Finally, within sight of the next lake, movement near the toe of my boot startled me almost to the point of disaster.

Big black eyes with golden rims stared up at me from the slope of a rock. Crooked toes gripped the rough surface, and long hind legs braced for a quick escape. The green frog who had jumped out from underneath my boot perched motionless, as if that made them invisible.

Last week I wrote about acorns clattering across my roof. As it turns out, nuts are raining down on many of your roofs, too! Commiserating over the loud, foot-rolling acorns makes me feel like part of an extended community. Are the oaks part of a similar community? And why are they suddenly attacking us with acorns!

Oaks are mast species, which means that all the trees in an area will produce a bumper crop of acorns at the same time, but only every two to five years. From mice to owls to chatting neighbors, oaks, and the mystery of their mast years, are at the center of our Northwoods community.

The pontoon bobbed in the water as I stepped onto the deck, clutching binoculars and trying to contain my excitement. Since moving to the Northwoods in the middle of winter, I had been waiting for the chance to see a loon, and my chance finally arrived in late May. The sunlight danced across the water as our boat left the dock, and we began our search. It wasn't long before we spotted the silhouette of a loon off in the distance, and headed for a closer look.

Crack! Rumble, rumble, rumble. Crack! The sound of hard objects pelting my metal roof shot through my open bedroom window, rousing me from the last wisps of sleep. Then silence. I braced myself as a soft hush of wind drew closer. Crack! The wind triggered a new spatter of noises. The house was under attack—by acorns.

Two large red oak trees reach the edges of their canopies out over the roof of my house. Each fall, they create a racket as acorns drop on the metal roof, tumble down the steep slope, and launch out over the driveway. Some years are worse than others, since oaks are mast trees who will produce a bumper crop in one year, then spend subsequent years rebuilding their stores of nutrients and not producing as many acorns. This is clearly a mast year.

Shades of Rot and Life
(This essay is a chapter from Emily’s third book, Natural Connections3: A Web Endlessly Woven, which will arrive in November 2025!)
In the dim light, under the thick, hardwood canopy of the forest, death was everywhere.
Of course, life was everywhere too.

We’d only been watching for a few minutes when suddenly one of the loons took off running and flapping down the bay toward the main lake. Huge, webbed feet splashed at the surface. As soon as the first loon rose above the water, the remaining loon followed in a flurry of flapping wings and feet. What had just happened? The group looked around at each other in amazement, feeling lucky to have witnessed this fascinating bit of loon behavior.

Although the temperature plummeted and rain ran off our jackets, our excitement and determination could not be dampened. Rubber boots tromped over soggy leaf litter, and hands grasped at every fallen log, flipping them over as we searched the forest. The Wild Wonders campers and I were on a mission, seeking out an animal who thrives in rainy conditions–the salamander.

I was just about ready to round up the group and move on from the old quarry when someone exclaimed over a pretty white flower among the weeds. Five luminous petals, each with translucent lines arcing gracefully toward the nectar reservoir in the center, provided the backdrop for a ring of delicate eyelashes tipped with glossy yellow spheres. I could barely believe my eyes! I first met bog star, or marsh grass-of-Parnassus, during my summer in Alaska while assisting with a snowshoe hare study in the Brooks Range. This little beauty captured my imagination immediately.