Rambling New England Nature

Mount Mansfield
October 6, 2015
From Underhill State Park, Underhill, VT
From Eagle’s Cut Trail

My wife and I drove three hours to Mount Mansfield (4,393 Feet) on October 6, 2015 to see the fall foliage. This was our first visit to this mountain, and, from what I read, the foliage views from the summit, assuming there were any views at all, were “distant,” and so the presentation was not as dramatic as it would be at lower altitudes, according to several reports. But, the chance to see expansive views into the Champlain Valley seemed well worth the climb.   

   We knew we’d see some beautiful yellows (sugar maples and birches), and we hoped for some vibrant reds from the red maple leaves. We were still seven days away from “peak” foliage color, but we wanted to climb the mountain while the weather was still reasonable. The expected temperature at the base of the mountain was about sixty degrees, but we knew the weather at the summit could be severe. We’ve been on the summit of Mount Washington in August when we were forced to wear a winter jacket, hat and gloves, and we weren’t sure what to expect on Mount Mansfield, so we packed our hats and gloves and wore multiple layers of clothing.

Trailhead

   We set off from just beyond the ranger station at Underhill State Park, up a slight incline, up a set of stairs, across the CCC Road and into a forest of yellow and white birch, beech, oak, sugar maple, white pine and hemlock. “CCC” stands for Civilian Conservation Corps, a public work relief program that was popular during the Great Depression.

   Hayscented fern and wood fern border this wide open trail, and a few yellow-and-brown-faded Clintonia leaves have wilted back against the ground. This forest has a yellow haze to it from the yellow maple, beech and birch leaves, but also from the yellowed wildflower and shrub leaves. One of the shrubs adding to this yellow haze is hobblebush viburnum, its large, heart-shaped leaves anywhere from faded green to bright yellow at this lower altitude.

   A false Solomon’s seal plant is bent in half and the mottled-yellow and brown leaves seem to be fading into the leaf litter. The leaves of white birch haven’t fully turned yet, but the long columns of pink-tinged, white bark against the surrounding yellow haze makes a graceful presentation, while the rougher moss-covered yellow birch trunks suggest the roughness of this forest.

   While the red maple leaves have turned red, slightly tinged with yellow, the larger striped maple leaves are turning a bright yellow, though most of them still show green. Farther ahead, the compound leaves of sarsaparilla stand out at the leaf litter, a single plant consisting of about fifteen bright yellow leaves. And, opposite the sarsaparilla, on the rocky embankment, cucumber root is leaning over, the double whorl of leaves fading to a brown or yellow-green, the uppermost whorl stained with red, as if the dripping juices of its purple berries were caught there.

   Farther ahead, the ground cover consists of wild oats, wide-spreading patches of foamflower, the leaves of baneberry and circular bunches of wood fern. It’s a beautiful autumn trail with light passing through the canopy, filtering through the yellow leaves and seeming to reflect that yellow onto the lower shrub layer. Another plant that adds yellow to the leaf litter is tall meadow-rue, the dozens of one-inch yellow leaves arranged like small mitten-shaped disks overlapping each other. Meanwhile, while the blooms of the late summer whorled wood aster are faded, the leaves are still a bright green. The path crosses over the wide, gravel CCC road a wide that ascends into deeper into the forest and disappears around a corner. We continued across this road to stay with our path; but when hiking, with a limited amount of time and energy, I often wonder what I might have found along a different path. I know where the CCC Road would take me; any map could tell me that. But, what might I have seen along the way? Wasn’t that what Robert Frost was really questioning when faced with when his “Two roads diverged in a yellow woods?”

“And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.”

        - From “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost

   Frost took “the road less traveled by.” But, these days, there aren’t many roads “less traveled by,” in the sense that Frost meant it. And, couldn’t the same be asked of two roads equally worn? So, as human beings with limited time and energy, we can only take one path. So, we took the path we chose from the beginning and we remained committed to it. So, when forced to choose, perhaps that’s what makes all the difference? 

   Beyond the road, the beautiful clover-like leaves of wood sorrel edge the path. Their blooms long gone, the cleanly cut leaflets are fading to multiple shades of green and yellow. While our common clover leaves often seem worn and often a bit deformed, these sorrel leaves seem to be the Platonic Ideal or perfect shamrock. What plant was the true shamrock seems still open for debate. Some believed it to be our common red clover (Karl Linnaeus, 1737), while others believed it to be this plant, the wood sorrel (London Botanist, James E. Bicheno, 1830). According to Wikipedia, an extensive study, carried out in Ireland during the late 1800s (the study was carried out again in 1988 with similar results), determined that there is no one ideal shamrock, but that just over half (51%) of Irish people believe it to be the lesser clover or hop trefoil (Trifolium dubium). Be that as it may, I think of the wood sorrel’s leaf when I think of the Irish Shamrock!

