What in sand-hill? Cranes make Somerset a habit.

After a few years of birding, you get to know where the rarities are going to be, and when. It's more than understanding that Red Knots are going to arrive on the Delaware Bay in May or that the Short-Eared Owl will be hunting the grasslands of the Wallkill National Wildlife Refuge in the dead of winter. It's knowing that if a certain species is going to show in New Jersey at all, it'll be within a certain range of dates at a given location.

You might even say that it's a given that if the unlikely is going to happen, the experienced birder is going to know when and where it will occur.

Where's Sandy? The Randolph Road Sandhill Cranes,
neatly camouflaged in corn stubble.

It's that way for Sandhill Cranes. Ask a longtime birder if she's seen one this year, and she'll tell you whether she's recently visited a certain street in Somerset. I don't know if anyone knows exactly why the birds have adopted the spot for a late fall visit over the better part of a decade, but this year up to eight at a time have been seen in a cornfield across from a corporate park on Randolph Road.

About the height of a Great Blue Heron but twice as heavy, Sandhill Cranes are normally western birds, known for hanging out in large numbers in prairies and the type of grasslands that are not natural habitats in New Jersey. Spending their summers in Canada, large flocks make their way to Nebraska and other points south and west for the winter. Talk to folks in New Mexico, and they'll marvel over the spectacle of thousands of Sandhill Cranes congregating at the state's Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge, their rattling calls heard up to two miles away.

Sandhill crane. Credit: Department of the Interior/USGS

New Jersey's crane visitors appear to be a lot quieter, or at least their sparse numbers don't gain the same level of attention for their calls. A few birders at a time might stop on the shoulder of the road to get a good eyeful or a couple of photographs as the birds forage for leftover corn or the occasional rodent. Otherwise, they go without notice, blending rather nicely with the stubbled cornstalks on the field.

Besides Somerset, Sandhills have been known to show up in Cape May, Mercer and Camden Counties at times over the past 20 years, but it's not clear whether those places produce sightings as reliably as the Randolph Road cornfield. We saw them among a foraging herd of longhorn cattle in New Egypt a couple of years ago while on a chase to see the even rarer Northern Lapwings, but nobody's reported them since.

Why these individuals aren't with a larger flock, we'll never know, but I'm selfishly happy to be able to see them here, rather than having to travel west for the spectacle. If they're looking for a bit of solitude or distance from the clamor of the Sandhill Crane lifestyle, it's ironic that they've chosen the country's most densely populated state to spend a few weeks in.

On the other hand, they may have a good reason. Interestingly, while I was checking into the cranes' visitation to these parts, I came upon one of the most novel bird-related theories I've ever read. A group of Jersey Devil hunters submits that some of those who've claimed to see Mother Leeds' 13th child may have actually seen a Sandhill Crane instead. With their height and impressive six foot wingspan, the cranes would give an unsuspecting wanderer a good fright, but I'm skeptical. The cranes, on the other hand, may just be stopping by to find their storied cousin.

It's as good an explanation as any. Right?

Somerville's Arabella Griffith Barlow: fighting a different battle during the Civil War

Mention the impact of women in Civil War-era medicine, and most people will bring up the name Clara Barton, but others also bravely toiled to heal injured and ailing soldiers in the field. Our resident Civil War scholar Ivan relates the story of a remarkable New Jerseyan who dedicated the last years of her life to save Union soldiers.

The American Civil War evokes many iconic images, from the wise Abraham Lincoln to the heroic soldiers to the freed slaves left to negotiate a different place in American society. However, few people, even many Civil War scholars, spend much time contemplating the profound accomplishments and sacrifices of those who gave their time and effort to tending to the sick and wounded soldiers of the conflict. Indeed many more soldiers died of disease than due to battlefield wounds. For Union soldiers the ratio was about 2 to 1 and for the Confederates the ratio of those who died of disease vs. wounds was even higher. Why did this happen? Certainly the medical profession’s knowledge of germs was in its infancy. The Union Civil War Surgeon General William Hammond considered the conflict to have occurred “at the end of the medical Middle Ages.” If that was not bad enough, many soldiers entered the army fresh off the farm where they had little to no exposure to the deadly diseases of the day such as measles, smallpox and malaria.

Into this deadly atmosphere entered Somerville native Arabella Griffith Barlow. At the relatively-advanced age of 37, she had married Francis Channing Barlow just a day before he left for war in April of 1861. What added to the unusual nature of the nuptials was the fact that Arabella was ten years older than her new husband. She was considered quite an item in pre-war New York City, having come from a prominent Somerville family and was educated by a relative, Miss Eliza Wallace of Burlington City. Arabella was described by fellow New Jerseyan George Templeton Strong, a founder of the United States Sanitary Commission, as “certainly the most brilliant, cultivated, easy, graceful, effective talker of womankind.”

Despite her place in New Jersey society of the day, Arabella was looked upon as a very capable and determined woman. In fact, she once said, “Women rule everything and can get anything.” Such an attitude well served her husband, then a colonel, when he was wounded at the battle of Antietam in September of 1862. Having joined the Sanitary Commission earlier that year, Arabella immediately went to Francis’ side to nurse him back to health. Promoted to brigadier general two days after the battle, he figured prominently in the battles of Chancellorsville and Gettysburg where he was again wounded. Once again, Arabella cared for her husband in Baltimore and then in Somerville until he was able to resume active service in the field.

Where many might have returned home after their loved ones had recovered, Arabella continued to serve in the Sanitary Commission, bringing praise from medical professionals. An army doctor’s report included this account of her dedication: “Her exhausting work at Fredericksburg, where the largest powers of administration were displayed, left but a small measure of vitality with which to encounter the severe exposure of the poisoned swamps of the Pamunkey, and the malarious districts of City Point. Here, in the open field, she toiled…under the scorching sun, with no shelter from the pouring rains, and with no thought but for those who were suffering and dying all around her.”

Indeed, she worked so hard that she succumbed to exhaustion and fainted at her post. Only then did she realize that she had contracted the typhoid fever that eventually claimed her life on July 27, 1864. Francis was understandably distraught over the news of his wife’s death but managed to endure. He was promoted to Major General in the final days of the war and was present for the Confederate surrender at Appomattox.

Arabella now lies at rest in Old Somerville Cemetery, honored by a plaque that only hints at the strength of this remarkable woman.

Grassland restored: Kestrels and secretive sparrows at Negri-Nepote

Birding has taken a back seat for us over the past couple of weekends, given the usual summer lull enforced by avian behavior. After warbling and chirping their hearts out looking for mates, songbirds have been spending most of their time on the nest, collecting food and raising their young, leaving their human admirers to wait for the fast-approaching southbound shorebird migration.

The fields and pond at Negri-Nepote.

Even with that reality facing us, if we try hard enough there's always the possibility of locating birds that have somehow evaded us up until this point in the year. Thus, Ivan and I decided to make a return visit to Negri-Nepote Native Grassland Preserve in Franklin Township, Somerset County to find Grasshopper sparrows. Consistent with their name, members of this species make a buzzy, insect-like sound and nest in meadows, pastures and other expanses where grasses provide sufficient cover. Given how much of that kind of habitat has been lost to development in the state, the Grasshopper sparrow is considered threatened as a breeding species in New Jersey. According to the online eBird tool, other birders had seen them at Negri-Nepote recently, creating one of our best chances to see them this year.

