Posts Tagged 'Hudson'


Something I was not aware of. Didn’t think we had any lizards at all up here in New York, except for the introduced Italian Wall Lizards. But there are actually four species in the state, three natives and the Italian, which I’ve seen in Queens. Both the Five-lined Skink and the Eastern Fence Lizard are found in the Hudson Highlands (although why the parks people had to go to Ohio for a picture I don’t know). Now I have to find them. Stay tuned for a sunny day in the spring.


Plenty of oaks yet to turn color in the Hudson Highlands, 60 miles north of Brooklyn.

And where there are oaks, there are galls. Here’s one I came across up there recently:Not sure what species is inside here.

To re-cap, galls are formed by the interaction of animal and plant. Irritated by wasp, mite, aphid, midge, even nematode, etc., the plant is stimulated into forming a growth which is then used by the animal to protect its eggs, foster its larval stages, etc. Galls can be found on all parts of a plant, leaves, flowers, stems, bark, roots. The most obvious are the ones on the leaves, and oaks in particular seem to have a strong affinity, if that’s the word, for gall-making insects that create oddly wonderful oak “apples.” The plant is generally not harmed by this interrelationship, the benefits of which are partaken by well over 1000 (in North American) species of insects.

Here are some of my previous adventures amongst the galls.


Storm King Mountain, not quite at peak fall color on Sunday. This picture was from atop Little Stony Point, which is just north of Cold Spring, NY, beneath the better known Bull Mountain (Mt. Taurus). Granite used to be shipped from here to the city to build little things like the Brooklyn Bridge. While facing south on the point, we saw a Peregrine (Falco peregrinus) rise out of nowhere to strike a bird in a flurry of feathers, then fly over the Hudson with her prey in talons as a small cloud of feathers drifted down to earth. Heading westerly ourselves, we then saw a Peregrine, presumably our Peregrine come around the corner, below us ripping her prey to pieces. A raptor devouring its food is not a pretty sight. This picture is from rather far off, but trust me, it’s a Peregrine with a now bloody-breasted prey at her feet:When we got down below, the bird had long since finished feasting and flown off, so we examine the ground around the plucking/eating post, which was at the edge of another cliff over the river. At least two birds had been dispatched there recently. There was at least one Blue Jay and at least one Northern Flicker. We saw dozens of Blue Jays throughout the day, many of flying at eye-level or below, giving us an unusual look at them from above. The blue was magnificently intense in the sunlight. We didn’t see many Northern Flickers there, but they have been passing through NYC in such large numbers even civilians are noticing.The Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus), a woodpecker, has yellow-shafted feathers. This is unusual, for most birds have opaque feather shafts (technically, the shaft is known as the rachis). Northern Flickers in the West have red-shafted feathers. As a consequence, when flickers fly, they flash their colorful underwings. This and their white rump patch make they fairly easy to identify. Some of those yellow-shafted feathers. Peregrines pluck the breasts of their prey before eating, so clumps of contour feathers, the downy ones, were spread all around the area, as were these primaries, or wing feathers, probably dislodged in the violence, since the wings of prey are usually left attached to the body.

Geological Ruminations II

A trip to Iceland concentrates the mind on the subject of volcanism. Split between the separating-at-two-centimeters-a-year North American and Eurasian plates, Iceland is astride a tremendously deep plume of magma known as a hot spot. It has some major volcanoes, including Grimsvotn, Katla, Hekla, Krafla, and Laki. In 1963, a whole new island, Surtsey, named after the fire giant Surtur, emerged bubbling hot out of the water off the southern coast. (Cf. John McPhee’s two-part article on Heimaey, Surtsey’s neighbor.) This year’s smoker, Eyjafjallajökull, paralyzed Europe during the spring, but that’s nothing in comparison to blasts from the past.
This is Hverfell, east of Myvatn, a tephra or ash cone. It is about 460m high and 1040m across.

