There was once a time when the nuts of the American Chestnut tree fed the eastern half of this continent.
Each winter, millions of humans and other animals relied on them for survival. As time went on and settlers arrived here, even as they destroyed the forests, they planted the Chestnut in their fields. One such place was the Hamilton Psychiatric Hospital, now known as St. Joesph’s Centre for Mountain Health Services (CMHS). The gardens, food trees, and forested patches on the hospital grounds provided patients there with activity and refuge and, for a time, almost all of their food.

BY GWENDOLYN GRAOVAC

The Organic movement has been steadily gaining momentum in the past decade, with every media outlet covering this trend in some form. Although there remain naysayers, refuting evidence of nutritional supremacy or down-playing the harmful effects of pesticides, it has become mostly accepted as fact: organic food is better for you, your kids, and the planet.

I disagree.

Dear readers, we left off last knowing many reasons to celebrate a faint pulse returning to this urban river that was once deemed dead. Our story paused just before entering a golf course, ever nearing the downtown. So have courage friends, as we step into this strange openness, towards the fate of this water...

Pairs mate during late January to early February within stands of old trees offering cozy hollows... Listen for the ho-ho-hoo hoo hoo of the Great Horned Owls. The call is a distinct 4-5 syllables. The female call is higher pitched and rises at the end. Pairing of mates begins in December, so listen for the song between owl lovers on your winter walks.

The large yellow eyes of a Great Horned Owl are fixed and cannot move; they move their necks instead. This helps to explain some of those quirky looks an owl has given you. Another reason is that the owls right ear is set higher and at a different angle than the left, enabling them to find the direction of sound through further dramatic head tilts.

“If you go down in the woods today...” – We found these words spray-painted inside a culvert at the bottom of a marsh, where the Coldwater Creek is collected underground to cross Main Street West towards Cootes Paradise. We were out in the evening to explore the marsh and the hills around it, to see what we could learn; the next line of that childhood rhyme is “...you're in for a big surprise.”

Heading west from Westdale along the rail trail, just before you get to University Plaza, a long wooden bridge crosses a beautiful marsh, which is part of the Dundas Valley. Straight downhill from the bridge is the culvert, and from there we followed the creek upstream, keeping to trails made by the many deer who live in the meadows.

The creek led us through the low marshy lands where the skunk cabbage grows in spring and the cattails stand dead and collect frost on cold mornings, then to slightly higher ground where we could forage horseradish from under the snow, and then to a meadow of tall dry grasses, where the deer trotted away from us to hide among the ancient, crumbling willows. It led us to a beaver's lodge and through the first of the hemlock groves we would explore that day.

Winter is the best time for exploring such areas – all off-trail adventures should be left for days where the frost and snow protect the soil from being compressed underfoot. The topsoil in these areas is very delicate and erosion is a problem, especially on the slopes around the marsh where tiny hemlocks can rest dormant for 200 years in the delicate, spongey soil of the hemlock groves, patiently awaiting their chance in the sun.

Soon, the creek led us to a special place where three creeks joined to form the one we'd been following. We sat on a fallen willow over the water and considered what we could see. Creeks carry all sorts of things down into marshes – they bring down nutrients and minerals that nourish the rich ecosystems there, and the marsh also filters out much of the toxins and sediment, reducing their presence in Cootes and in Lake Ontario. Each of the three streams was a different colour, and each contained the story of the land it crossed to get there. Two of the streams came to the meeting point through the Dundas Valley and agricultural land, but one, to follow it upstream, came through a suburb, crossed under Highway 403, and spilled down from the endless developments of the escarpment. Its water was a murky yellowish brown, which means it was much more charged with sediment than were the other two. We'll think more about that later, because, as we sat there, we heard an owl's voice drifting over the marsh.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as we could we followed the owls' call. They led us through the marsh to a small creek, and we followed it uphill along the valley it had created. And there, calling to each other from opposite hilltops over the creek, were two great horned owls. They flew higher as we neared, and we moved quietly behind them.

The owls led us up above the marsh to a very wonderful place. As we described last month, this area is mostly covered by mixed deciduous, which is largely beech and maple trees. On the secluded plateau to which the owls lead us, there were the largest beech trees we had ever seen. Beech trees can get to be 400 years old, meaning the old ones today survived the massive deforestation of the 1800s, when the British stripped this area to build ships, routinely shipping out ancient trees weighing 60 tons or more. We also found oak trees there that were larger than two people could put their arms around.

What can we learn from this? What is it the owls showed us, by guiding us from the place where the three waters meet (where we could see the silt build up and see apartment buildings looming over the treeline) into the old thick forest?

