18 March 2026 – Fort Worth Nature Center & Refuge 12:10-2:16pm
Along the Canyon Ridge Trail, Lone Point and the surrounding area is a favorite. The rocky remains of the old CCC structure are atop the ridge with limestone, yucca, and live oak. Today I started my walk from below the ridge, near the lakeshore, where a pair of tufted titmice were hopping around in understory and low tree branches.
Tufted titmouse
On the way up to the ridge, there were lots of bird calls in the woodland. Merlin identified the calls of red-shouldered hawk, tufted titmouse, white-eyed vireo, Carolina wren, red-bellied woodpecker, and northern cardinal. Once I reached the ridge, there was also blue jay, red-winged blackbird, and ruby-crowned kinglet.
Right away I saw a young Texas spiny lizard who ducked under the old concrete picnic table. I would see the same lizard on my way out, and a couple of others elsewhere on the ridge. Just one more way in which spring seems already to be going strong.
The ridge top
The top of the ridge is a limestone-based savanna with live oak, pale leaf yucca, and prickly pear. Butterflies were active, including sulphurs, goatweed leafwings, and a little crescent visiting what appeared to be crow poison beginning to flower.
Crescent butterfly
There are not a lot of flowers yet, but a small blue flower caught my eye along the trail. It was meadow flax, according to iNaturalist, an annual with either white or blue flowers. It’s new to me, but with my limited knowledge that’s not saying much.
Meadow flax
Back at the Lone Point structure, I sat for a while and noticed that Texas spiny lizard I had seen earlier. She or he was back at the top of the toppled stone picnic table, basking and reminding me just a little bit of the collared lizards I’ve seen playing king-of-the-hill on boulders at Palo Duro Canyon. Very impressive, little lizard – and thanks for sharing a bit of your afternoon with me.
15 March 2026 – Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve 1:55-3:10pm.
A quick walk on a windy day, as the mid-80s warmth prepared to tumble back into winter for brief reminder that winter has a few more things to say. It was constantly breezy, and then the wind would gust and send the crowns of trees into a spasm of bend-and-rebound. Up close, the upper trunks and branches moved and yet were rigid, a contest between strength and pliability. From further away, the crowns of trees seemed to dance and bow to each other.
Once or twice, strength and rigidity failed and branches snapped or trunks fractured. I did not witness this and did not want to, especially not while standing below the tree. I kept an eye out for crowns that had not sprouted leaves, trees that might be dead or weakened, without the flexibility to remain standing.
Fingers of wispy cloud
At the bluff, I lay back and looked at the blue sky whose currents above me were invisible. When we cannot see the torrents of wind or the languid movement of air on a calm day, we may forget that the atmosphere above is like the water below us. It may slide overhead like a big, lazy river or it may rush along like a mountain stream, shoving and rearranging whatever it touches. As I lay there, streaks of wispy cloud were blown in from the west, looking like fingers reaching toward us. Soon the whole hand was above us, and so I imagined the upper winds were speeding along like those at ground level.
As I walked down the south face of the hill I thought about how little activity I had seen. Even the dragonflies’ flight was no match for this wind, and the couple of birds I saw in flight were really struggling. When the wind is blowing like this, the butterflies are grounded. Even the honeybees barely ventured out of their tree.
Wind dance
For a human, it was a good time to take a walk and feel the power of the air when it is really moving. In some places those wind currents are causing trouble and damage to other people, and I wish that was not happening. Where I walked, it was no more than what the woodlands are adapted to (mostly) withstand every spring.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half at Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve on a spring afternoon full of wonderful things. I wrote the following at the Friends of Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve blog, and I hope you’ll go visit there. But meanwhile I have reproduced it below.
March 13, 2026 – Clear sky, breezy, and temperature in the mid-70s at 3:00pm.
