Storm finishes that broken oak

It was very recently I wrote of the broken tree down the street, noting that despite the crack spiraling up the trunk, there was still a substantial canopy (below) and that I wouldn't be surprised to see the same tree hanging in there 10 years from now. That's the way of many trees with a strong life force, especially tough little oaks.

Oh, how wrong I was! Our Monday night storm, which combined snow, hurricane force wind gusts, plus thunder and lightning was too much for big robust Ponderosa pines, that crashed into streets, power lines and porches around town. Why should we expect this crippled Emory oak to survive such an onslaught. It didn't, as the pictures taken by my neighbor make quite clear. It was simply too much of a storm.

Up the hill, I worried the wind might blow in my big picture windows; however, the only suffering at Chez GrannyJ (aside from cold feet) was the electric outage that lasted much of the night. Now another two El Nino storms are headed this way -- while my bro, in Perth on the west coast of Oz, reports that he's suffering from the back side of the same El Nino, which means drought.

Woodman, spare that snag!

City folk -- and suburban people, as well -- have no use for snags, those dead outlines of trees that used to be. In fact, in civilized locations, if a tree is failing, the arborist is quickly called in for last rites. It's all a matter of tidiness (and perhaps a desire not to be reminded of one's own mortality).

Admittedly, thanks to our drought and the bark beetle infestation, we currently have more than our share of snags in the woods.

I've no idea what caused this forest of snags, which I discovered in a download of my Sson's photos from the Gulf Coast. But the image does demonstrate why naturalists recommend saving dead tree bones -- I count at least three large nests. And here, below, is a closeup of one tenant -- an osprey on lookout duty.

Until recently, this was a tall pine down near Crown King. A dead tree like this eventually becomes the sort of snag that makes an excellent home for an eagle's nest (thanks to friend Bob for this picture below).

Winter Links: The dotter has a new camera, which she has been exercising with scrumptious Alaskan seasonal pictures; take a look. Hoarded Ordinaries meditates on how drab December is before the snow arrives, while Dagny points her camera at a leafless winter tree.

Leaves at night

And at dusk, as in the picture above, over at the Sam Hill Warehouse; I was pushing my camera to get any sort of image in the light that was available, to be perfectly honest.

This autumn's rose leaves, helped along by the flash.

And my favorite, a catalpa over on South Montezuma, caught back in aught-07. If I remember correctly, street lighting was sufficient for this picture.

The broken oak tree

For as long as I've lived in my neighborhood, I've noticed this large hollow at the base of an older emory oak tree; we're talking nearly 25 years. I've photographed the hollow several times. But it was only quite recently that I noticed a substantial crack running up the trunk:

As the crack curved around to an inaccessible side, I lost sight of it, so don't know just how high up the tree it winds. As to the cause, who knows. It doesn't look to be lightening.

Old age? I'm sure that this oak will continue to leaf out its canopy long after I'm gone! Unlike us meat creatures, trees live a slow, measured life. But I'm still curious as to the reason for the crack in this tree.

Linkage: Cathy, new to blogging and new to Prescott, is expecting visitors and has posted her list of places to see and things to do locally; now she'd appreciate your additions to the list. Hie yourself on over to Nifty Things. After you've done that and still are looking for something to while away the time, you might want to take a course in Cosmology at MIT or Kitchen Chemistry at another institution of higher learning. Read all about the FREE, high-powered on-line courses offered by top colleges and universities.

One less tree

If only I had been driving -- or at the very least, been pulling a little red wagon -- I could have yet another fine log as a stand for my potted garden. I espied these remains of an alley tree on my walk yesterday.

There's the stump (above) and an interesting log with two hearts (below); I don't recall what type of tree it was. This particular specimen was not one of very great significance, but it's always sad to see a tree come to its end.

Trees on the ridgeline

A tree standing alone against the horizon is an evocative image. Better when it is high on the ridgeline. (Very likely a juniper.)
Or perhaps a pinon pine. The junipers and pinons grow in drier conditions and thus are more likely to stand out as individuals.

