What IS peak color?

is this “peak color?"

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half and I had an animated conversation yesterday. Our personal definitions of peak autumn color differ widely. As I frequently do, using an internet search engine, I sought an answer from authority, and failed miserably. This link will take you to the only “definition” I could find. Even it focuses more on “past peak” than on peak, but finally offers the following:

All of this “past peak fall color” can be just as glorious as the mystical and highly elusive “peak” so many will look for. To me, the definition of “peak” is more of a state of mind than an actual event.

Here is an example. If you look at a small hill on ANY given day, none of the trees will be in fall color all the same. In mid-Sept, there may be one or more trees that for some reason are feeling stressed, so on this fine day they are bright red, but the rest of the hill is mostly green.

In a week or two, half the trees on this small hill are yellow, orange or red while the early ones are past peak or even bare. But if you are in the state of mind that takes in the whole hill, you are ecstatic that you found “peak” when in reality the trees at the bottom are well past “peak” so by MY literal definition (Jeff’s peak definition) All trees and all branches have to be turning or turned by at least 75% or more, but NOT past peak yet. 

There are many sites and pages that offer maps and calendars on where and  when  to look for peak foliage colors, without sharing what  they mean by  that. Other sites, such as this U.S. Forest Service page, provide explanations of which trees turn what colors and why.

are these oak leaves at peak color?

Photo by J. Harrington

It seems unfortunate, but we may be reduced to judging peak color using the (in)famous expression of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart “I know it  when I see  it.”

Merry Autumn

Paul Laurence Dunbar - 1872-1906

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell

     About the breezes sighing,

And moans astir o’er field and dell,

     Because the year is dying.

 

Such principles are most absurd,—

     I care not who first taught ’em;

There’s nothing known to beast or bird

     To make a solemn autumn.

 

In solemn times, when grief holds sway

     With countenance distressing,

You’ll note the more of black and gray

     Will then be used in dressing.

 

Now purple tints are all around;

     The sky is blue and mellow;

And e’en the grasses turn the ground

     From modest green to yellow.

 

The seed burrs all with laughter crack

     On featherweed and jimson;

And leaves that should be dressed in black

     Are all decked out in crimson.

 

A butterfly goes winging by;

     A singing bird comes after;

And Nature, all from earth to sky,

     Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

 

The ripples wimple on the rills,

     Like sparkling little lasses;

The sunlight runs along the hills,

     And laughs among the grasses.

 

The earth is just so full of fun

     It really can’t contain it;

And streams of mirth so freely run

     The heavens seem to rain it.

 

Don’t talk to me of solemn days

     In autumn’s time of splendor,

Because the sun shows fewer rays,

     And these grow slant and slender.

 

Why, it’s the climax of the year,—

     The highest time of living!—

Till naturally its bursting cheer

     Just melts into thanksgiving.

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Autumn leaves #phenology

It is a pensive, cloudy morning. Summer's leaves leap from the only home they've ever known onto the backs of passing winds. Their rides will be brief but, oh, so exhilarating! Freedom comes rarely for them. It will be eons before they get this thrill again. First, they must spend Winters and many seasons following as they reshape and return to their source. Only then can their journey again become a climb to reach for the heavens.

leaving home

Photo by J. Harrington

destination unknown

Photo by J. Harrington

journey interrupted

Photo by J. Harrington

Wish them timely, uninterrupted journeys and godspeed on their return.

                     Immortal Autumn

By Archibald MacLeish

I speak this poem now with grave and level voice   

In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.

I praise the flower-barren fields, the clouds, the tall   

Unanswering branches where the wind makes sullen noise.

I praise the fall: it is the human season.

                                                                  Now

No more the foreign sun does meddle at our earth,   

Enforce the green and bring the fallow land to birth,   

Nor winter yet weigh all with silence the pine bough,

But now in autumn with the black and outcast crows   

Share we the spacious world: the whispering year is gone:   

There is more room to live now: the once secret dawn   

Comes late by daylight and the dark unguarded goes.

