Mark Cassino Photography - Mark's Blog

Saturday, November 21: Blobs of day-glo orange bob in the dirt road, away in the distance. A few moments later I roll by – 8 guys, no 10 – a deer hunting posse with slug loaded shotguns scouring the woods in the mid afternoon sun.

Yeah – deer season. The few weeks out of the year in which I usually don’t visit the game area. But this November’s mild weather lures me out to hunt in my own way.

I pull into the parking lot down by the Swan Creek levee. Pickup trucks and cars dot the seasonal road leading down to the parking lot – but the lot itself is empty. I don’t figure anyone would hunt along the levee – the restricted wildlife refuge is to the north, swan creek itself is to the west, and the area to the east is flooded out this year.

But, while no humans hunt here, the Autumn Meadowhawks are still around. Though their numbers are down, they are still common – and are especially easy to spot when the sun breaks out. They sun themselves on the rocks near the levee, on the gravel trail, and on dark oak leaves resting on the ground…

Dragonflies on November 21, in Michigan!

Saturday, November 14, 2009. It’s the day before firearm deer season, and the woods are bustling with hunters. Where on a July afternoon I could spend a whole day back in the game area and no more than pass a couple of cars, now guys in orange jackets stroll around planning and sighting, envisioning the buck that will land before them tomorrow, or maybe the next day.

It’s warm for November – still very warm. I have only one goal – to see if the autumn meadowhawks persist. I’m not sure what the record is, and I don’t really care. For my own purposes I want to see what they are up to…

And lo – they are present. Despite temperatures in the mid sixties their numbers are diminished. They are skittish and apprehensive. Whenever two come close they clash and then fly off. I see no mating pairs. None lay eggs. Maybe only the males are left – but many brilliant red dragons still roam the air.

They stopped obelisking and perching long ago – not much chance for even passable photos. But here is one, sitting on my knee…

November mornings are quiet, cool, often foggy. The rising sun slips through the bare tree branches, casting long shadows late into the morning. Here and then a lagging tree, leaves still red or gold, punctuates the brown landscape.

Dried leaves whirl in morning breezes. No songbirds sing from bare November branches, no insects click and whir. If you are lucky you can hear a chickadee, chattering in the jack pines. But usually only the laughter of crows or shrill cries of blue jay greet the ears.

After a cold October, November arrives unseasonably warm and mild. Autumn Meadowhawks have taken advantage of the warm spell, and fill the fields in great numbers. They land on the rocks along the Swan Creek levee to warm themselves in the sun. They fly as joined pairs over the water and weave up and down, depositing eggs for next year’s brood. They land on the dark brown leaves that cover the ground, and eye the skies above for prey.

As the day warms, grasshoppers tumble through the dried grass and the occasional moth flits over the brown vegetation. Garter snakes sun themselves on the rocks as well. The little snakes are no longer black and gold, but rather a dull dark brown with yellow bands and orange flecks on their sides. No doubt the grasshoppers will offer up a welcome late autumn meal to these little serpents, before winter’s long hibernation.

In my heart I wish it was cold and miserable. The warm sunshine and summer-like temperatures are like a Halloween mask. They hide the realities of the autumn woods…

The rolling hills of the old farmstead have begun to recover from last summer’s mowing. Small oak springs have emerged from the ground, leafed out, and already are shedding their new foliage. The little springs transition from the rich tannin infused colors of new growth and take on almost day-glo colors as they prepare to drop their leaves.

Bare trees reflect in the smooth surface of the intermittent pond. A small patch of lily pads have emerged in the area I once called ‘the heart of the marsh’ back when this was a seasonal marsh. It was the one area that never got completely dry, no matter how long and hot the summer. Now as I stand by the edge of the water I hear the growls of logging activities. A section of the forest just to the south of the pond is being clear-cut. Florescent red ribbons have been tied around the larger pines near the water’s edge, and a pair of tire tracks gash through the sandy soil, running the length of the field. We take things for granted when we expect them to last.

October. In the matter of a week the trees turn, a wind whips up, and leaves fly through the air. There is no smooth transition this year – no easing into fall. The month arrived with a heavy frost and since then more frosts and freezes have sprawled across the countryside. Days of rain and drear parade by, one after another…

I saw a dragonfly while stopped in traffic last week. It rose up between the stopped cars and lumbered towards the cat tails huddled together in a retention pond. Who knows? It might be the last dragon of the year.

Three photos from earlier this fall:

Saturday, Otober 10, 2009: I rise early (for me) and am on my way into the game area before 7 am. The morning is frosty and cold – temps about 30 F – but the rain of the last few days has abated and a Libran sun rises in a clear sky.