   Backing the sorrel leaves, shinning club moss will remain green through the winter. Another leaf that will remain green after the snow melts is that of shinleaf. Ahead, I see a few plants with the six-inch long, browned fruit-bearing stems rising from them. And, near the shinleaf, Indian pipe stems have already turned brown.

   I’m surprised to see so much tall meadow-rue on drier ground; I typically find meadow-rue nearer to a brook. I see arched false Solomon’s seal amid the meadow-rue, the leaves mottled yellow and brown and the terminal fruit cluster red. Then, we come to a sign that reads “Youth Camping Area; Sunset Ridge Trail, 0.2 Mi.” The Sunset Ridge Trail will take us most of the way up the mountain.

   We turn onto a wide, gravelly trail with a relatively open yellow and green tree canopy backed by the white cloud-filled sky and setting off the dark maple-trunk silhouettes. I feel as though we’re walking into an impressionist painting. This connecting trail is edged by abundant foamflower leaves covering the tan leaf litter. These leaves are deep green, red-veined, and they superficially resemble a maple leaf. In several places, the meadow-rue plants have wilted over these leaves so that bunches of its small, bright yellow leaves are resting against the deep green. I also see a fallen jack-in-the-pulpit plant, bare of its fruit cluster. Did it never develop? Was it eaten?

   We pass a small brook that runs beneath this old road from the right-hand side, and then, just ahead, we hear a rush of water coming down from a valley to our left. I walk to the edge of the road to see that we have ascended more than I would have thought. A rush of water runs over the rocks at the bottom of this valley. I would assume it was cut by a larger river, perhaps a huge spill-over as the last glacier melted back fifteen thousand years ago. Over time, the water would have dug the valley and eventually faded to become this smaller brook, a mere brook that drains water from the mountain after snow melts or after a summer rain.

   Beyond a small opening in the trees, at the edge of the road I see Christmas fern mixed with wood fern and the orchid, helleborine. On the opposite side of the road, aven’s seed pods rise above its green leaves. These seed pods are designed to clasp onto the fur or clothes of a passer-by, to be unwittingly planted at a different location, preferably for the plant, in conditions that allows for the seed’s successful germination. 

   At the one mile mark, we approached a kiosk and a bridge that crosses the upper section of that deep-valley brook. Besides displaying an excellent map of the mountain, this kiosk is here to educate the mountain hiker about the fragile nature of the Alpine Zone: “Alpine plants survive our harshest weather, yet can succumb to a single footstep.” It outlines what they call the “Leave No Trace Principles:”

1)      Plan ahead and prepare
2)      Dispose of water properly
3)      Travel and camp on durable surfaces
4)      Leave what you find
5)      Minimize campfire impacts
6)      Respect wildlife
7)      Be considerate of other visitors

   A sign above the bridge indicates that the Sunset Ridge Trail crosses it and that the Mount Mansfield Chin, our destination, is 2.2 miles ahead.

   Just as we cross the bridge, I see patches of goldthread. Goldthread’s three deep green leaflets are evergreen and so will remain this color into the winter months. Mixed in are hayscented fern, most of the fronds turning yellow and the faded leaves of Clintonia. Mountain maple grows above it, adjacent to the brook, its leaves showing more yellow than those nearer to the trailhead. The trail then crosses over several bridges before it begins to ascend. Some of the brooks the bridges cross over are dry, others have water running briskly over rocks, creating small one-foot water falls.

   More foamflower leaves border the trail ahead, where Sunset Ridge Trail passes the Laura Cowles Trail. According to Ashley, who posts a blog called, “A Crooked Trail or Two” (http://ashleytrailrunner.blogspot.com), Laura Cowles was a founding member of the Green Mountain Club and the first woman to snowshoe up Mount Mansfield. She was President of the Club from 1918 to 1919. She passed away in 1958.

   We pass a wide-spreading patch of hayscented fern and then a stand of hobblebush viburnum. Most of hobblebush’s leaves are yellow, but some of its autumn colors are spectacular: deep purple, maroon and deep purple and yellow and reddish-maroon. It shows a spectacular variety of color this time of the year. I pass a patch of bramble, a few berries still showing. Farther ahead, I see the three yellow-green leaves of painted trillium, the sterile plant lying on the ground. Club moss grows nearby, each plant standing about four inches, and Canada mayflower grows from haircap moss, mayflower’s red berries still showing.