Knowing the land doesn't just mean knowing the land in the present moment – change is constant. We must understand the past, and the future of this land. We must remember the time when we could drink the water in the streams, when the forests covered this area, and when ten-foot-wide trees were common, holding the soil steady with their vast root systems. To the trees and the forest, this is not so long ago – 200 years is half the lifetime of an old gnarled beech, and forests change slowly, over many generations of trees. And we must look to the future – in October 2007, the Spectator reported on a study by the Royal Botanical Gardens that found that Cootes Paradise would be entirely filled with sediment within 90 years. There are fourteen creeks that run into Cootes, and each year they bring 14,000 tons of sediment downstream from the rapidly urbanizing areas of Dundas, West Mountain, Ancaster, and Waterdown. The creek we followed is one of those fourteen.

Change is constant, but when the changes are more rapid and violent than the plants and animals in those areas can adapt to, it can be catastrophic and damaging. Even this beautiful marsh was suffering: the willow trees that filter toxins are dying with no young ones replacing them; housing is encroaching from all sides, polluting the runoff that makes up the marsh water; and the frequent damming and culverting of the creek upstream kills fish and stifles biodiversity. Its ability to respond to change has been damaged. And with almost all the wetlands and forests gone in this area, it would be impossible for this vulnerable land to recover from a catastrophe.

The death of Cootes Paradise is not natural or inevitable. Even though Cootes itself is 'protected', even though the Dundas Valley is 'protected', they are still threatened because the lines we draw around them are illusions. We live in watersheds and bioregions, not properties. When land is developed, it is not simply killing that piece of land, it is damaging the entire watershed – toxic runoff doesn't respect property lines.

Conservation apparently means asking the powerful to protect certain pieces of land while allowing the rest to be devastated. This strategy would make tragic museums of what's left of the wild and is doomed to leave us with nothing. If we want to live in a healthy, thriving watershed, we must transition from simple conservation to defending all land as we would our own bodies. This means understanding that it's not just a question of the airport sprawl being unsustainable, or the Red Hill Expressway being irresponsible – it means realizing that ALL development in this area benefits a tiny class of land owners and politicians at the expense of every other living thing.

If we want to ally with the owls and with the streams, we need to resist the power of the political and developer class, and reject their perceived right to decide how land is used -- if it is to be 'used' at all.

Winter is a great time to appreciate bark. Every tree species has a different strategy for how to lay and shed bark, creating unique patterns. Here are a few of the distinct bark-types we wondered about on our wander through Cootes Paradise:

Sycamore trees loose their bark in thin plates. Freeskool hiker David described the appearance of this rather awkward and conspicuous shedding as “camouflage-style” bark. Beneath the dark reddish scales a smooth, light grey bark is revealed. Another clue that you have found a sycamore are remaining winter buds. These are large, slightly stinky, spiked spheres. Look up and enjoy the decorated canopy against the bright winter sky.

Beech trees, alongside maples, make up the majority of our mixed deciduous forests. Beech have a smooth light grey bark which wrinkles just slightly near points of branching. Look up and appreciate the beech's twisted, gnarled structure.

Fraxinus (Ash) trees have a distinct diamond shaped bark pattern, as pointed out by happy hiker Matt. A young Ash will have relatively smooth bark, as the diamond fissures deepen with age. If you are in a highland portion of the forest, you have likely found a white Ash. Green Ash are a real treat to find in a low lying swampy habitat. Learning to recognize communities in different parts of the forest can be a rewarding way to anticipate which friends you will find where. (Look forward to the next article in this series all about the magic of swamps!)

Sassafrass. You may know this famous native tree as “the mitten tree” for the distinct mitten-shaped leaf –one of three leaf types which can all be found on the same tree. But enough about leaves! It's the winter, and there is plenty to appreciate about Sassafrass bark. These trees begin their life in a shrub-like strategy, growing up in thin, green stalks. Their stalks are yummy deer snacks all winter long. The mature bark is a reddish dark brown. Sassafrass can propagate from existing roots, meaning that a stand of sassafrass trees in close proximity may be one big organism.

Wondering about Winter Tracks

A winter forest gives us a recorded picture of the movement and life existing within the frozen pause in the rhythms of the seasons. Follow some tracks! Try and decide which direction the creature was headed. How quickly was she running? Did he pause to check anything out? What do you suspect left the track? Finding wing prints in the snow is an exceptional find, especially when they are paired with the tragic end to a trail of mouse tracks.

Keep an eye on the freeskool website for upcoming adventures!

Link: www.hamiltonfreeskool.org