I’m starting to think of spring as beginning when March arrives, as opposed to the more official date of March 20th. Trees are leafing out and flowers are popping up like the delightful crowpoison, which grows from a bulb and looks a little like wild onion but is not. The Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center says, “Some references list this species as poisonous to humans. The jury is still out about its toxicity to crows.” That part about toxicity to crows sounds a little tongue-in-cheek, but it makes for a fascinating name for the plant.
A mournful thyris visiting a cluster of crowpoison flowers
The flowers were visited by several small mournful thyris moths. These are black-and-white moths that fly during the day early in the year and reportedly just for a few weeks. It’s another species with a name that makes me want to find the story, but so far I have not found a reason for it to be mournful. Even its species name makes me curious (Pseudothyris sepulchralis, where “sepulchralis” seems to refer to a sepulchre, that is, a tomb carved in rock).
Two red-eared sliders sharing a log
Meanwhile at the north pond, dragonflies were flying and turtles were basking in sunshine, including a pair of red-eared-sliders sharing a small branch of wood at the water’s surface. Those pond turtles are active even on warmer winter days, but spring sunshine makes them seem very content – though that is a perception from a human point of view that could be completely off-base.
Trees with new leaves growing
I tried to capture the overall look of the woodland in a photo that, seen on a phone’s little screen, is probably very plain. But the crowns of trees are covered in a sort of mist of pale green, the budding of new leaves and the catkins of the oaks. I checked to be sure of the details because I’m not a botanist or even a knowledgeable plant person, but catkins are the dangling strings of the male flowers of oaks. They will be releasing the yellow pollen that coats your windshields, sidewalks, and noses in the coming weeks. And with any luck, they find their way to the female flowers on the oak trees, which are much less conspicuous.
New blackjack leaves – notice the spines at the end of each leaf lobe
The other thing that always seems wonderful to me is how the blackjack oak leaves come in as little red leaves, then turn such a wonderful deep green later on, and next autumn may once again be red – or yellow or some combination – before dropping to the ground.
Blunt woodsia growing in a protected spot along with some moss
Along the north side of the woodland, where it meets the patch of prairie, there are shaded spots and little embankments where the land moves up toward the top of the hill. In one of those shaded places I saw a fern that you can find around the hillside and up toward the bluff. It is the blunt woodsia, also called by a couple of other common names like blunt-lobed woodsia. Finding these little ferns, or the various mosses or even liverworts, brings you to a different perspective, like looking at tiny worlds existing in the shaded places in the preserve where moisture is not too scarce.
The grand old post oak designated as the Caddo oak, after the Caddo people who once lived in the area
I walked by the Caddo oak, a huge post oak designated as a historic tree by the Texas Historic Tree Coalition, and its crown is speckled with new green leaves, just as it has done every year for roughly 200 years.
Nearby, I watched a medium to large bird sail through trees and across a part of the north prairie, disappearing into understory and trees to the west. I immediately thought of the northern harrier, a graceful hawk that tends to hunt on the wing, flying low and listening for rodent movement. This bird had the right shape and the kind of flight I would expect with a harrier, and I saw that this brownish bird had some white markings but I could not spot the white band that should go across the base of the tail. So I just don’t know. I noticed that Brent Franklin saw one here at the preserve in 2018, which helps make it plausible, but of course doesn’t confirm my observation today.
Mourning doves
Walking around the blue loop, I saw a couple of mourning doves near the boulder trail. They were behind a sort of thicket and did not seem perturbed by me and my camera about twenty feet away. They were probably foraging for seeds along the ground.
Texas spiny lizard, watching me carefully
On the way down the south-facing hill, glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye. It turned out to be reflected off the back of a male Texas spiny lizard clinging to a small tree trunk. He eyed me in that way that these common lizards do, making his best guess about whether to remain motionless and hopefully unseen, or quickly scurry around to the other side of the trunk. After I took a photo as I moved around him slowly and hoped not to scare him, he quickly scooted around the trunk and out of sight.