   I’m surprised to see tall meadow-rue leaves this far up the mountain; as I mentioned earlier, it’s a plant I typically associate with lower wetlands, beside ponds and brooks. I suppose enough moisture is retained on the slopes of this mountain to support it. Goldenrod grows along the path, and bunchberry’s leaves are just barely tinted marron now. I don’t see the typical cluster of red berries on any of the bunchberry. It’s common on mountains, and I would expect to see it higher up in a stunted form. Actually a shrub, this relative of the famous dogwood family has a beautiful little bloom consisting of petal-like bracts and multiple flowers on the head of each plant. If you study the bloom closely, you’ll notice its resemblance to those of flowering dogwood. In fall, the bloom is replaced by a cluster of red berries (technically drupes). So far, I see neither the bloom nor its fruits on this mountain.

   I come to a pine tree that’s dripping sap so profusely that it’s painted the wood fern and striped maple leaves below it white as if they’ve been white-washed. My first thought is that this is the perch of a hawk or owl which defecated on them. My wife points out that this is sap dripping down the tree. And, she’s right. It’s interesting that I went right to bird excrement. It’s what I expected to see.

   Beyond this pine tree, I see common nettle. It’s another late-summer plant, and so, it’s still standing upright and the leaves are still green. The blooms are all passed, however. Beyond this common nettle, we pass a large rock tripe-covered rock, most likely a boulder dumped here by a glacier that melted and retreated fifteen thousand years ago. Though presumptuous – because I’m not a geologist – it seems easy to imagine how this ancient glacier affected this mountain: the scraping down of the summit, the glacial boulders, the water from the melting ice powerfully spilling down and digging out the earlier mentioned valley. We passed another smaller boulder, clean but for a bit of moss. I certainly could be way off, but I don’t think so.

   I pass another painted trillium plant, also prostrate, but this one with a faded flower, but no fruit. Apparently this flower was never fertilized. Nearby, I see a starflower with its six pointed leaves, yellow and marron now, the wire-like fruiting stem rising above it, but bare of any fruit.

   We continued up the mountain, the path steepening. A chipmunk startled us as it ran across the trail, just in front of us. Red-berried elder leaves are at the edge of the path here. Then, beyond a white birch, a beautiful yellow-green-and-orange-leaved view opens, revealing the mountain slopes above me, the white birches looking like vertical dashes up the slope.

   Farther along, I see the leaves of current and then another beautiful view of distant ranges with stunted black spruce and balsam fir and bare rock; and vivid orange maple leaves fill the foreground. After another tenth of a mile or so up the hill, I see the flat, red cluster of mountain ash fruit against the yellowed compound leaves. We had hoped for a scenic place to stop for lunch, but we’re growing hungry and so we find a place to stop for lunch. There are no dramatic views here, but it’s a beautiful section of the mountain, nonetheless. The mountain ash, wrote William Whitman Bailey in New England Wild Flowers (1897), “… is the ‘rowan’ of the Scotch, and figures in many a legend. In late August and September its red berries are a striking feature in our mountain scenery.”

   A short walk up the mountain, those beautiful views become available, just before we reach a sign indicating that Cantilever Rock is 0.2 miles to our left. Worried about the time and darkness, we decide to continue up the mountain and leave this Rock for the way down if we have time. Just beyond the sign, I see turtlehead plants, the blooms all passed, the seed pods developing. Ahead, I see dogwood, wood sorrel, goldenrod, more foamflower and then cliffs appear. Caves that seem to travel deep into the rock are incorporated into these cliffs. These cliffs have to be one of the most dramatic features of this mountain. Whenever we see a cave, we once again become children. Our imagination ignites; part of us is frightened by these seemingly endless holes, but our imagination wants to crawl deep inside to explore. For some of us, our imagination isn’t enough; we need to be physically inside the darkness, fire in hand. Perhaps our prehistoric selves see comfort and protection there as well. Archetype-like, a cave represents an entrance to and enchanted place that will force us to grow as a person; or it might even totally change us forever. 

   I pass a wide-spreading stand of whorled wood aster, still in bloom, twisted stalk, some without blooms and some with faded blooms, goldthread, stunted bunchberry, some only two inches from leaf-tip to leaf-tip, long beach fern, spinulose wood fern and hayscented fern. I then pass a patch of snowberry, the tiny leaves arranged in braids that drape down the side of the trail embankment. Unfortunately, I don’t see any of the white fruit that typically comes with it at this time of the year. And, just beyond it is foam lichen, a fascinating, faded-green lichen with fruit stalks that rise like little pale stalagmites.

