Finally, an evening that was both warm enough and cloudy enough to offer the possibility of interesting sunset photography. I set out an hour early, taking a few desultory photographs here and there, then stopping to visit neighbors to chat for a few minutes, watching the sun sinking in the sky through their living room window out of the corner of my eye. My attention was captured by an odd snag on a pasture ridge. The most difficult part of the process for me today was not taking the picture (my hands never even went numb — what a delight) or even processing it (Picasa 3 offers pleasantly few choices compared to Photoshop or Lightroom). The problem this time was figuring out a title for the blog post. Everything I could come up with the word “sunset” in it sounded like either a cookie-cutter housing development or a New Age instrumental song title. Not that I have anything against them — New Age instrumentals, that is — but nothing felt right for the image. Finally, I abandoned the idea of sunset, and settled on the fact that it is also an “end of day” picture. There is something foreboding, almost apocalyptic, in it — I am haunted by the image of that strange snag. I wonder what happened to the tree it once was, and why it still stands there, alone against the sky.
On a midwinter late afternoon, I found myself less bothered than usual by the cold, and once again sauntering slowly, exploring different views of the Piney Woods Church Road landscape. I took several photographs looking into a tangle of greenbrier — more inviting to look into than to walk through, that’s for certain. And I settled on this one for today, with several layers of branches, moving progressively further from focus. What can you find here, reading between the lines?
Today offered me yet another in a string of cold mornings, and coming home from errands I stopped at Piney Woods Church Road, my camera with plus ten macro in hand. I explored worlds contained in leaves, mosses, and bark from a long-dead pine tree. My choice from the day’s ramblings is this image of the leaflets of a Christmas fern, verdant green in a stark brown and gray Georgia winter landscape.
Another shot of arctic air arrived yesterday, and this morning it was twenty-five degrees, with a light breeze. Bare hands became partially numb after just four or five photographs. It was a day for admiring Mark Hirsch, who photographed an old burr oak tree in a pasture every day of the year, including on days that were bitterly cold by Wisconsin standards, not Georgia ones. Adapting to the cold, I have identified a few images I have been taking practically every day, and for the next few days I will focus on each one of them in turn. Today, I drove to the midway point of Piney Woods Church Road, to photograph some old pecan trees, some of which actually appear on an aerial photograph of the area back in 1938,making them probably 100 years or more in age. The most grizzled veteran stands in one of the pastures, and merits its own photograph, which I will take sometime soon. For today, though, I offer the image of bare tree branches, reaching for the sky.
I raced and approaching front (with its impending clouds, colder temperatures, and strong winds), getting out to Piney Woods Church Road while the skies were still clear. Morning sunshine offered marvelous backlighting for macro photographs of oak leaves, mosses and fern fronds. The veins on this water oak leaf (Quecus nigra) form a kind of botanical map, reminiscent of medieval strip maps showing paths of pilgrimage (you can view an example of one here). What kind of journey does this leaf offer us? What holy lands does it reveal?
On yet another in a near-endless stream of clear and sunny days, I set out for Piney Wood Church Road convinced, yet again, that I would bring back a macro image to share. I photographed quite a few still partly green oak leaves, backlit by the morning sun. I immersed myself in a couple of clumps of moss, too. My favorite photograph of the day, however, is this sparrow, perched on a barbed wire fence in front of an old barn (formerly used for mules that plowed the cotton fields in the area). He (or she) is gazing straight at me. Looking at this picture, I remember that, as I walk the road, I am under near-continual surveillance by a host of avian presences. Turkey buzzards circle overhead, a bluebird pauses on its territorial circuit to observe me from a pecan tree branch, and sparrows hunt for seeds in a cow pasture. Carrying my camera, it is easy for me to think of the Piney Woods Church Road landscape as a collection of objects to be photographed, rather than being alive, participatory. Then my eyes catch those of a sparrow, gazing back, and I know that I am not alone.
On yet another clear, breezy winter day, I set out with a longing to immerse myself in green things. I photographed moss and leaves, mostly using my plus ten macro lens. While walking the road, I struggled with feeling that I was running out of things to photograph, wondering how I could keep going until the first spring flowers come into bloom (most likely the daffodils in mid-February). Yet, coming home, I discovered quite a few intriguing shots. Most captivating of all, from my point of view, is this image of a barbed wire fence illumined by the afternoon sun, with two black cows beyond, sparring in play. Who knows how much longer the three young cows in that pasture will remain there, before being sent away…..
Lichens are true oddities of the natural world. They do not fit squarely into any botanical category, or, for that matter, kingdom of living things. They are composed of fungi and plants that are either collaborating in a symbiotic relationship or represent the successful enslavement of a member of one kingdom by a member of another. Are they “algae with space suits”, wrapped in the hyphae (threads) of fungi, and therefore capable of living in such inhospitable environments as bare rock faces? Or are the “fungi that have taken up farming”, using algae and cyanobacteria (“photobionts”) to produce their food so that they no longer need to work as decomposers? Either way, the result is an organism whose thallus (body) looks neither like an alga nor a fungus.
There is an impressive body of vocabulary words peculiar to lichens. One set of terms classifies lichens by the form that the lichen takes. Lichens that form crusts on rocks are crustose; ones that appear leafy are foliose; and those that have three-dimensional, shrubby forms are called fruticose. Another set of terms classifies lichens by where they are found: corticolous (on tree bark); saxicolous (on rock); terricolous (on bare earth); and even lichenicolous (on other lichens).
Then there are the terms for the fruiting bodies, all of which are best appreciated with a hand lens. These are important to be able to distingish (a task that is both an art and a science), because they play a significant role in lichen identification. Apothecia are shaped like cups or disks, and release fungal spores. Perithecia are also spore-bearing structures, but ones that are embedded within the lichen’s body, opening with pores. Isidia are fingerlike projections from a lichen which break off, enabling the lichen to reproduce vegetatively. Soralia are another means by which lichen can spread vegetatively. They are dusty patches on the surface of a lichen’s body that release fine particules of algae and fungal threads mixed together (called soralia). This list is not exhaustive. And there are even some lichens that have not been observed bearing fruiting bodies of any kind; biologists still do not know how they reproduce.
The oddest thing about lichens, though, might be that they can be found living almost anywhere, yet so few people stop to notice them. As long as you live where the air is relatively pollution-free (downtown Atlanta has a “lichen-free zone”), you will find them on rocks, tree branches, and disturbed soil. The best way to enter their world is on hands and knees, with a magnifying lens. Bring a child along, too. She will notice them before you do, and will explore their shapes and patterns with a sense of wonder that we adults would do well to emulate.
This article was originally published on April 5, 2010.
Under clear skies and with the temperature at about freezing, I set off late on a Saturday morning in search of adventures along Piney Woods Church Road. Perhaps it was the forecast, calling for more of the same for days on end, briefly interrupted by warmer weather on Monday, that made me seek out patches of green and buds suggesting spring. I took quite a few photographs of mosses and the green leaves of a vine I have yet to identify. But in the end, I selected this photograph of a vine tendril beside the roadway, looking back toward the junction with Rico Road. There is a patch of distant green, at least — the blurred outlines of a pair of cedars. Springtime seems quite distant at the moment, too.
In the hour before sunset, walking through the wooded section of Piney Woods Church Road, my eye was caught by three shriveled brown leaves caught on the branch of a shrub. There was something sensual about their curving forms, and about the way they held the late-day sunlight. Perhaps “sunsual” is the most fitting word to use.