It was certainly a walk full of wonderful things today. Everywhere I went there was butterfly and moth activity, either more of the mournful thyris moths or else goatweed leafwings, sulphurs, or a swallowtail or two. And the southern dewberries are blooming with those beautiful white flowers.
Southern dewberry, which will feed birds and other wildlife later in the year
I shared part of a weirdly warm winter afternoon at Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve with a wading bird who was hunting fish in the pond. As usual, on the way to the pond I found strange and beautiful shapes in the winter grasses and forbs*.
Winter highlights some of the graceful and interesting shapes that we can find in plants. For example, the leaves of switchgrass remind me of curled ribbons. Many of them arc downward in graceful twists. The Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center describes switchgrass as one of the primary native grasses of the tallgrass prairie, growing an amazing three to ten feet. You can get a sense of that at Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge. There are places within the demonstration prairie where the fine, slender seedheads of switchgrass tower overhead.
Curling leaves of switchgrass
I also saw one of the Mexican buckeyes that grows on the preserve. The trees are typically small and are recognizable in winter by their clusters of big, three-lobed seed pods. By now the pods have cracked and the toxic seeds the size of small marbles are still inside. Parts of the plant may be toxic, but the clusters of pink flowers that will emerge in a month or so are beautiful.
Seed pods of Mexican buckeye
It is a short walk to the south pond, but these things hijack my attention and so the walk takes some time – and it is time well-spent.
The great egret was wading the pond when I arrived, searching in the water for small fish or the bigger invertebrates that live there. Spotting me, he (or she) flew a little further away and continued his fishing. What an amazing bird! The great egret spends time in shallow water, mud, and algae while remaining white as snow. The bird moves forward in the most deliberate, stealthy way, with those yellow eyes watching and a bill like a long, yellow dagger ready to stab into the water, propelled by an impossibly long neck.
Great egret with a sunfish held in its bill
Sometimes the egret was motionless, a bright white ghost seen through dried yellow and brown reeds and brush. And then he moved like an apparition, lifting one black leg and taking a step, and then the other, soundlessly gliding across the shallows. Without warning the yellow dagger stabbed into the water and brought out a small sunfish.
If you have noticed sunfish, you have seen that there is a dorsal fin on top of the fish, and that fin starts with a series of tough, sharp spines. When caught, that fin is pulled forward so that it is erect, hard and sharp. The fish itself is tall, not bullet-shaped, so that it is painful to imagine swallowing one. But that is what great egrets do.
There was a minute or so in which the bird’s neck twitched, perhaps as the fish struggled going down or as that long neck tried to shift the fish to a more comfortable position. I figured that the egret had been able to get the fish into a head-first position in its mouth, because any other way seemed so much more difficult.
The great egret
And then the egret resumed that patient, slow strategy of fishing, moving like a ghost into some emergent vegetation and remaining motionless.
It was time to walk up the hill to visit all the familiar spots, the oaks and “toothache” trees, the bee tree, and all the rest. At the base of the hill a mourning dove walked the trail and then flew up into a tree. He called that familiar, soft call: “oo-woo-oo” followed by “oo-oo.” The notes sound as though they might be made by an alto recorder, that wooden, flute-like instrument you hear in some baroque and renaissance music.
Mourning dove
The call is very musical and we usually hear it as lonely or mournful, and so the bird is called a “mourning” dove. If we heard those notes from a human voice, low and soft, dropping a little, most of us would hear some sadness and loss. That is how our brains are tuned to recognize emotion in voices, but it’s good to be aware that it reflects our brains, not a dove’s brain. Perhaps the bird is saying, “hey, let’s hang out together, maybe get a pizza.” We can still be moved by hearing mourning doves at sunset, imaging a lonely voice in the gathering darkness singing about the weight on its soul. I’m sure the doves don’t mind.