Between the mutinous brave burning of the leaves   

And winter’s covering of our hearts with his deep snow   

We are alone: there are no evening birds: we know   

The naked moon: the tame stars circle at our eaves.

It is the human season. On this sterile air

Do words outcarry breath: the sound goes on and on.   

I hear a dead man’s cry from autumn long since gone.

I cry to you beyond upon this bitter air.

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Crazy flight, Autumn dispersal #phenology

Fifty years or so ago, when I was first learning about ruffed grouse (not ruffled grouse, although the neck ruff often looks somewhat ruffled) I encountered a description of Autumn dispersal called "crazy flight." As local populations of young of the year spread out into suitable habitat, on occasion, uneducated grouse try flying through windows. Autumn is relocation time so that, with luck, food and shelter can be located before Winter's snow, cold, scarcity and sleep.

I also learned over the years that chipmunks hibernate during the Winter. I don't recall learning or even wondering anything about chipmunk dispersal until today. Based on our experience here at "The Property," I have discovered that some chipmunks are highly prolific breeders and disperse into locations under the front porch, nearby wood piles and into tunnels under what passes for lawn around here. The local population has already gnawed holes in the front steps and created erosion around the back patio as our Summer rainstorms wash out their underground tunnels. For these and related reasons, we've been helping members of the local population(s) find alternative arrangements. Consider it involuntary dispersal.

a "two-fer" of chipmunks

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years ago we translocated about 16, one at a time. Last year it was only 7 or 8. This year remained in single digits until yesterday and today. Yesterday we moved one of the crew (number 8 or 9 for the year) out of the back yard. Today, we had a first. Two chipmunks (9 and 10 or 10 and 11)  got themselves caught simultaneously in our have-a-hart trap. They were moved to the same release location  as yesterday's relocatee. I'm hoping that we don't have too many more sightings (or trappings) this year before they head for hibernation. I feel better about the "extraditions" when I'm sure they should have time to locate alternate food and shelter sources before the snow flies. When it comes to excess chipmunks, I'm definitely a NIMBY. On the other hand, thinking about crazy flight, I'm still trying to imagine what went through the minds of today's pair as they rode together in the back of the SUV for 10 minutes or so and then had an opportunity to scamper into new territory. I wonder if Adam and Eve shared similar feelings as they left their first home.

As I did some background checking for today's posting, I came across a paper that suggests Autumn is a neglected season in climate change research. That fits with what I've been seeing as I've searched various phenology sites. Your thoughts?

Susan McCampbell Ring – Chipmunks Of Trial Lake

Ever since I was a little girl I fantasized
about little wild animals running up to touch me.

A steely-cold High Uintah morning:
and I’m twenty-six, sitting on pine duff waiting

for the sun. When finally it peeks
over the far mountain and through

the canopy of tremendous old firs dripping lichen
it wakes an excited tribe of chipmunks.

I decide that if I can sit still
enough–and THINK like

a boulder–they won’t mind me and they’ll
just go about their October morning

rituals. I am stone, I say to myself,
over and over, clearing my head

of artificial chatter and the “civilized”
things upon which I dwell. I am stone.

I keep my eyes lowered, trying not
to watch their striped antics and

velvet acrobatics, trying not
to smile when one is chased into my leg,

and trying not to laugh out loud when one
hops to my Levi-clad knee, jumps to my

sweatered arm, scurries up to my
neck and tickles me with tiny

flicking hands. Soon the others
catch on: a grand idea! Running

laps on my shoulders and back,
across my elbows and cross-legged

lap, and once or twice even perching
high on my winter wool cap.

I don’t dare blink. I try to breathe
slower than the trees and I try to stay

as still as granite. The chipmunks frolic like
tiny clowns–testing me, mocking me?–

and then chase each other away. Now I feel
lonelier than rock and I think

I understand how the Earth must be taking
the news of mass extinction.

15 VII 94
Susan McCampbell Ring

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Please be kind to each other while you can.