The first stop of the day – on the plan at least – is the Swan Creek Dam, near the game area. But as I roll down 118th avenue I pass the old Swan Creek Mill Pond – and I do a 180 and head back to the boat launch. The mist on the pond in the early morning light looks just great.

Dropping down into the parking area, I find that it is full of cars. Lots of goose and duck hunters are out this weekend. I grab tripod, camera, general purpose zoom, polarizer, and head down to the water. I am not disappointed as I quickly set up and shoot.

I shoot with a camera, and the K7 is nearly silent. Hunters shoot otherwise, and shortly after I started photographing I hear one, then another, then six, and then probably 30 shotguns go off, simultaneously in their stages. It was surprising, even to one who is used to random gunfire.

A lone pied billed grebe plinked around in the water in front of me. Almost silently, it drops into the water and then pops up a few yards away. It paddles around for a while, and then disappears into the water again. Coyote grebe – it slinks between the legs of hunters and laughs as it slides out of sight.

Well, 45 minutes at the boat launch, and that was the day. I spent several more hours tooling around the forest. Bird hunters were everywhere. It was too cold for dragonflies and the mist was burning off as I drove away from the Mill Pond.

45 minutes that I’ll remember forever. A gift to be treasured.

October 1, 2009: Frost arrived overnight. Its white crystals settled down into the rough edges of the land – into the field and savannah, the hillsides and rock pikes, into every fold of every leaf. It was an early frost – weeks ahead of schedule – and much heavier than a first frost usually is. But then, it is October, the season when things change.

I dawdled in the morning, ignoring the late rising sun. I stopped for coffee along the road, and let the moments of the morning slip through my fingers, unaware. Under the trees in the forest melting frost fell like a light, steady rain. By the time I got to the old farmstead the frost was nearly gone. I managed just a couple of shots before the air temperature rose past some imperceptible tipping point, and the frost suddenly disappeared – all of it, everywhere, all at once.

So much for the frost.

But a good freeze changes things. It comes and goes, but leaves its mark behind. A glorious autumn day unfolded before me. Bright and still-warm sun in a deep azure sky warmed up the woods and fields around me, and I spent several hours knocking around the game area.

Bird hunters were everywhere, as you’d expect this time of year, but there were few gunshots.

Come October, I know that I won’t see any small dragonflies other than Autumn Meadowhawks. A few days earlier darners – common green and more exotic blue – could be seen dashing above the fields. Maybe it was the heavy frost – but even by mid afternoon, there were no darners to be found and only a handful of Meadowhawks stirred as I wandered through the fields.

When did the spring frosts stop? Was it long ago? It seems like yesterday, and here now the autumn frost curls up in the grass. Aside from a few holdouts, the dragons slumber underwater. Their nascent dreams, hardly formed, float like ghosts in cloudy dragon minds.

Sunday, September 20th, 2009. The equinox is just a couple days off, and another summer draws to a close.

The itinerate pond has receded sharply these last few weeks. I stand at its edge, on soft, muddy earth still head together by the dead roots of the grass that used to grow here. Waterfowl whirl around the pond – mallards, scaups, Canada geese. They glide by the bright foliage of inundated trees whose colors are more a sign of distress than of the changing season.

A garter snake wiggles away as I trudge along the water’s edge. Not the one that hung in the foliage last June – too small. But the same type of snake.

Autumn Meadowhawks are everywhere. The young ones are dull brown or dirty yellow, but some individuals have reached full maturity and have a bright red back and matching stigmata. They perch low to the ground – favoring the red leaves of fading, thorny strawberry plants, and dead coreopsis.

I have the best luck in the fields that were mowed last year, but the dragons congregate capriciously. Dozens converge on a small spot in a huge field that is otherwise empty. The spar with each other and jockey for perches, dance away from the thorny strawberry vines and snatch mosquitoes and flies out of the air.

Autumn Medowhawks, formerly known as Yellow Legged Meadowhawks… They seem to be the only dragonflies remaining; all of the others have already left. But with a little luck, they will be around for a while…

Back in late March I posted a B&W photo of Crescent Pond – a little flood water overflow pond nestled in the Dowagiac Woods. Back then the trees were bare, but the spring frogs were chirping up a storm. A couple weeks ago I visited the spot again – just for a nice place for a Sunday afternoon walk. THe woods are dark in the summer - dark in the daytime.

Here’s another snap of the pond – this one taken with the Pentax K7, and not the Kodak Retina.