From the top of the hill, one trail threads past some boulders on its way down, and I sat for a while soaking in the low sunlight reflected off sandstone, bare trees, and dried grasses and forbs. I will miss this quality of light as spring arrives and the sun stays higher in the sky. I also noticed another smaller trail that disappeared under the trees and low juniper branches. And I imagined other lives in other bodies using that trail, the raccoons or the occasional fox or rabbit who wander this place, mostly when the people go home.
The little trail beneath the tree
I wonder what they think of the big people who share this space with them, who seem not to hunt, not to fear predators, but just move among the trees and prairie patches. Some jog, some walk their dogs (triggering wariness and fear among the animals that live here), and some go from flower to tree, from dragonfly to moss, stone to bird, as if they cannot get enough of this patch of creation. “Oh hi, rabbit – I see you watching me. Thank you for being part of this place.”
So that was another day wandering this little patch of creation for a while, having the privilege of sharing the pond with the egret and seeing some of the beautiful shapes and forms of plants in winter. It never becomes repetitive, and hopefully these words and photos convey some of that freshness and beauty.
* That word, “forb,” is not one that most of us easily recognize. Nature folks may know it, and certainly botanists would know it. According to Etymology World Online, forb comes from the Old Norse word “forbær”, which meant a fodder plant. Back then it referred to any of the plants used for animal feed, but later it came to mean a herbaceous plant other than grasses and sedges.
We had black-eyed peas and cornbread at my house today, like many people do on New Year’s Day. It’s supposed to bring luck, and we can use all the luck we can get in the coming year, so I’ll throw a bit of salt over my shoulder if it will help.
And after lunch I took a walk in a lucky place, a familiar place that I thought should be visited at the start of the year. Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve is clearly a lucky place. It escaped the bulldozer and remains a little fragment of the original oak woodlands and little prairie openings while everything around it has been scraped, paved, and built to become streets and houses. It’s a survivor. And it’s a talisman for all the people who have spent time there and become rejuvenated, charmed, educated about the living world, calmed, or inspired during their visit. So, to start the year off right, I made a loop to the north pond, up to the bluff, and back down the south side of the hill.
It felt somewhat warm but looked like winter. It was 72 degrees in the area, but long, gray clouds with filmy edges stretched across the sky, and the sun shone in a diffused way through part of them, like a light behind a thin cloth. This sky would have been a match for a winter day with temperatures in the 30s.
The shrinking north pond
The north pond has become smaller and more shrunken as the weeks have gone by with no rain. I skirted the water and climbed the hill behind it, and then sat for a little.
Sitting looking south toward the pond
After that, I walked eastward along the north prairie. On that walk at the edge of the woodland, honeysuckle was beginning to bloom. And really, how can you blame the honeysuckle for such a crazy thing, when we’ve been breaking records for warmth. So the preserve can be forgiven for sending out mixed signals like this. I also noticed a very small bird nest from last year, now plainly exposed in a low branch after the leaves have dropped. I hope it brought the birds good luck.
I climbed up to the bluff, where there is a spot nearby that is great for sitting, writing, or just being there. As I sat, pulses of breeze came through, a whoosh of air or hiss in the branches and a papery rattle as the breeze scattered a few leaves on the ground. And a butterfly blew in, a painted lady (or maybe American lady) that landed about eight feet away and rested briefly before taking flight on the wind.
Comanche harvester ants
More insects were busy today, like the bees coming into and out of the bee tree. Maybe they found the blooms of honeysuckle, or maybe they were bringing water from the pond back to the hive. The colony of Comanche harvester ants was clearing another opening at trailside and maybe searching for a few more seeds.
Path curving around the hillside
My walk lasted just over an hour, but it was enough. Now 2026 is off on the right footing, with a little time in nature along with that southern tradition of black-eyed peas and cornbread. May we all have a good, healthy, peaceful year in the coming months. It’s not too late for a walk at the preserve, and you can come by for some peas.
