November's Colors

Sometimes I agree with Meg from the movie Little Women. But then, when I go outside, I discover a world of light, and color, and even warmth—as long as I wear enough layers and keep up a brisk pace!

Wild cranberries lure me into a local bog after we’ve had a few hard frosts. Warm socks and muck boots make wading through the thick cushions of sphagnum moss as good a warm-up as plowing through snowdrifts. Where the moss has climbed up the stems of leatherleaf shrubs or tamarack trees to form thigh-high hummocks, that’s where I look for the shining red jewels. While not as big as their commercial cranberry cousins, the fruits are huge in comparison to their wiry vines sparsely decked with narrow, pointed-oval, evergreen leaves. Although cranberries are sweetest once they’ve been frosted hard and shine like rubies, the burst of bright, acidic flavor still makes my eyes water and my tongue sting while I keep looking for more.

Tamarack trees rise as spires of color from the delicate, arching leaves of a common sedge, Carex lasiocarpa. When I stand to stretch my back, I find the bog has turned to gold in the late afternoon sun. Most conifers—including the lumpy spindles of black spruce, also rising from the bog—are evergreen, but tamaracks have chosen their own path. Instead of building robust needles that last a few years, they grow clusters of short, flimsy needles that prepare for winter like maple leaves. Green chlorophyll migrates back into the twigs, and previously hidden yellow pigments have their moment to shine.

An elk bugles from somewhere beyond the trees, the haunting, high-pitched trumpet floating over the bog. I freeze instantly to quiet the crunching of my feet and rustling of my jacket. The elk calls again, sending shivers down my spine. Most elk bugling is concentrated in late September, as the bulls assess each other’s strength and choose carefully when and if to fight over a group of females. Elk were extirpated from Wisconsin in the 1880s due to unregulated hunting and a rapid decline in habitat. In 1995, twenty-five elk were released into the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest near Clam Lake. After several more releases to increase the genetic diversity of the herd, the DNR now estimates that the population has surpassed 500 animals, and they are beginning to wander ever closer to my own backyard.

I wander quickly down a trail to warm up my toes. Leaves crunch under my feet. The lush green of a moss-covered log pulls me in, and I pet it gently like the soft fur between a dog’s ears. Mosses are evergreen. They can rev up their sun-capturing machinery whenever liquid water is available. And because they exist in the slightly warmer layer of calm air that hugs the surfaces of rocks, and logs, and the ground, this happens even in the shoulder seasons. While plants need the ground to thaw so that they can draw water up through their roots, the one-cell-thick leaves of moss absorb water like a sponge to the precise location where it’s needed. Mosses do have root-like structures, but rhizoids are simply meant to attach the moss to whatever tree or rock they are climbing to avoid being smothered by the leaf litter and get closer to the Sun.

Farther down the mossy log, I find a table set for a miniature banquet, with pale, gray-green goblets each waiting for a drop of dew. Although lichens can resemble dusty crusts, wiry beards, or flaps of toad skin, these pixie cup lichens are one of my favorites. Like mosses, they are evergreen. Under the right conditions, they go from being dry and/or frozen to wet and photosynthesizing in a matter of minutes. The curious shape of these chalice-shaped lichens is controlled by a species of fungus. Their sugar-making photosynthesis, however, is carried out by algae living within the fungal structure. Together, these two totally different organisms joined in a close, living relationship are a prime example of a symbiotic relationship. Lichens are more than the sum of their parts.

A black-capped chickadee whistle sweetly. The sound pulls me upright so I can search for them in the bare treetops. I spot one dangling upside-down from a twig while a few more flit hurriedly through the branches. While a pair of chickadees will stay together through the winter, each of their kids must join a different flock once the nest disbands. Chickadees let nuthatches, downy woodpeckers, brown creepers, tufted titmice, and northern cardinals join the party, too, since this increases the number of eyes on the lookout for predators. As the short day darkens, though, everyone will dive into their own private cavity and shiver out the night alone.

Clubmoss carpets the forest floor under the chickadees’ tree. Although the short stalks densely furred with tiny green leaves look a bit like the mosses on the log, these are entirely unrelated ancient plants. Three hundred million years ago, their ancestors were the size of trees! Atop each green spire sits a “club” of pale-yellow spores at about the height of a chipmunk’s ears. Grinning to myself, I pull a lighter from my pocket and crouch low. The lighter goes click, my finger goes flick, and a little flame whooshes up from the puff of spores. These dust-sized particles are 50 percent fat, but their flammability is mostly a result of their high surface area and the abundance of oxygen in the cloud. Exploding them isn’t just fun, it was also the basis for the very first flash photography.

Their brief fire provides no warmth, though, and the lighter made my fingers cold. Still, I’m satisfied with my November adventure. From afar, the world may seem gray, but looking closely reveals color and delight.