary wrote.

We observed pasture trees in stands of young forest, marked by their wide, leafless branches. We passed a vast field of wildflowers brimming with goldenrods and asters in riotous blues and purples that benefited from this year’s plentiful rain.

Studying the world-famous Champlain Thrust Fault

Our group eventually descended into the forest again, heading west toward Lake Champlain. We clambered down steep steps among the roots of ancient cedars until we reached the main event: the Champlain Thrust Fault. 

Our prework for the day was to watch a video titled Montpelier Underfoot, which covered the formation of Vermont’s bedrock dating back 540 million years ago to the Cambrian Period. Alicia and Laura supplemented this information with geology handouts we read as we ate lunch, looking up at two layers of history so old they were nearly impossible to comprehend. The Dunham Dolomite, formed around 500 million years ago, and the Iberville Shale, roughly 50 million years younger, were stacked like alphabet blocks, the older layer resting on top, askew and jutting out over open air.

“I hadn’t realized [the thrust fault] was so easy to access and so visible,” wrote Julia Lynam. “I found it breathtaking and almost hard to focus on as it reflected the afternoon sunlight shimmering off the lake. The contrast between the two rock layers was extreme and impressive.”

“Our planet is dynamic and always changing,” Mary reflected. “In our lifetimes we are not likely to see big changes, but we know that land masses are generally moving west at the rate of fingernail growth.”

“Also impressive, I think, is the effort and research on the part of many people that has over the centuries gone into understanding, at least as far as we can, the evolution of the Earth’s surface and the many processes that have led to the topography we see today. We’re privileged to live at a time when so much is known and understood, although, of course, there’s always more!”

Micah provided a visual rendering of the thrust fault. Mary marveled that “we live in a geologically rich area. In particular, the creation of the Champlain Valley and the Green Mountains show how our state is divided into two major areas: what is west of Montpelier and what is east of Montpelier. For a small state, we have a great diversity in bedrock types. Natural features such as the thrust fault at Rock Point and Chazy Reef in Isle La Motte are well-known examples that illustrate some of the State’s early geological development.”

A new appreciation for the ground underfoot

After plenty of discussion with Alicia and Laura, it was time to climb the Sunset Ridge Trail and explore the thrust fault from above. We pulled out our Wetland, Woodland, Wildland: A Guide to the Natural Communities of Vermont book to assess the rather peculiar natural community we found ourselves in. Alicia tested the soil’s pH to confirm the highly alkaline soil and calcareous substrate that nurtured this Limestone bluff cedar-pine forest.

From there, we continued on until we reached the Outdoor Chapel, reflecting on what we’d learned and sharing gratitude. I said I was grateful for our different ways of knowing and my newfound appreciation for the mysteries of the natural world. Maybe knowing it all wasn’t the point. Alicia said it reminded her of the idea that our possible knowledge grows as we learn, like a balloon that expands its boundaries as we fill it with more air. 

Mary wrote this: “Our walk into Rock Point park and trails was all about reverence. What I love is that Alicia and Laura exude an attitude of complete appreciation and awe for the natural world. It was a day for observing details and sharing our enthusiasm for nature’s formations. Jacob Holzberg-Pill joined us for part of our day, sharing his passion for trees and living lightly on the Earth, with plenty of humor thrown in.”

“Our first field trip as a group was full of new faces and friendships, collaborations, and ideas for how to share our new-found knowledge with others,” she continued. “Such a wonderful thing to close our eyes as a group, listening to the breeze in the pine needles and the jarring sound of falling acorns.”

I decided to take her advice, and found myself drawing a map of our route. Alicia shared that this is a technique called an event map, popularized by Hannah Hinchman’s book, A Trail Through Leaves: The Journal as a Path to Place. I appreciated how drawing opened me up to new ways of remembering my experience. Hopefully documenting our collective notes and observations over the course of this year will help us all remember things in greater detail.

Rachel Mullis

By Alicia Daniel

Sun streams under the evening clouds, lighting us up on Raven Ridge. We are glowing, and not from exertion. Eighteen Vermont Master Naturalists just spent five hours hiking a quarter of a mile with me. We smelled the sharp wintergreen scent of black birch sap, rubbed the sulfur yellow buds of a bitternut hickory and gazed at its canker-strewn branches, and we ate bright red American basswood buds (picture a mouse in a motorcycle helmet!) and felt the slippery mucilaginous goo in our mouths. It is Superbowl Sunday or, if you prefer, just another Sunday in the woods chilling with winter trees.

Creating the Vermont Master Naturalist Program is a dream come true. VMN is fertile ground for teaching the layer cake approach and, best of all, it allows me to work with UVM Field Naturalist and Ecological Planning graduates. FNEP alumni Sean Beckett, Sophie Mazowita, and Monica Przyperhart head VMN Chapters in Montpelier, Cambridge, and Middlebury areas. Alumni also lead field days on natural communities, pollinators, and winter tracking and star in VMN films about wildlife habitat and vernal pools. 

Nationally, most Master Naturalist programs focus on plants and animals – the charismatic living pieces of the landscape. VMN diverges by building a framework from the ground up, giving natural communities a solid geologic foundation. Besides its holistic approach, VMN is unique in scale. Other master naturalist programs are regional, state-wide or, in one case, national. The Vermont Master Naturalist program is by nature local. 

It’s as if the question of VMN’s scale was decided by men sitting around an oak table in Massachusetts 250 years ago, gridding off six-mile-by-six-mile squares on a Vermont map. Those squares became Vermont towns. The founders’ experiences with towns in southern New England taught them that six miles by six miles was a magic number. That distance allowed farmers (and eight out of ten Vermont settlers would be farmers) to travel from anywhere in the town by horse or by foot to the center village, conduct their business, and get home again in time to milk the cows. Center villages by charter had a church (or two or three), a green for military drills, a post office, a store, and often later additions like a pound for loose pigs. Vermonters of European descent embraced their towns and have hung on tightly ever since. 

It turns out that telling the story of Vermont in a six-mile-by-six-mile-square area is a piece of cake. All you need are bedrock outcrops, gravel and/or clay pits, stone walls, cellar holes, barns, natural communities, and wildlife to track in winter. Almost all Vermont towns have these features – if you know where to look. And it is fun to look. It’s a game of “let’s find your special places,” whether it’s a glacial spillway over a mountain pass or a hidden glade of lady’s slippers right in the middle of town.

In addition, decisions about school budgets, local taxes, and conservation issues such as managing a town forest, delineating wildlife corridors, or restoring riparian buffers are decided at a town level in Vermont. These decisions are often made by volunteers. It’s a lot to ask of them. Working with Vermont Fish and Wildlife’s Community Wildlife Program, in collaboration with FNEP alumni Jon Kart, Jens Hawkins-Hilke, and Dave Moroney, VMN helps provide ecological training and technical support to these individuals.

Two hundred and fifty years later, the town scale is still a human scale. Vermont Master Naturalists are neighbors who receive ecological training and then work on projects in their town. They know the school where they are planting native plants for pollinators and other wildlife, they know the floodplain where they are removing knotweed and planting trees, they know the places to set cameras to capture wildlife photos, and best of all they get to know each other. As VMN begins to weave a network of alumni through Conservation Field Days and other offerings to address conservation issues at a watershed level, the distance people travel between towns is still manageable. The carbon footprint remains light. And people are amazed by what is right outside their door.

This post was originally published here.