Tandy Hills Natural Area is over 200 acres of prairie in east Fort Worth. In spring there are beautiful wildflower meadows at the top of a ridge, and then the prairie drops down toward the Trinity River (on the other side of Interstate 30) to the north. The whole area has stands of oaks and other trees, with many of the ravines having thick stands of juniper.
The Fort Worth skyline seen from the Tandy Hills prairie
I paid Tandy Hills an overdue visit today. It had been a while, and I missed this lovely place. When I wrote Mindfulness in Texas Nature I wanted to wrap up the purpose and the message of the book in an epilogue, and a late winter visit to Tandy Hills was just right. Its significance was that it is a survivor in spite of everything, and it offers small and humble but beautiful gifts like the annual appearance of trout lilies. Its resilience and the broad support it receives gave me reason to hope for a renewal of connection between humans and nature.
I talked about it as an island of nature that was under constant pressure by the surrounding city. The city has done many things right, from buying the property to the support of the parks department. What I meant was that it absorbs the impact of a lot of human visitation, including prohibited motorized vehicles (for example, I saw motorcycle tracks in a muddy spot today) and certain commercial photographers who cynically treat it as a backdrop while trampling the area. Its boundaries do not shut out the nearby highway noise, and invasive plants – especially privet – are constantly trying to make inroads, choking out the native species.
Tandy Hills Natural Area is looked after by a devoted group, the Friends of Tandy Hills, who work with the city to battle invasive plants, manage and improve trails, catalogue the over 2,000 species of plants, animals, and other organisms, and offer programs to the public.
The prairies are beautiful, and they remind me of the places I explored at the western edges of Fort Worth as a kid. Thin, dark soil over white limestone, and a treasure trove of grasses and other plants: little bluestem, Indiangrass, eryngo, basket flower, gayfeather, and many others. And even at this time of year, in their dormant state, they amaze me. There are the subtle colors as well as the beautiful shapes of flowers and seeds.
basketflowerlittle bluestemLiatris or gayfeatherLiatris – detail
This was one of those days when the weather is unusually warm, and I go for walks in a t-shirt and enjoy the bright blazing sun when it is low in the sky and makes everything just a little bit warmer in color without the walk itself being overly hot. A few grasshoppers hopped and flew away and several dragonflies hovered and darted around. The prairie changes in each season, and much of it may become dormant in winter, but it is never quiet for long.
Thank you to the prairies, oaks, and junipers. And thank you to the people who keep this place as natural and undamaged as it can be.
Yesterday we found several golden orange jack o’ lanterns in the woods, though it’s been a month since Halloween. There were no carved faces, just smooth clumps of orange. My young friend was delighted to find all these mushrooms, just as he was with all the mosses growing in the woodlands. And I was, in turn, delighted to watch his excited discovery of these small wonders.
Southern Jack o’ Lanterns
The “southern jack o’ lantern” is a large mushroom that grows from wood, often in clusters at a fallen tree limb or at the base of a tree. They’re common from summer through autumn at Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve, which is where we were. It has been very dry from late summer through much of autumn, but now that rains have come, orange mushrooms are popping up.
A Missouri Department of Conservation website says that the southern jack o’ lantern is bioluminescent, so that “the gills of fresh specimens may sometimes give off a faint greenish glow at night or in a darkened room.” It would be fun to return at night and see if we could observe that.
A big cluster of jack o’ lanterns that Logan found and photographed
We are used to seeing a plant or animal that we can point to, whose body or structure is gathered together in one place as one “thing.” However, with fungi it’s more complicated. For much of the year, the jack o’ lantern is a network of tiny filaments and threads running through soil and decaying wood – the mycelium. If I said, “show me a jack o’ lantern,” you would have to dig in the soil or turn over a rotting log to find those little fungal threads and say, “well, there’s part of one.” The mushroom itself is just the reproductive structure, producing spores that are almost (not quite) like seeds that will grow tissues that will become a new fungus. So a mushroom is a little like a flower – the part that catches our attention but is only the reproductive part of a larger organism.