   The spruces and fir trees are noticeably stunted as we reach what’s called the krummholz, when trees and shrubs become deformed due to the severe weather conditions they’re exposed to. This typically occurs over 3,000 feet. “William Whitman Bailey in New England Wild Flowers (1897) described this “the dwarf forest, the little weird, ancient, gnome-like woods; trees to delight Doré, they are so full of apparent action; so grotesque. They look as if they had been born old, like one of the heroes of Bab Ballads.” [Doré was a famous illustrator of fantastic subjects during the 1800s and Bab Ballads are a collection of absurd verse by W. S. Gilbert (1836-1911)].

   These trees grow to about eight feet here and the branches and needle-shaped leaves are only on the leeward side of the tree’s trunk. It’s a bit strange seeing the action of the wind like this; I can imagine the wind blowing at the tree, but the leaves settling back to the windward side once the wind dies down. But, the wind never dies down, and the leaves and branches never return to normal. I feel like I’m looking at a picture of a wind-blown tree, frozen in time. The plants know how high to grow; any higher and the tops would probably crack off anyway. 

   Views open up on the western side of the mountain, views toward Burlington and Lake Champlain. Unfortunately, fog is covering the distant hills and settling into the Champlain Valley, blocking views and muting the fall colors. I keep hoping for the sky to open up, for a burst of sunlight to ignite the earth-tone-colored foliage. The brightest colors I see are the red mountain ash berries in the foreground. 

   We continue up the mountain, toward the bare rock. As we rise in altitude, fewer and fewer plants are able to survive. I wonder if some bother to try only to fail. Does some errant seed from a lower-elevation plant ever germinate in the shallow soil on the leeward side of a rock? I see a pretty patch of alpine reindeer lichen growing beside bunchberry, the leaves of the bunchberry turning a deep purple. And, sparse patches of yellow map lichen are growing on an outcrop of quartz.

   I see alpine blueberry with a red stem gall tucked away from the wind. More bunchberry grows here, some of the leaves still green, but others a rich crimson. I’ve never seen bunchberry leaves turn this color; they’re spectacular. More Clintonia grows here also along with goldthread.

   We soon leave the tree-line and step out onto the bare rock that will take us up to the Chin. Map lichen covers wide patches of rock, creating a pretty color combination of deep green or black (moss) and white (quartz, I believe) and pale yellow-green. Cairns lead us upward through this bare area, and we feel the air growing cold, the wind picking up. Mountain clubmoss grows against the rocks along with patches of mountain sandwort and three-toothed cinquefoil. A few blooms of these last two plants are still out, but most have wilted.

   A few birds appear from behind grass-covered rocks only to disappear again in the brush twenty yards from where they appeared. Are these sparrows? I would imagine they’re only temporary visitors to this mountain outcrop.

   I also see what I believe is mountain bilberry, just one single blue fruit amid the maroon-tinged leaves and mixed in with green and reddish-orange cinquefoil leaves. Then, I see one curious flower. There are four rounded white petals, each with a reddish tip and white stamens; and it has two stunted green leaves, perhaps a couple other leaves tucked between them. I didn’t want to disturb the plant by touching it. The two leaves are red-lined along the fringe. The plant stands one inch high. It has to be a bunchberry, but it seems very deformed.

   Bunchberry’s blooms are well passed by now, and every other bunchberry plant all the way up this mountain has lacked any bloom. There’s something magical about these outlier plants. Nature’s pattern seems so fixed; and yet, they somehow break free from these fixed rules? I’ve seen plants attempt to re-bloom on particularly warm Indian summer days in November; that makes sense; but here, against the cold wind! I feel as though I’ve witnessed some hidden view of nature’s way. It’s hard for me to let go of the thought that there’s a reason that this bunchberry is in bloom so far out of its season, some reason bigger than bloom-times and mere short-term cycles. But, a part of me wants to believe that it’s the pure strength and will of this individual plant to make one more effort at pollination. Here it finds itself, and so here it shall make the attempt. Perhaps it doesn’t know enough to give up, perhaps it doesn’t have a choice; perhaps it knows but makes the attempt nevertheless.        

    With about 0.2 miles to the Chin, we decide to turn back given the time and the fog. Our destination seems less important than that of the stunted bunchberry. Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn’t. It’s always a struggle to come so close to one’s destination only to turn back early. But, our ultimate goal was to see what foliage views this side of the mountain offers, and clearly it was the wrong day for distant views. As we descend, very content with what we did see here, we notice that the fog has cleared enough for us see Lake Champlain, which is a treat for us, having spent some time exploring its shores at Red Rock Reservation only months earlier. We experienced what this mountain offers at this time of the year; it offers a lot, experiences we wouldn’t have seen any other season.