This volcanism does wonders for geothermal power, which lights up most of the country; natural hot tubs (ahhhhhh); geyser-steamed bread (tasty), and volcano tourism; it bodes ill for the future, though, and the inevitable cataclysms, which will not just be local. It was the Laki eruptions, the Skafka Fires, of 1783-84, in fact, which suggested to Ben Franklin — minding the store/impressing the ladies in Paris as our ambassador — that volcanoes could influence the climate; his thought — that the dry blue funk shrouding the City of Light was due to a volcanic eruption on Iceland — was the first documented making of that connection. Alas, nobody was reading him during the infamous “year without a summer,” 1816, when, following the eruption of Indonesia’s Tambora, the East Coast of the U.S. shivered through July and August (“ice made in pails”), and Mary Shelley, holed up in a damp, dank bust-of-a-holiday on Lake Geneva, started writing Frankenstein. The less literary effects were drought, crop failure, starvation, immigration, political upheaval, and huge numbers of dead around the world (hmm, sounds just like Planet Climate Change).

Tambora 1815 was a 7 on the Volcanic Explosivity Index, described as “Colossal”; Krakatau 1883 a 6, “Huge”; in comparison Mount St. Helens 1980 was a 5, “Very Large.” Indonesia can also claim Toba, c. 74,000 years ago, which was an 8, “Humongous”; it’s thought to have ejected 1000 times the material St. Helens did.

Our own metropolis occasionally feels a little tickle of a tremor from deep earthquakes in the St. Lawrence and Hudson valleys. It will probably come as a surprise to most, but the region has historically been subject to several 5 on-the-Richter scale quakes; the strongest was in 1836, an estimated 5.5, still rather moderate, under Gravesend Bay. That’s several miles from where I write, so quite local.

However, our great reminder of the hot power of the earth is the purple majesty of the Palisades.
From the Hudson River, Fall 2009.

This cliff stretches from Jersey City to Haverstraw, about 35 miles, along the west coast of the Hudson. The column-like diabase was formed when a surge of magma intruded into weaker material, sandstone, underground. This sill eventually cooled and hardened. Over time, the material above the sill eroded away, exposing the sill’s flank to the hammer of time, air, water, and ice.

Similar basalt forms were the subject of heated debate starting in the late 18th century, when the Neptunists — who thought such rock formed out of solution, after the great universal flood of the Bible — battled the Plutonists, who said it was volcanic in origin. The earliest field geologists pretty much had to become Plutonists; just look at Vesuvius, spewing lava like froth from a rabid dog; you could practically watch it cool into basalt. One of these was William Hamilton, English ambassador to Naples (technically, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies). Hamilton was all over Vesuvius and the Campi Phlegraei (which is where Pozzuoli is), leaving the Mrs. at home with fires of her own to attend to (cf. Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover).

A few months ago, I wrote a little about Pozzuoli’s importance in the history of geology. Spelunking into the literature of volcanoes, I learned that the town’s name in Roman times was Puteoli, and that it was long known as a source of volcanic ash, which, when mixed with lime, made an excellent hydraulic (water-resistant) cement, called pozzolana. Pozzolana was the foundation of Rome’s port at Ostia; it still holds up the Pantheon and Colosseum. This reminded me of tufa, a constant in my Italian childhood just north of Pozzuoli and Lago d’ Averno, the gateway to Hades. (What neighbors! Plus, you really had to watch out for the ornery three-headed junk yard dog down there). More generally called tuff, tufa is hardened ash; it was a popular building material. Soft enough to scrap with a fingernail, it was also rather lightweight: I vividly remember the tufa wall at Pinetamare Elementary School (Fifth grade; Miss Smith’s class; the school was then brand spanking new and right on the beach, which we were not allowed anywhere near), collapsing along one side of the playground during recess. A workman was toppled beneath the big color-TV-sized blocks, but he and his fellows pushed them off without much trouble or evident personal damage.


Bookmark and Share

Join 679 other followers
Nature Blog Network