However, I really admire the chutzpah of these trees somehow locating enough soil and water to prosper in a crack in all that solid granite over in the Dells!

More tree shapes outlined against the sky.

It took friend Bob's steadier hand to capture the Ponderosa pines at the top of Granite Mountain in these extreme zooms. (I tried, my hands shook -- and I tossed the dreadful results!) That's why most easy ridgeline shots do not include Ponderosa pines! Furthermore, our Ponderosas tend to grow in forests where individual trees do not stand out, unless there are many huge boulders separating them (above, below).

Shadow play

So what does a granny do if the younger folk are off on a potentially strenuous hike and she's left holding the bag with the picnic goodies? Well, first she photographs the lake (Goldwater, in this case) and canoes, then leaves from different trees. Then it hits her: among the interesting sights around her perch are the shadows of individual trees.

Now that the hot, sunshiny weather is back for a few days, each tree is rooted in its own shadow pool, reminding me of my early childhood in Phoenix, where, of course, I went barefoot. One of the most important imperatives was that the wise kid hopped from shady spot to shady spot; these were islands of relative coolness in the midst of hot, burning dirt.

The character of the shadow varies according to type of tree. At the top of this picture is a Ponderosa pine shadow which is lacy. Beneath it, a little oak's much more solid, darker shade.

Linking Up: Prescott Style, Prescott Daily Photo, and Foolsewoode are all showing pictures from the July 4 parade. I should also mention Jarart's closeup pix from the rodeo. Karoliina has been to the top of Spruce Mountain, where the ladybugs are congregating. (There's nothing more wondrous strange than the sight of thousands of ladybugs, everywhere. Happens at mountain tops this time of year.)

The Glorious Arizona Sycamore

During my earlier sojourns in Arizona, I was totally unaware of the beautiful sycamore trees native to the state. I may have heard of Sycamore Canyon, but that would have been mere words at the time. After all, I was college-age young and had more important matters on my mind, such as becoming a famous journalist and saving the world. Whatever.

Since moving to Prescott, I've lived next to sycamores and come to admire them. For their shade (above, in front of Lincoln School), for their sometimes immense size (along Oak Creek and Beaver Creek, for example), and for their color in all seasons. If any overseas readers are a tad confused at this point, the answer is that, yes, our sycamores are close cousins to the popular London plane tree, which is a hybrid of Asiatic and North American species. Except that ours grow wild.

Apparently Prescott is just a tad too altitudinous for the sycamore, which prospers with permanent water sources even at very low desert levels. I have read that, for all the emphasis on "cottonwood-willow associations" along the Salt River in Phoenix, the river banks were also once home to great stands of sycamore. The trees are found along the Verde and its tributaries; in fact, if you take a close look at the flora of Oak Creek, you'll discover that the most striking trees are the sycamore, not the oak for which it is named.

One of the notable features of the sycamore is the bark, which is nearly white in winter. The bark does darken in the spring and, as the trunk expands, it sloughs off bark, leaving lighter colored patches.

In the winter, our sycamores stand ghostly with their smooth white limbs. Unlike most trees, our planes spread their skin-like bark right over wounds from cut limbs (below).

In spring, the current year's crop of seed balls grow even as the trees leaf out.

In winter, the seed balls remain. If what I have read on the Internet is correct, the tree above with many pods attached to one another is likely a hybrid plane tree from the nursery.

Perhaps logically enough for a tree that inhabits steam sides, the sycamore spreads long shallow roots, creating a problem when it is used to shade sidewalks, as along Gurley at the Sharlot Hall grounds. The treelet below makes a valiant effort each year to emerge from the remains of a very large tree that was causing the sidewalk to buckle (look at the lower right of the picture). Probably at the advice of the lawyers, the tree was cut down. I say hurrah for the life force that keeps bringing the leaves back.

In the fall, our sycamores are among the showier of trees -- and furnish a fine, crunchy lot of leaves to kick through on a crisp autumn day.