This particular spot is especially nice, given that it's on a narrow road and you have to drive past the Trojan cow farm to get there. That said, it's been a while since we've been to Negri-Nepote. Longtime readers might remember our original visit to this former farm turned sanctuary, when we failed to find the reported Dickcissels but harvested a bumper crop of ticks for our troubles. We hoped our luck would be different this time: more of our sought bird and no pesky blood-sucking arachnids.

American Kestrel (Photo
by Greg Hume)

We arrived to find we were apparently the only humans to consider a visit on what was setting up to be a glorious day. Seemingly the only birds on the wing that morning, Tree swallows zoomed and swerved overhead and past us as we walked along the perimeter of the field. If the sparrows were there, they weren't saying much.

Then we noticed something a bit bigger jetting around with what seemed to be more purpose: an American kestrel.

Well, actually two American kestrels, with more apparently in the works. We watched as the small raptor (a.k.a. the sparrow hawk) zoomed back to a nest box planted on a pole near the center of the preserve, a few yards from a pond that looks rather like a big puddle. Not long afterward, she was back outside, aloft and looking for a meal as she was hassled by a Red-winged blackbird. Ignoring the aspiring tormentor, the kestrel perched on a power line stretched across the field, perhaps watching and waiting for suitable prey to pass below.

Kestrels are always a treat to see, not only because of their awesome flight abilities, but because they're on the threatened species list in New Jersey. Like Grasshopper sparrows, they're best suited to open grassy fields and seek out insect meals, though they're also content to make a meal of smaller birds and mammals like voles. And though they're unable to dig out their own nest areas as woodpeckers do, kestrels lay their eggs and raise their young in natural or man-made cavities. You'll sometimes see kestrel boxes at the edges of cultivated fields, placed by farmers hoping for some natural pest control. The Negri-Nepote box, as I later found out, has had residents for a couple of years, thanks to the combined stewardship of the township, county and New Jersey Audubon.

After observing the kestrels for a few minutes, we continued our walk down a mown path across the field, enjoying the black-eyed Susans, purple coneflower and other blossoms amid the grasses. It seemed that the life around us was waking up a little, or maybe we were just hearing things we hadn't before. Song sparrows called out from the perimeter, along with a striking male Indigo bunting as the Tree swallows continued their aerial strafing. The place didn't seem buggy at all, but they were hard at work.

Then, an insect-like buzz caught our attention from deep within the higher grasses. Was it a loud bug, or was it a Grasshopper sparrow? We had no way of knowing unless the secretive bird rose above the tall blades, and even then we'd have to identify it on the fly. These guys spend much of their time on the ground, and besides, there was virtually no place for one to perch. And I'd have to hope Ivan saw the bird the same time as I did, because there was no way I'd differentiate it, in flight, from any number of other somewhat similar-looking sparrows I haven't learned to ID yet (Getting good at identifying sparrows is somewhat like learning Middle English - an impressive achievement, but way too complicated for me to tackle without abandoning all of my other interests. To prove my point, I found this guide to be especially amusing, as it's two years old and the author appears to have given up.)

Buzz.... buzzz..... and flight! A small brown bird - right size, right shape - emerged from the vegetation, rising a couple of feet above the grass tips and darting a few yards to the right. Then it dove back down, impossible to see. But, as Ivan confirmed, it was our quarry: the Grasshopper sparrow. 

I, for one, was completely satisfied, and I think Ivan was, too, at least until Sunday morning, when he read the mocosocoBirds report of birds seen in Morris and Somerset counties the day before. Just a few hours after we left Negri-Nepote, another birder had spotted a Dickcissel perched in the trees not far from the path.  

It may be our perpetual luck never to see a Dickcissel there, but one good thing came out of the venture: the tick curse seems to have lifted. Apart from one hanger-on I found on my pants leg before getting back into the car, we left unscathed. That's gotta be worth something.

Beauty after the encampment: Bernardsville's Cross estate

Morristown National Historical Park is deceptively large, holding surprises for those who go beyond the obvious to seek out the entirety of its acreage. Sure, you've got the Ford Mansion that was Washington's headquarters during the two winters the Continental forces were stationed in town, and property on a hill not far away held fortifications later known as Fort Nonsense. Farther outside town, Jockey Hollow dramatizes the legend of Tempe Wick and the tribulations faced by the Pennsylvania brigade during the harsh winter of 1779-1780.

To get a true sense of the enormity of the Morristown encampment, you need to do a bit of driving. The National Park Service makes no secret of the fact that over 10,000 soldiers were stationed there during the worst winter, but it's easy to overlook the fact that Jockey Hollow wasn't the only spot they took up. Troops were spread out for miles. Our own spiritual forebears, the New Jersey Brigade, endured the winter about two miles away from Jockey Hollow, on a steep plot of land in what's now Bernardsville. You might say that beggars couldn't be choosers when it came to a campsite: the 900 men were among the last to get to the encampment in 1779, arriving on December 17. Rapidly building shelter for the winter, they moved into their cabins on Christmas Day.

Even in the earliest days of spring, visitors can imagine the beauty
of Cross estate gardens 

When I went to check it out, I found another interesting, yet more recent treasure: the Cross estate gardens.

Bedminster is known as one of Somerset County's more affluent communities, and when you take Jockey Hollow Road to get to the encampment site, you get an eyeful of why. A series of large estates is nestled in what became known as the Mountain Colony of the town, a place where wealthy city dwellers could escape the stresses of urban life. (Check out this map for perspective on just how popular the area became around the turn of the 20th century.)

Land surrounding the New Jersey Brigade campsite was purchased in 1903 by civil engineer John Anderson Bensel and his wife. A graduate of Stevens Institute of Technology, Bensel held a series of jobs that had him working around water, including chief engineer for the New York City Dock Department. While building a 23-room stone mansion for himself and his wife, he applied his professional acumen to providing water for the property. The product, a five-story high stone water tower, remains as a landmark of sorts on the property, though it's no longer topped by the windmill or ringed by balconies Bensel designed.

Lighthouse in the hills?
No, a water tower.

Alterations on the structures came with the second owners, W. Redmond and Julia Appleton Newbold Cross, who purchased the property in 1929. For many years the president of the New York Horticultural Society, Mrs. Cross is credited with improving the gardens, in concert with regionally-known landscape architect Clarence Fowler.

Much of the estate was purchased by the Park Service in 1975 as a buffer to protect the New Jersey Brigade encampment from possible future development. However, the formal English-style gardens the Crosses had cherished continued to lay untended and overgrown, as the NPS had no resources to care for or cultivate them. Fortunately, local residents came together to rediscover the paths, walls and borders, trimming back the overgrowth and replacing what specimens had been lost. The gardens are now much as they were in the 30's and 40's.

When I visited, the grounds still held a few small mounds of persistent snow, and there was little evidence of an awakening garden. Even on that cloudy early spring day, though, I could see the garden has real potential. It's beautifully laid out with a view of the Watchungs, backed with a wide, vine-entangled pergola. Well-placed benches offer a pleasing spot to sit and take in the sights and smells of flowering plants. Walking between rows of shrubbery, I enjoyed the aroma of damp boxwood plants, always the hallmark (for me, at least), of a historic garden. It would be the perfect place for a genteel afternoon tea, or simply as a spot to rest and meditate after a long hike from Jockey Hollow.

