Opportunity for Fortuity

 I have written previously about serendipity in Greenway outings, and am reminded of earlier days in my long ago youth when I might go for a walk outside every few months and return disappointed in having seen nothing of interest. No exciting birds, no sculptural snails, no rare flowers. I might hear tales from friends or families of having seen an exciting sight, but rarely experienced the same. 

 I have since learned that I was doing it all wrong. 

First, one must create frequent opportunities for fortuity. A short walk a couple of times a year will not do the trick. Immersion and familiarity are key; get to know a place and its habits, and then you may be rewarded with the occasional out-of-the-ordinary sighting. At the same time, keen attention is required as well. You won't see anything if you're not looking and listening (or if you're looking at and listening to, oh say a small electronic device instead of the world around you). 

Next, one must understand expectations. Not every encounter of interest may be terribly interesting to others. I've spent hundreds of hours on the Greenway and rarely spot a mammal other than deer and squirrels, one highlight being an opossum mother with two babies clinging to her back, as well as a muskrat or two. I've heard tales of bobcat in the area, but seen only standard Felis catus. So I keep my expectations small: an interesting bug; frogs and turtles; an oddly-formed flower are all serendipitous encounters.

And finally--the fortuity. Chance, luck, serendipity. Whatever you choose to call that impossible-to-plan confluence of events. Stopping to watch a downy woodpecker foraging on a low stem when a young red-eyed vireo literally drops out of a tree right in front of you and proceeds to glean insects in open branches nearby, oblivious to the eager photographer trying to appear as a tree trunk while snapping away. 

The encounter was a lucky coming-together of opportunity (taking the time to quietly watch the woodpecker for several minutes), expectation (the red-eyed vireo is hardly a rare bird, but not one I've encountered before thus terribly exciting--for me), and fortuity (what are the odds the bird would land so close, and go about its business with such disregard for me standing there?). 

Later on the same walk, a tiny tree frog nestled in a curled leaf. Opportunity: stopping to investigate a nearby patch of thistle and its pollinators. Expectation: again, hardly a rare specimen but uncommon enough to cause delight. Fortuity: if I had stopped at a different thistle patch, or stood eighteen inches to the left or right, I wouldn't have caught sight of the little motionless frog. 

 It is these chance encounters that spice regular outings and keep me going out week after week. I generally know what I will see, and yet I never know what I will see.

Those Who Thrive Where Others Fail

They are the overlooked. The ignored, the downtrodden and the unwanted. In the wrong place at the wrong time (is there ever a right place and a right time?). When they do gain attention, it is usually an exasperated sigh at the "overgrown weeds" or a judgmental shake of the head at an unkempt lawn.

But really. Look at them out there, in the blazing sun, growing out of parched, poor-quality soil. Sometimes sprouting from cracks in the sidewalk. No need for semi-daily waterings, fertilizings, herbicidings, insecticidings, and other babying. Not for these rugged individualists! Give them a week or two to get started, and they're off and running: growing, flowering, and setting seed before you can gas up the lawnmower. 

Many are non-natives, introduced as forage or for erosion control, or stowed away among some less assertive plant materials. Some are natives, able to hold their own in the harsh environment of weedy lots, urban sidewalks, and points in between. Some may pass judgment on the "invasives", with good reason. But many of them grow where other plants fear to tread, and can act as pioneers on a hostile landscape.

When you are walking around sunny neighborhoods and yards that haven't been coddled, take a moment to notice these subtle, scrappy survivors.

Prickly Lettuce (Lactuca serriola), a non-native. Clouds of small, light-yellow flowers float on branching stems several feet tall. The leaves have a line of fierce-looking spikes on the underside.

Velvetleaf (Abutilon theophrasti), a rather pervasive non-native whose seeds can germinate after 20 years of dormancy. The seed pods are interesting and distinctive, and the large, soft leaves may find consideration in the event of another toilet paper shortage.

Horseweed (Conyza canadensis) is a tall native topped with a plume of uninspiring flowers. The narrow leaves arranged around the stem can look a bit like the more flamboyant Liatris, but the inflorescence at the top is very different.

Alfalfa (Medicago sativa), one of those plants introduced as forage that has proved to be highly successful once it escapes the confines of cultivation. It avoids the bad reputation of some of its fellow non-natives by keeping to the poorer-quality areas and not usually crowding out desirable native plants.

Prostrate or Spotted Spurge (Chamaesyce maculata/Euphorbia maculata) is a mat-forming native that can spread over the edge of a sidewalk or curb from its central root. Tiny flowers can be found near the leaves along the stems.

Another low-growing native plant with subtle flowers is Prostrate Vervain (Verbena bracteata). Its inflorescence is a spike up to 6" long, with bracts the length of the spike and tiny purple flowers near the tip.

From the Depths

Walking along the Greenway after a heavy rain, one may be turned back at the snail crossing by an inch or so of water flowing over the trail. If it isn't too deep, or

if you have footwear that isn't easily waterlogged, it can be a small treat to wade in and examine some of the aquatic denizens that are normally hidden from view beneath watery surfaces. 

Easiest to see, and fairly common, are the small aquatic snails with their smooth, rounded shells sometimes humped above the surface, water rippling as it passes around them. Occasionally one will lose its footing (so to speak) and tumble away with the current. The tiny lives are subtle and easy to overlook; careless pedestrians may not notice anything beyond the slight crunch as they pass.

Assorted creepy-crawlies lurk below the surface, invertebrates that are hard to capture in photos (particularly with my reluctance to physically disturb them to get a better shot!): flatwormy creatures and I'm pretty sure a leech or two. 

One exciting day revealed a crayfish scuttling along the trail. I wondered which side of the trail it came from, where it normally spends its time, where it retreats as the water recedes? 

And there--is that an aquatic isopod? Relative of those endearing terrestrial roly-polies found in cool, damp places under rocks and flowerpots. Isopods are crustaceans, like crayfish, and both aquatic and terrestrial versions breathe through gills.

So the next time the trail seems to be impassable due to a miniature flood event, take the opportunity to visit with those creatures of the depths (relatively speaking) who don't often make an appearance on the Greenway.