Logan takes a closer look at a jack o’ lantern
Logan wanted to know if it was edible, so I looked it up using iNaturalist and found that it is poisonous. Not like a death cap mushroom that might be fatal, but the jack o’ lantern would give you the sort of upset stomach that one website said might “make you wish you were dead.” Definitely a mushroom to admire just where it is.
The other thing that really captured Logan’s imagination were the mosses. These little soft, green mounds growing along the ground in protected places can bring many of us into miniature worlds, sitting beside a butterfly and drinking from an acorn cup. They are plants, but without true roots and without the little tubes (vascular tissue) that flowers and trees use to move fluid and sap around. And so they must grow in short, compact mats or mounds. In shady places, an oak tree may grow a garden of moss along one of its bigger branches or at the base of the trunk. At the preserve, the sandstone at the bluff can also provide good growing conditions. The porous rock can hold moisture and is easy for moss to anchor itself to.
Mosses can survive periods of drought to an amazing degree, seeming to spring back to life after a rain. At the top of the preserve there are many partially-shaded places where mosses grow. In the heat of summer, especially when it is quite dry, they become dark green crusts along the rocks, waiting for rain. Then, the plant’s cells fill with fluid and they become green and springy.
Another small growing thing that can produce a sort of miniature garden is lichen. Dead oak branches provide a great substrate for lichen to grow, either as the greenish- or bluish-gray foliose lichens that cover the surface in a ruffled coating, or else as little shrub-like fruticose lichens. One of the latter, the golden-eye lichen, is a favorite of mine.
Lichens are not plants. They are partnerships between two things. Not just a fungus, and not just an alga, but the two things fused together (or sometimes a fungus and a cyanobacterium). The fungus provides a structure and anchors the partners to a rock, a branch of wood, or other suitable place. The algae provide a means to manufacture food via photosynthesis. Together, they can survive sun, drought, freezing, and keep on going.
Several forms of lichen growing on a twig
Regardless of the biological details, these living things add wonder to a walk in the woods. To pause and get on the same level as a moss or mushroom shifts our focus from the everyday world down to a small scale and we see everything in new ways. The details of leaves and the texture of moss, or drops of dew like tiny crystal orbs on the strands of a spider’s web, these things can transport our imagination to new places. It was wonderful to watch Logan find each new patch of moss and each new mushroom with that sense of delight. It was a little like what I see when I take my granddaughter to such places; the emotion and fascination isn’t tied to a particular age (you might see it in me if we took a walk together).
Experiencing nature in this way with children is just the best. It can be a window back into our own childhood, or the childhood we would wish for our younger selves or for others. It is also a hopeful sign for our future, that children can still find magic and connection in nature. And if they carry that forward, we might protect wild places and heal some of the Earth’s hurts.
I visited Sheri Capehart Nature Preserve today, much as I have for the past ten years. I followed the trail to the sandstone ridge at the top of “Kennedale Mountain,” walked around the hill and down the boulder trail and back to the west. Despite one recent rain, it is dry at the preserve and many of the plants are drooping. On some sumacs, the leaves are giving up and becoming dark and shriveled. Some others are turning colors and autumn has barely begun. I suppose it reflects the stress of recent hot and dry conditions. Soon, the rest of the sumacs will turn bright red and orange, if they can hold out until the days get a little shorter and the temperature cooler.
Sumac leaves turning red
As I walked, a medium-sized moth flew across the trail in front of me and landed on an oak’s trunk. I was able to get a photo of this slightly fuzzy delta of moth beauty, and then it flew away. Those wings near the head were frosted gray with vague scalloping black lines and then irregular bands of darker color, then a brown band and alternating colors like soft squiggles. Finally there were dark/light dots – one above each scallop of the wing’s edge, with a pattern like tiny feathers. There were a couple of warm reddish-brown spots at the edge of an arc of dark color, symmetrical on each wing. The subtle patterns and colors were beautiful.