We'll be sure to return when the greenery has returned.

Ten speeds to legend: the Tour of Somerville

We've found some interesting roadside historical markers, but this was a new one: a bicycle behind glass. It's the centerpiece of a pocket park on West End Avenue in downtown Somerville.

From a distance, it looks like a display case containing a modern racing bike, and you'd be excused for assuming it's a promotional exhibit for an enterprising cycle shop. When you get closer, though, you see that it's seen better days.

We'd found the wheels belonging to Furman Frederick Kugler, the first winner of the nation's oldest cycling race, the Tour of Somerville. Held every Memorial Day in downtown Somerville, the 50 mile event is among the most prestigious of such contests and draws professional and amateur cyclists from around the world. Some even call it the Kentucky Derby of cycling.

According to legend, Kugler wasn't just the first winner of the Tour, he was the inspiration for its creation. His father Fred, also an accomplished cyclist, owned the bicycle shop in town and coached both Furman and his sister Mildred to prominence on the junior racing circuit. When Furman expressed weariness at the travel required to reach far-flung races, "Pop" Kugler decided to start a race in their hometown of Somerville. He mapped out a 1.2 mile oval track using portions of West Main Street, Mountain Ave, West High Street and Grove Street.

Local merchants supported the cause with donations of prizes for the winners, which surprisingly caused an issue for Pop's proposed track. West Main Street runs along a portion of State Route 28, and New Jersey road regulations forbid racing on highways. By calling the event a "tour," as suggested by a sympathetic Department of Transportation official, Pop could move forward with his plans while still staying within the boundaries of the law.

Furman had already won the Junior and National Junior Championships when the first Tour of Somerville was held on Memorial Day 1940. Victorious in the initial running, he returned the following year to set a national record of 2 hours, 5 minutes, 7 seconds in capturing the 1941 trophy.

Unfortunately, those would be the only local victories for the hometown hero. With America's entry into World War II, Furman joined the Navy and was killed in an accident onboard the USS Wichita off the Ryukyu Islands, Japan. His friend and 1942 Tour winner Carl Anderson also died in service during the war, prompting organizers to rename the race the "Kugler-Anderson Memorial" in their honor.

More than 70 years after its first running, the Tour of Somerville continues to draw cycling talent from around the world, cheered on by thousands of spectators who line the race route. Much like the Indianapolis 500 is for its hometown, the Tour is a Memorial Day staple that all of Somerville looks forward to. It's become an event for cycling fans and non-fans alike, with additional road races and plenty of activities for the whole family.

That noisy college town: Somerville?

History-minded Rutgers University students (at least the New Brunswick-based ones) quickly learn the facts behind the school's origins. At the behest of officials within the Dutch Reformed Church, Royal Governor William Franklin issued a charter for the creation of Queens College on November 10, 1766, placing it as eighth among the nine colonial colleges. The school got off to a slow start due to various reasons, but eventually began holding classes at a New Brunswick tavern called the Sign of the Red Lion.

That's all true, but as we learned on a visit to Hopewell, there's a lot more to the founding of a university. Someone has to come up with the idea in the first place, and in Rutgers' case, that person was Reverend Jacob Hardenbergh of the Dutch Reformed Church. And, it seems, the idea may have come when he was living, not on the Banks of the Old Raritan, but at the Old Dutch Parsonage in Somerville.

Not Old Queens... the Old Dutch Parsonage.

Hardenbergh himself owed a great deal of his education to Reverend John Frelinghuysen, who'd tutored Jacob and other young men at the parsonage in addition to his religious duties. When Frelinghuysen died in 1754, Hardenbergh took his place in the pulpit, and while he didn't tutor students himself, he was a strong advocate for education. The College of New Jersey had been founded 20 years earlier by ministers of the Presbyterian Church's New Light movement, and the Dutch Reformed needed their own academy in which to train future ministers and provide a classical education to others. Hardenbergh traveled to England in 1763 to appeal to King George for a new college, setting the groundwork for what would be chartered as Queens College. By early 1766, he was circulating a petition for the school's creation, and by the end of the year, he'd secured the charter.

The establishment of the college was just the first step, and while the Grammar School (now Rutgers Prep) began accepting students in 1767, it took another five years for the upper school to hire a tutor and matriculate students. The first diploma was earned by the class of 1774, Matthew Leidt. Compare that against the more than 14,000 degrees awarded in 2013, and you have to believe that Hardenbergh would be very satisfied with the longevity and productivity of what he worked so hard to start.

Want fries with that treaty? World War I ends in Somerville.

The Somerville Circle has long been known for historically challenging traffic, where wars have nearly broken out over proper rights of way and who should yield to whom. Even since it was improved with a flyover bridge for Route 202, I'm sure it's been the site of more than one fender-bending conflict that's had to be resolved with police intervention.

Not far away, the actual World War I ended for the United States.

In 1921. Yup. Fighting ended and the armistice was signed in 1918, but the U.S. didn't formally end hostilities with Germany and Austria-Hungary for almost another three years. And it happened in Raritan, not far from where you can now pick up some tasty onion rings and a 60 inch plasma TV.

Politics played a huge role in the delay, and for the sake of simplicity, I'm only hitting the points relevant to our story. Despite President Woodrow Wilson's active support, the U.S. Senate twice refused to ratify the Treaty of Versailles which had effectively ended the war in Europe. At stake was the nation's participation in the League of Nations, which, as you might remember, was Wilson's baby and the proposed international body that would prevent future wars. The League concept was unpopular with voters, yet the establishment of peace was tied up in Wilson's dream that the US would take a key role in the organization.

Wilson completed his second term in early 1921, succeeded by Warren G. Harding, former Senator from Ohio who had opposed the treaty and the League. With the unresolved business of Germany and Austria-Hungary on the table, the new president implored Congress to deliver a resolution for peace that would not commit the U.S. to membership in the League. Long story short, Senator Philander Knox and Representative Stephen Porter introduced resolutions in their respective houses of Congress, both passed and were reconciled, and the document was ready for Harding's signature on July 2.

Thing was, Harding wasn't in Washington. He was in Raritan, playing golf with Senator John Frelinghuysen at the country club near the Senator's estate. According to tradition, when the papers arrived from the Capitol, Harding left the course just long enough to sign the resolution, a brief interruption to his game. The Frelinghuysen family later commemorated the event with an oil painting of the scene, plus a plaque to mark the site within the house.

Unfortunately the house is no longer there, a victim to what's loosely termed as progress. The Frelinghuysens left their estate in 1927, realizing that the traffic on Route 28 and 202 would only increase over time. It was a good move: not long after they left, the state built the Somerville Circle practically in their old front yard. The house sat vacant for nearly 20 years before being sold, and it burned to the ground sometime in the 1950s.

The only remnants of the Frelinghuysens' time on the Easton Turnpike (Route 28) are two stone columns flanking a commemorative plaque. Nicely landscaped, they're a bit of an anomaly compared to the broad expanse of parking lot and the P.C. Richards and Burger King that now occupy the property. Haggle all you want with the salesguy at the appliance store; it'll still be easier than ending the War to End All Wars.

Free Acres is the place to be...

If it hasn't already become obvious, I'm intrigued by planned communities. There's something fascinating about an enclave where people choose to live together based on a common noble belief, as long as it's benign.

Such is the story of Free Acres, a 70-acre residential community nestled in the Watchung Mountains. Roads barely wider than a driveway will bring you through a peaceful wooded settlement of homes, some bungalows, others the size of an average subdivision house. Just inside the boundaries from the outside road is a two-story red farmhouse, which serves as the community gathering place.

Founded in 1910 by a preacher's son named Bolton Hall, Free Acres was started as an experiment of the "single tax" philosophy of Henry George. A writer and economist by trade, George believed in the common ownership of land for the community's benefit. Or, as the association constitution says, "all shall be mutually helpful and free from all forms of monopoly of natural resources, in order to secure to all equality of opportunity and a full reward of efforts." Land was considered a mutual birthright of humankind, to managed democratically.

Hall purchased the Murphy farm on the border of Berkeley Heights and Watchung, dividing it into lots that homeowners lease from the community association. Residents aren't required to be advocates of the single tax concept, only to adhere to community rules. Land-based regulations have been modified from the Hall concept over the years, but the general concept remains. Each lease is a 99 year contract, which resets every time a lot is transferred to a new lessee through inheritance or purchase of the home on it. Lease fees go into into a fund to maintain common roads, the farmhouse and community pool, as well as paying local property tax on the 70 acres. If costs of managing the community rise, the annual fee goes up for each renter, regardless of any improvements made by the lessee on his or her lot. Homeowners pay local taxes to the municipality, based on the value of their houses.

The common ownership concept has some interesting byproducts: residents are forbidden to build fences, and no trees can be cut down without permission from the association.

Business aside, Free Acres started as a summer colony with an artsy feel, with about 50 people summering there by 1920. Performers like Victor Kilian and a then-unknown James Cagney joined writers like journalist Konrad Bercovici and fantasy novelist Thorne Smith, raising tents in what must have felt like a heavenly respite from the sweltering New York summers. Borrowing from the theories of Arts and Crafts designer William Morris, residents created guilds to manage their many dramatic and artistic pursuits within the community.

Eventually, as we've seen from our travels to Mt. Tabor and Pitman, residents started building small shacks, many of which were winterized during the Great Depression. Though there was no common religious belief as there was in those other communities, Free Acre-ites enjoyed good fellowship and an enjoyment of their surroundings. In fact, it may be that the lack of a stated ideology was what keeps Free Acres vibrant to this day, while so many other utopian communities have organized and disbanded in New Jersey.

When I drove through Free Acres last week, I found the enclave surrounded by, yet separate from, the suburban community that's grown up around it. The feel was very much like a small summer community somewhere in the Poconos. Narrow roads and a 15 mile per hour speed limit definitely slow things down, but you really don't feel in a hurry while you're there. And even with the trees still lacking leaves, the embrace of nature brings an almost magical feeling to the place.

The reality of late 20th century development has had its mark on the community, though. Several of the bungalows have clearly been expanded substantially, and some residents have started from scratch and built larger homes that look as if they'd be better suited to the surrounding tract developments. Unfortunately, the property was also affected by the construction of Route 78; a buffer of woods and a sound barrier do their best to tamp the audible rush of traffic in the distance.

Still, Free Acres has its nirvana-like aspects and surely has a calming effect on those who live there. If you want your home to be a placid retreat within an easy commute to Manhattan, it's hard to imagine where else you could settle. It may no longer be a place where free spirits go to avoid the woes of a flawed world, but it's one place where you can have good neighbors without fences.

Forget the first robin: Woodcocks announce spring at the Great Swamp

I've talked before about the surprising amount of life it's possible to find in the depths of winter, even as it seems the weather will never get warm again. Walking around with open eyes and ears can clue you in to the ways nature is preparing to renew itself as the days get longer. Check out your own neighborhood, and you'll see that in some ways, spring is already here.

And as I discovered last weekend, there's a lot going on in other places, too. With sunset approaching last Saturday evening, Ivan and I met up with about a dozen folks from the Fyke Nature Association to watch for woodcocks at Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge. These long-billed shorebirds prefer damp grassy marshland, and one spot at the refuge is well-known as a mating season hotspot.

What makes the American woodcock so fascinating that a bunch of people will stand around in a swamp at dusk waiting for it? Well, it's always interesting to witness courtship behavior, but the woodcock's routine is pretty distinct for birds that nest in New Jersey. If you were to relate it to that of young humans, we were about to see the avian version of a nightclub in a college town: pick-up lines and a bit of dancing, with the males hoping to impress the ladies. The dance, in particular, is an improvement over what most other local birds tend to do: stand around and sing their version of "hey baby, hey baby, hey baby."

The male woodcock announces the start of the ritual with a short, adenoidal buzzing noise that is usually described with the mneumonic "peent" (or, for others, electronic flatulence). If you didn't know better, you might confuse it for an odd out-of-season cricket, or maybe a frog of some sort. He will continue "peent"ing from his well-obscured spot on the ground until he takes flight. Rising 40 feet up in the air, he performs an aerial display of dips and climbs, his wings whistling all the while. For a sampling of these sounds, check out Cornell University's All About Birds page on the woodcock.

The woodcock: big eyes, long bill, short legs.

We waited patiently for twilight to settle, noticing that early-season moths were beginning to come out for the evening. In the waning moments of light, we started to hear the buzzing calls in a brushy area. One brave individual started a series of calls, a little erratically spaced. He was totally obscured on the ground among the taller grasses and shrubbiness, so it would be harder to see as he rose in flight. With so many eyes on the lookout, chances were that at least some of us would get a glimpse. Soon a few other individuals started making noise from other areas, giving our guy a little competition.

Patience is your friend when birding, and waiting for woodcock is a prime example. You can't hurry them up, and when they do rise, you're sometimes following the sound overhead more than a visible body. After a bit of peenting, our guy ascended and flew around like a stunt pilot on adrenaline, his wings twittering the path of his speedy and looped flight. He dropped back to the ground as quickly as he'd risen, and there was silence for a few moments until we heard....

"Peent."

"Well, I guess that didn't work," someone said, and we all laughed. All that work and the woodcock had come up short in the new girlfriend category. Time to start from scratch again.

Our first woodcock flight seen, more sounds began to emerge. You expect a lot of nature noises on a warm summer night, but early March has its songs in the swamp, too. Now that I wasn't so focused on hearing every peent, my ears opened to the rushing sounds of ducks (and geese) flying to their nighttime settling places. Ivan even spied the sound of what might have been a bullfrog croaking in a pond several yards away.

Peenting became more frequent and from other quarters, and we were startled when two separate woodcocks flew past us, just a few feet overhead. With their large, dark eyes, it was surely easier for them to see us in the darkness than the other way around. Things were livening up, for sure!

Then we had an even bigger surprise visitor -- two, actually. The larger bird coming toward us had a much deeper wingstroke and more substantial body, flying purposefully past us toward a wooded area, its partner not far behind. Heard calling earlier by a few in our group, the great horned owls were out for the night, no doubt looking for a meal. Seeing them was a nice little bonus, unexpected but not out of place.

Birding at dusk has its limitations, of course: you can only watch so long before natural light is extinguished, and artificial light won't help your cause. Nature had been good to us that evening, and the only thing left to do was find our way to our cars without incident.

Meet Basking Ridge's patriot nobleman: Lord Stirling, William Alexander

Driving around parts of Somerset County, you'd be excused for thinking that everything's named "Lord Stirling," because you see it all over the place. There's a park, an apartment complex, stables, a school and even a town with the name. It long led me to wonder "Why in heck did a guy with a British title get so many things named after him?" It all sounded way too much like the product of some English loyalist who ruled a country dominion.

William Alexander, Lord Stirling
by Bass Otis

Nothing could be farther from the truth. Lord Stirling was New York-born William Alexander. He claimed title in the Peerage of Scotland as a descendant of the grandfather of the first Earl of Stirling, perhaps attempting to gain control of the vast land grant that would have come with it. While his claim wasn't validated by the British House of Lords, Alexander continued to use the title, making for what must have eventually been an interesting public relations dilemma for King George.

The land would have been a nice bonus, but Alexander had little to worry about when it came to supporting himself. His mother was a successful merchant, and when he saw the opportunity, he expanded the business to supply the British military during the French and Indian War. Well known in society, he married Sarah Livingston, whose brother William later became the first state governor of New Jersey. (You'll recall the long reach of the Livingston family from our visit to Liberty Hall in Elizabethtown.) The couple had a house in Manhattan, which they sold after building a large estate on 1000 acres in what became Basking Ridge.

Alexander made the most of his New Jersey property, cultivating over 2000 grape vines to support the growth of the winemaking industry in the New World. He also once owned the land that's now known as Sterling Hill in Ogdensburg, but his attempts at iron mining ended up pretty much as Edison's did more than 100 years later, expensive but largely fruitless. He also played his lordship to the hilt, reportedly amassing a huge wardrobe and riding around town in an ornate coach emblazoned with the family crest.

What did any of this have to do with a PR problem for King George? As colonists grew more and more frustrated with British rule, Alexander stood firmly with the patriots. Already a colonel in the New Jersey militia, he'd drawn from his considerable wealth to outfit those who volunteered to serve under him. Considering that and the fact that George Washington was a close family friend, it's not surprising that Alexander agreed to join the Continental Army, becoming the only American brigadier general to claim a title.

Alexander led troops in several pivotal battles in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania between 1776 and 1778, but his defining moment took place during the Battle of Long Island. Outnumbered 25 to one, the troops under his command held the British long enough for the other Continentals to escape to safety. Alexander himself was captured and later freed as part of a prisoner exchange, his valor and audacity recognized by military on both sides. He was elevated to major general, with future president James Monroe serving as his aide-de-camp.

Amid the huzzahs, however, were brickbats from our old reliable, Aaron Burr. It's commonly known that Lord Stirling enjoyed a good glass of wine (or several), but according to Ron Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton, Burr outright stated that "Monroe's whole duty was to fill his lordship's tankard and hear, with indications of admiration, his lordship's long stories about himself."

Whether Burr's assessment was accurate or not, it's clear that Alexander held the trust of Washington and the admiration of his troops. He might have been full of himself -- who knows? -- but the new country got more from his service than he profited from his position. After being named commanding officer of the northern troops in 1781, Alexander died of gout, his fortune gone and his feats of bravery apparently forgotten not long after.

Except in Basking Ridge, it seems. His estate was sold to pay his debts, and the house was eventually torn down, but much of his property is now a Somerset County park named in his honor. Adjacent to the larger Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge, it offers an environmental education center and an extensive trail system, as well as a horse stable. One of our readers also pointed out that the County holds a Lord Stirling 1770s festival each fall, featuring tours, period-appropriate demonstrations and specimens from an archaeological dig of the property.

One more note on Alexander: given his military feats and those of his descendants, one might consider him the original in a line of "Jersey sons of a gun." Several male descendants of his daughter also distinguished themselves in military service, most notably Hidden New Jersey favorite, Civil War General Philip Kearny. The longer I study prominent New Jerseyans, the more fascinating the connections get.

South Branch WMA: a very birdy grassland walk (without the ticks)

Wrong turns uncover a lot of great surprises for us Hidden New Jersey nuts. I guess that's not surprising, as you don't go places you don't usually visit. (I'm feeling a lot like Yogi Berra right about now.)

It was a wrong turn that helped us discover a beautiful grassland birding spot in Hunterdon and Somerset Counties a couple of weekends ago. I won't bore you with the logistical details, but it involved taking 287 in the wrong direction to get to 78 and then wandering around looking for an appropriate ATM. The net was that after driving through some classic Central Jersey former farmland/present subdivision terrain, we found ourselves in open fields, some covered with crops, others laying fallow.

Grassland is in woefully short supply in New Jersey. With so many families getting out of agriculture over the past few decades, a great deal of pasture has been converted to residential use. The farms that do remain are often pushing to get the greatest productivity possible from their acreage, meaning that fewer fields lay fallow to recover after a planting year. Translated to bird talk, there's less room for grassland species to nest and feed, putting them in danger. A large percentage of the birds on the lists of state endangered and threatened species are those who count on this type of habitat.

Always on the lookout for good habitat, we stopped a few times to check for birdage, particularly the grassland species Ivan needs for his year list. Then we came upon a brown plank sign labeling the entrance to the South Branch Wildlife Management Area. This was a new one for both of us, and if the fields we'd just past were any indication of the quality of its habitat, we needed to check it out.

A paved road leads off the road but is blocked by a padlocked gate fifty yards or so in. We parked the car nearby and walked around the gate posts to explore further up the road, which appeared to end at a crest in the hill. To the left was a broad field of assorted grasses and wildflowers, while the clearing to the right was edged by a thick stand of trees. From the music we were hearing, we could tell this was prime territory. Why hadn't we heard about this spot before?

Walking along, we were able to spot most of the usual suspect birds, as well as some of their brighter cousins. Indigo bunting, yellow warbler and goldfinch were regular sights, as were both Baltimore and orchard orioles. The orchards, in particular, were unusually plentiful; we must have seen three or four juvenile males before finding an adult.

We also scared up a fox who'd been obscured by the tall grass. Not wanting to deal with us, he trotted down the road and found refuge in the woods. He might have been the one who'd left the scat I'd noticed at spots on the pavement; we didn't see any deer. Or, perhaps, it might have been the byproduct of whoever left the claw marks I thought I saw in some mud.

In any case, the road kept going once we reached the rise, terminating at an old prefab metal building. Even though the property appeared to stretch far beyond, we chose not to do any bushwacking. We've had more than our share of post-trip tick discoveries so far this season, and we were both relieved to be birding somewhere productive that didn't require us to walk through brush. There was no need, anyway: a connecting road led across the property and was just calling out to us. How could we resist the invitation?

Like the Negri Nepote Grasslands we visited last year, this field hosts a long row of 300kv transmission lines that announce themselves with a buzzy hum as you approach. Also like last year's experience, a red tail hawk was perched about midway up one of the transmission towers, occasionally screaming to warn us away. This one, though, wasn't nesting and didn't appear to have young nearby at all. He seemed to be preening or airing out one of his wings, creating a somewhat cloaklike shape on one side. At first we wondered if he might be injured, but after taking looks from several perspectives as we walked further down the trail, we decided he was fine. Maybe a little wet from the previous night's rain, but fine, nonetheless.

The path continued down a short, gentle incline to a wooded area complete with a tiny brook, and then back up to another field. Finding nothing really different in terms of habitat or birds, we decided to turn back and continue on our road trip travels. Even though we hadn't found Ivan's target birds there, we'd seen enough to know that South Branch WMA was a definite option for future exploration.

A Hidden Trifecta in Raritan

Fresh from our greater white-fronted goose sighting, Ivan and I spotted a small truss bridge and historical marker on the side of the road. Wait! Stop! Turn back! Tiny bridges have always brought interesting stories, and I didn't want to pass this one up.

A Hibernia Mine bridge in Raritan? Isn't that Morris County territory? Had we stumbled on a Hidden New Jersey gem linking two non-contiguous counties? Ivan started reading the marker through his binoculars, but I couldn't help myself. I got out of the car to find out.

Talk about a span with a history! Not only is this an old bridge, it's survived its own obsolescence twice. Originally, it was part of a railroad started in 1863 to move ore from the Hibernia iron mines in Morris County to the Morris Canal and later to the Central Railroad of New Jersey (CRRNJ) at Wharton. The mines were pretty much tapped out by 1916 and closed in 1930, the same year CRRNJ bought the line to serve the area's industries.

By then, though, the bridge had gone on to its second use as a vehicular passageway across a railroad right of way in Hillsborough. It served that purpose for more than 100 years before being dismantled and stored. For the past four years, it's been exclusively a footbridge within the Somerset County Park System, enabling pedestrians to easily cross the Raritan Water Power Canal.

The what canal? When we were in Duke Island Park, we'd wondered if the canal we crossed was simply a portion of the Delaware and Raritan Canal, or maybe a feeder, given the proximity of the Raritan River. I didn't know of any other canal in central New Jersey, so when I read the Hibernia bridge marker, I was stumped. Logic and lessons learned from my many visits to Paterson's Great Falls led me to reason that water had been shunted for industrial purposes, but that's as far as I could figure when we were standing at the bridge. I doubt the Raritan ever supplied the mighty wattage of the falling Passaic River waters, but heck, I could be wrong.

Further research cemented the link: Alexander Hamilton. According to the Raritan Borough website, Hamilton visited the community after the Revolutionary War and thought the river's power could be harnessed to bring industry to the community. Local leaders were less than convinced, but the idea stayed alive and the three-mile long Raritan Water Power Canal was constructed in 1840. Predictably, factories started springing up along the river, taking advantage of cheap power and the proximity of the railroad. That's our link to Passaic County, courtesy of our first Secretary of the Treasury.

Raritan hosted one of the country's largest textile manufacturers, the Raritan Woolen Mills, which supplied the army during the Civil War and World War I. I can't find a direct source confirming the mill used water power, but it was located close to the Raritan, making it likely the Water Power Canal was a factor in its operation. Today, the property is site of a condominium complex. I wonder how many of its residents know their tenuous connection to Alexander Hamilton?

A goose we wanted to find: the Greater White-Fronted at Duke Island Park

"What are you doing this afternoon? There's a greater white-fronted goose in Bridgewater."

Sometimes you have to put everything aside and go after a chase bird, even if it means you'll probably be scanning a huge flock of grounded Canada geese. That's why I said yes to Ivan and made the trip to Duke Island Park on Wednesday. As I mentioned in a past post, I've joined the insanity of keeping a life list, and this new goose would be an addition for me.

Bordered by the Raritan River and traversed by the Raritan Water Power Canal, Duke Island Park is an active recreation area, with several picnic areas, a bandstand and a couple of ballfields as well as some hiking trails. The weather was cold and blustery when we visited, so the only other park users were some dog walkers and a runner or two. Odds were good, then, that our birding would be uninterrupted by others who might inadvertently flush out the species we were looking for.

Two gatherings of multitudes of geese were visible as soon as we drove into the park, one being within binocular range of the road. No greater white-fronted goose there, and no place nearby to park to get to the other flock easily. We'd have to drive several hundred feet farther to deposit the car, which normally isn't a problem, but in this cold it felt like an imposition. Hopefully our investment in frostbitedness would pay off.

Maybe in a typical winter, the 20 degree temperature wouldn't have seemed so bad, but given the unusual warmth this season, it felt downright polar. I was bundled in a parka with ski gloves, plus a hood that covered my Elmer-Fudd-type polar-tec baseball cap with ear flaps, all of which made it hard to hear or to focus my binoculars appropriately. Conversation went something like this (from my perspective):

Ivan:  *sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher*
Me: (pulling up earflaps and straining) "Huh?"
Ivan: "Wow, it's cold."

In all honesty, it took maybe five minutes to walk from car to vantage area for that second set of geese. I found myself regretting that I hadn't taken another look at the bird in the guide so I'd be sure to spot the right one. Then I remembered that the best course of action was to play the old Sesame Street "one of these things is not like the others" game: spot the one goose that looked out of place. Unlike a cackling goose or a brant, the greater white-fronted looks nothing like a Canada; the only white on its upper body is the facial outline around the base of the bill, and its legs are an orangey yellow. It should stand out like a sore thumb in any flock of standard lawn geese.

It didn't take long for me to find it in the flock, and yes, I was the one to find it (yeah, me!), innocently plucking through grass with its Canada cousins. Life bird for me, year bird for Ivan. While not once-in-a-lifetime rare in the Eastern US, these guys show much more frequently out west, making them a nice find in New Jersey. We were also fortunate to see a pair of killdeer scouring the ground nearby, the sound of their voices a nice treat for the afternoon.

While we were there, we checked out the Raritan but found only a huge flock of Canada geese going with the flow and a determined pair of mallard ducks swimming against traffic. The nearby trees and brush were far more productive, with red-bellied woodpeckers, plenty of juncos and nuthatches, and a bonus brown creeper to add to my life list. All in all, our impromptu trip netted some great January finds and a promising new birding spot to revisit in the spring. Not bad, overall!

Feeding our inner Forrest Gumps on the East Coast Greenway

A few weeks ago, I wrote about our random jaunts on the Appalachian Trail, all the while forgetting about the mammoth Maine-to-Florida path that passes within yards of my front door. Yes, there's a north to south walk and bikeway that's mapped right through suburbia and the heart of some of New Jersey's largest cities.

The East Coast Greenway was conceived in 1991 as an urban sister of sorts to the AT, enabling walkers, runners and users of non-mechanized vehicles to enjoy a safe excursion. By linking many local trails, the ECG gives users the path to experience local attractions for a day or maybe even an extended jaunt through a given state or region along the way. A fair amount of the route is already established, but the alliance managing the Greenway is still working to settle links that will bring users out of overly trafficked or heavily-used areas. As it stands, certain urban portions may not be as safe as desired for inexperienced cyclists or wheelchair users to traverse.

Remember that part of Forest Gump where the title character decides to start running one day -- and ends up on a two year journey? Ivan and I indulged that concept a little Saturday morning as we were walking back to my place after breakfast. Seeing the Greenway blaze on a utility pole, he suggested that we follow the path and see where it goes. A mile and a half later, we'd walked through my neighborhood to a nearby river, crossed a large county park and forged on to the main drag in the next town. Along the way, we both wondered whether we could walk the entire New Jersey section of the path in a weekend. I'd seen some flyers about a 50-miles-in-a-day Greenway event last spring, but that was for cyclists and didn't cover the stretch between Trenton and Edison. What about walkers and hikers? What would we do, and how long would it take? If the path goes through towns and cities, we wouldn't have to carry much in the way of food and water, and we could find hotel rooms for the overnights. Heck, we could even stay at my place one night if we planned properly.

Checking out the New Jersey trail map, we discovered the state section is 78 miles long, from Trenton to New York City, but a portion of that actually routes you onto the PATH train from Newark to Jersey City. Additional alternates will take you up to 93 miles, ending at the George Washington Bridge. I can only guess that the rail portion is there until they can figure a route that gets you between the cities without sticking you onto impossibly congested roadways, but still, it seems kind of silly that a path puts you on a train, even if it's a PATH light rail. Rails to trails, indeed!

Still, though, taking to the ECG for a weekend or more is an intriguing concept for us. What kinds of Hidden New Jersey could be nestled along the way? Stay tuned... this idea may have legs.

Watch the skies like a hawk!

Fall migration will be upon us before we know it. In fact, the shorebirds have already started their trek south, and since birds take more time to move in the fall, you'll have a longer amount of time to check them out.

For the beginning birder -- or even someone who's just interested in seeing a good show -- hawk watches are the way to go. Basically, you go to a hilly or mountainous place and watch as raptors take advantage of thermals and updrafts to make their way to their destination. It's not unusual to see scores of hawks in one visit, even in the spots nestled in the more populated areas of the state.

While I did stop by the Cape May viewing platform a few years ago, I'll be going to my first official hawk watch with Ivan in the next few weeks. He wanted me to let Hidden New Jersey readers know about some of the more popular hawk watching spots in the state, in the event that you want to check them out before we get there. Who knows -- you might even run into us!

Montclair Hawk Watch -- Montclair.  The state's oldest hawk watch site, and the second-oldest in the country!

Raccoon Ridge -- Blairstown

Chimney Rock -- Martinsville

Wildcat Ridge - Rockaway/Hibernia

Cape May -- at Cape May Point State Park, sponsored by NJ Audubon's Cape May Bird Observatory.

Sunrise Mountain -- Stokes State Forest

Be sure to bring your binoculars and dress for the weather. Of course, a decent birding field guide will help, too (I like the Sibley guide, personally), but it's still fun to watch even if you don't identify which birds they are.

Stay tuned for my report on our visit in the next few weeks.

Take Raritan, spell it backwards...

Based on a suggestion from a Hidden New Jersey reader, Ivan and I recently visited Natirar, a new park within the Somerset County Park System. Nestled in the rolling countryside of Peapack-Gladstone, it's in an area of old estates I've long been curious about.

So how did a county park get located in such lush and, most likely, costly real estate?

More than 100 years ago, lawyer Walter Graeme Ladd and his wife Kate Macy Ladd began purchasing land in Peapack/Gladstone and Bedminster, eventually amassing over 1000 acres. They built a 40-room Tudor mansion atop a hill on the land, also constructing additional outbuildings to accompany maintaining structures that had been on the land since the 18th century. The estate was named for the Raritan (spelled backward), the river that flows through it.

Not long after they acquired the property Mrs. Ladd built a convalescent home for women there, and that entity gained control of Natirar after her death in 1933. Consistent with Mr. Ladd’s will, the convalescent home was disbanded 50 years later, and the property was sold. The King of Morocco acquired the estate but never lived there, ultimately selling more than 400 acres of it to Somerset County. Rather than keeping the house and many of the buildings, the county is leasing them to outside operators, including entrepreneur Richard Branson, who’s turning the mansion into a spa.

Today, great expanses of well-manicured lawn and open space welcome you as you drive past the gatehouse onto the property. Park visitors are directed to a parking lot near some barns, while spa guests are guided up to the mansion, high on the hill.

The evidence of human intervention on the land is strong, as you'd expect on an old estate. This park definitely isn't a Sierra Club project. That said, there's about four miles of gravel pathway on the property, a good stroll for visitors and anyone wanting to take their regular daily walk in very pleasant surroundings. We visited on a very sunny, very hot day and pretty much had the paths to ourselves.

The closest path crosses the well-kept lawn, with very few trees nearby to provide shade or habitat for birds. We saw a bluebird or two, but other than that, the main attraction was a couple of vultures and hawks above. Eventually, the path started to hug a shady tributary of the Raritan River, which we crossed on a broad carriage bridge. A temporary sign advised us that bees were at work, and that we should stay on the path. Indeed they were. In droves.

Farther down, the path splits, with the left fork veering upward and through additional woods, including some very mature rhododendrons. Reaching the top of the hill, we found the designated nature path, a loop around a broad field of tall grasses, thistle and the like. Again, much of this path lacks trees, though a few benches are thoughtfully placed in shady nooks. An unoccupied stable stands pretty much in the middle of all of it.

The birding got a little better at this point, though most of the avian activity was either far above us or somewhere in the distance. The vultures and some redtail hawks seemed to find this area a bit more interesting. Plus, I was happy to spot a pileated woodpecker in the distance, bare-eyed (to be fair, Ivan made the ID by sound; I was just the first one to lay eyes on it).

The real fun was in the butterflies. Ivan spotted three or four different types, including a black swallowtail and a buckeye, and the volume of butterflies in the area seemed especially high. Neither of us is very well versed on the topic, so we couldn’t identify some of them accurately, except to say there’s a good variety.

Summing up the Natirar experience, it’s not exactly the place for a hiker or naturalist, but it would be a nice spot to share a cultured picnic, perhaps after the fox hunt.

Rooting the canal at Griggstown

Wandering around Somerset County gave us the chance to visit one of my favorite, "Wow, this is New Jersey?" destinations, the Delaware and Raritan Canal at Griggstown in Franklin Township. I discovered it a few years ago on one of my dreary-winter-day drives to nowhere, and it seems to be one of those places that's beautiful during every season of the year. For some reason, I never actually consult a map for my trips there. I generally drive by internal GPS, knowing that if I stay on the Canal Road with the canal in sight, I'll eventually get to my destination.

Today, there are enough houses and traffic on the road to make the place feel populated, but back in the days when the canal was the focus, Griggstown must have seemed like one of the few bustling points between Princeton and New Brunswick. Most parts of the canal don't have much in the way of contemporary structures, but here many buildings were constructed to serve its operation. A combination mule drivers' barracks and barn still stands, as well as a lock tender's house and a few other stone structures of indeterminate purpose. There's also a small bridge tender's station at the foot of the wooden Griggstown Causeway crossing the canal and adjacent Millstone River.

Originally a mill town, Griggstown also hosted a copper mine which operated on and off from 1790 to the early 20th century. The community also saw its share of notables during the Revolution, as Washington marched troops through after the Battle of Princeton and Rochambeau led his troops through on the way to Yorktown.

As for us, we just wanted to take a stroll, maybe see a few birds and enjoy a sunny afternoon after tackling the Sourlands. Parking at the lock tender's house, we took to the tow path with the intention of walking to back to the Causeway. We didn't run into too many other walkers, but there were plenty of cyclists and runners capitalizing on the soft, level surface. From the looks of things, a few horses had likely been there, too. The birds were fairly quiet, given that it was already mid-afternoon, but a chickadee or two obliged Ivan with a quick view.

Just east of the Causeway there's a canoe and kayak rental, though we didn't avail ourselves this time around. It didn't seem to be too buggy at all on the water, so it might even be an option for a return trip in August.

Hiking a sweet spot in the Sourland Mountains

Given how much I've knocked around central New Jersey, it's rather remarkable that it's taken me this long to get to the Sourland Mountains. Located in Somerset and Hunterdon Counties, the range seems to have gotten its name from the fact that the underlying geology can't support a decent well, leaving prospective settlers without a reliable source of water. Other sources say that the name is a corruption of the word 'sorrel,' which the Germans who settled there used to describe the reddish-brown soils in the area.

Despite the water-related drawback, the Sourlands have hosted their share of history. For one, the range played a strategic role during the Revolution, keeping the British to the west from raiding the wheat fields of Hunterdon area farmers. John Hart, one of the New Jersey delegates to the Continental Congress and a signer of the Declaration, hid in the Sourlands for an extended period of time after the British drove him off of his nearby farm. And more recently, Charles Lindbergh selected the area for a remote home for himself and his wife Anne Morrow, seeking to avoid the incessant attention of the press. Unfortunately, the home they built in Hopewell was the site of the kidnapping and death of their first child, Charles, Jr.

Today, both Somerset and Hunterdon Counties maintain open space parks in the region, and Ivan and I chose to visit the Somerset County Preserve on the Belle Meade side. The mountains seem to rise up out of nowhere in the relative flatness of the area, so it wasn't hard for us to get our bearings as we approached on US 206. There's an ample parking area at the traihead off East Mountain Road, along with a kiosk holding maps. Four trails cover about nine miles in total, the longest one rising about 400 feet in elevation as shown on the topographic map. The trail blazes aren't quite as helpful, as they go by geometric shapes rather than color, and the shapes aren't denoted on the map.

We decided to check out part of the five-mile-long ridge trail, since the map showed that it goes through an area called the Devil's Half Acre. Perhaps this is where Mother Leeds' 13th child hangs out on jaunts outside the Pinelands? The trail starts fairly level and includes a few wooden boardwalks before it gets rocky and takes on some altitude. Since it had rained recently, some of the path was muddy and the rocks could be a bit moist, but for the most part, it's a good trail. The preponderance of stones means that there's not too much underbrush encroaching, which was a bit of a relief, since we'd reached our limit on ticks at Negri-Nepote.

While the rise was continuous, it was by no means a scramble as we'd experienced at Pyramid Mountain. If you're accustomed to the rocks, it's an easy route; if not, it offers a satisfying workout. One could see why British soldiers chose not to venture through the area -- it would be a challenge to bring purloined supplies up and over the mountain, and chances would be good that you'd lose a fair bit of it along the way.

It doesn't take long to get to the boulders of the Devil's Half Acre, and the trail winds through interestingly-shaped formations with trees growing somehow through cracks and crevices. Much as you would with clouds in a blue sky, we traded ideas about what the big rocks were shaped like, and we wondered how they'd come to be there. According to the park map, the area consists of Triassic Age sedimentary and igneous rock deposited between 150 and 180 million years ago, when the region was underwater. However they got there, it's fun to walk around, through and over the rock piles. You can definitely see why Hart would have chosen to hide out in the area, if other parts of the Sourlands are as rocky as what we saw.

Once you get past the Half Acre, the trail levels out a bit, dipping and rising more gently than before. Rather than take the full route, we decided to take advantage of one of the connecting trails to truncate the trip and make our way down the mountain to the trailhead.

Behold the Trojan Cow!

In my report about the Negri-Nepote Grasslands a few weeks ago, I mentioned that we'd driven past the farm holding the Trojan Cow, a large Holstein-looking cow statue that stands in front of a farmhouse on South Middlebush Road in Franklin Township. We drove past again today, and as luck would have it, we found a side road that hadn't shown itself in the past, allowing me to pull over to get a picture.

Look closely, and you'll see that the cow is standing on a trailer. All the more to transport it to its intended destination with the invading force inside, I suppose.

Rather than standing next to the Trojan Cow as they did the last time we passed by, the live Holsteins were across the road, clustered around a 300kV transmission tower. We could hear the lines crackling overhead. You have to wonder: do they get some sort of milk production boost from all that voltage? Or do they just like the tower for another reason? I guess we'll never know.

Incidentally, you might wonder why I didn't stop by and ask the farmer about the Trojan Cow. There were enough No Trespassing signs around the farm to dissuade me from stepping foot on the property. I suppose they'd probably dealt with their share of pranksters and curiosity seekers, and I didn't want to add to the hassle.

Ticking away at Negri Nepote Grassland

Franklin Township (Somerset County) is one of those massive towns in the middle of the state that just seems to go on and on. Its reach is so vast, in fact, that it includes several unincorporated communities and three of the state’s six area codes hold sway there. With a history that goes back to colonial times, the township was largely rural for many years, until a building boom in the ‘80s that brought condo and townhouse development. Fortunately, though, there are still a few sizeable farms, and much of the open space is being preserved by the township and other entities so that about 75 percent of the acreage is still undeveloped.

It was one of those preserved entities where Ivan and I went for some light hiking and birding. He’d seen reports of dickcissels at the Negri Nepote Grassland and wanted to check out a new spot.

While I know some of Franklin Township, I wasn’t entirely sure of the exact location, and I was tickled to find it’s not far from the Trojan Cow. Yes, you read that right. Somewhere off South Middlebush Road, there’s a dairy farm with a massive Holstein cow in the yard. When we passed, it was standing, proud and freshly painted, with its living counterparts clustered around it. I don’t know anything about it; I’ve been aware of it for many years but haven’t yet had the guts to drive up and ask the farmer about it. Frankly, I’d rather keep the mystery going in my mind.

In any case, the Negri-Nepote property itself is largely grassland with some wooded areas thrown in for good measure. There’s also a very small, apparently man-made pond with an elevated blind; when we were there, the water level was pretty low and a lone mallard was hanging out. The field is traversed by a set of high-voltage transmission lines, which buzz ominously a hundred feet or so above you as you walk. (Old power company joke: Why do transformers hum? They don’t know the words.)

The path starts out as a gravel bed from a small parking lot, eventually turning into a wide swath of mowed grass when it veers to the right. After some of the places we’ve been, it was a bit of a relief not to have to bushwack or be overly concerned about brushing past high grass, but it’s no place to let your guard down. As we walked, we picked up a fair number of ticks that seemed to be laying in wait for us. Together, we must have attracted close to 20 of the suckers. Thank goodness for light-colored hiking pants.

Approaching the humming path of the transmission lines, Ivan noted a red-tailed hawk sitting atop one of the towers a few hundred yards away. Curious whether it might be keeping tabs on us, I took a quick scan of the other towers and found a large stick nest perched atop one of the higher-voltage towers. I could just about spy some feathers up there, but I couldn't tell whether it was the other parent or maybe a chick.

Not long after, we got our answer. We heard the distinctive scream of one of the parents, who’d taken wing ahead of us, warning us away from the nest. Little did he/she know, they’d selected what is probably one of the safest places around to raise a hawk family: not only would it be a tough climb up that tower, the surrounding voltage would quickly fry anyone foolish enough to try the ascent without the appropriate safety gear. Good luck to anyone who wants to band the chicks in that nest.

The dickcissels were quiet, perhaps because it was midday, but we saw a fair number of tree swallows and more than a couple of bluebirds making use of the nesting boxes off in the fields. We also spotted a kestrel perched on a ladder rung of one of the transmission towers. She obligingly took flight so we could fully appreciate her plumage.

All in all, it would have been a nice, leisurely walk in the field, but for the ticks hitching a ride on us. Next time, I’m bathing in DEET before we go… and perhaps wearing a Tyvek suit.