The iNaturalist app identified this as a “Sad Underwing,” with the scientific name Catocala maestosa. The genus (Catocala) means essentially “beautiful below” and the species (maestosa) is a reference to “majestic.” The underwing moths have hindwings of a contrasting and often beautiful color, thus “beautiful below.” Those hindwings are covered by the forewings when the moth is resting, and that explains the “underwing” part of the name.
The Sad Underwing
Many underwings have splashes of orange or pink color in those hind wings, which might startle a predator when the moth suddenly takes flight. But this species, the sad one, has hind wings that are very dark brown to nearly black. Some sources suggest that this is the reason for the “sad” in the name, either that the darkness reflects something sad or perhaps that being deprived of color is a reason for sadness. The moth had no comment about it.
From what I can see, the larva – this moth’s caterpillar – is even more camouflaged than the adult, mottled brown and gray to look like tree bark. Multiple sources say that the caterpillar feeds on three tree species: Water Hickory, Pecan, and Black Walnut. The moth is found from eastern Canada down through roughly the eastern half of the U.S., including Texas. NatureServe says that it is found in woodlands and river floodplains.
Walks through this and other parts of the Cross Timbers are often like this. Some small treasure crosses your path somewhere, a moth or bird or flower with a fascinating life story and a beauty that you discover by staying with it for a minute, looking closely, and wondering about it. I have probably walked by underwing moths before and missed all this. I’m very glad I noticed this one today.
With one more week of summer, I wanted to walk in the LBJ National Grasslands. Summers there can get really hot; I will never forget a midsummer walk years ago in these grasslands. I was out with some herpetological society members on a day when the temperature was supposed to be more moderate, and everyone was probably on the verge of heat exhaustion. At least one member was feeling faint, and we made our way back to the cars by walking from one patch of shade to the next.
This day at the grasslands would get no hotter than the mid-90s. That’s how warm it was at 2:00pm when I arrived at a trail taking me into open fields and oak woodlands. There were patches of prairie dominated by Wooly Croton, a slightly fuzzy plant whose seeds are sought by doves, among other birds. And so, another common name for it is Doveweed. It is also a host for caterpillars of a beautiful butterfly with the strange name Goatweed Leafwing. Accordingly, another name for this plant is Goatweed. All those names can get confusing (it’s also called Hogwort by some) but the names tell interesting stories. In other areas, Western Ragweed was common. Allergy sufferers may wince at the mention of this plant, but consider the scientific name of its genus: Ambrosia. It may not literally be the food of the gods as the name suggests, but if you crush a leaf between your fingers, the smell is wonderfully aromatic.
Wooly Croton in the foreground, with Little Bluestem too the right and further back
There are plenty of native grasses, including Little Bluestem, which is easy to recognize because its blue-green stalks with pale smears of magenta stand so straight and tall. Today, some patches were shoulder to head high, giving a particular color and texture to some parts of the prairie. Switchgrass is common in areas that get a little wetter, growing in big green clumps.
The land gently rises and falls, with swales and ridges that are a part of the natural shape of the earth. In most places, the soil is very sandy and erodes easily. It is not unusual to come across a spot where the ground suddenly drops into a gully or maybe a spot where rainfall gathers into a little pond. In other places, humans built embankments years ago that created ponds either for cattle or to slow the runoff and conserve soil.
At the fork in the trail, I turned and followed the bare sand and clay track to the north, through stands of Post Oak and Eastern Redcedar and out into grassland openings, grateful for the breeze as well as for the bright sunshine. Along the trail were clumps of Bitterweed, with thin leaves and stems and bright yellow flowers. In each of those flowers, the central bowl-shaped disc is full of tiny yellow disc florets, and arranged around it are the ray florets (most of us are taught to call these structures the “petals”), each one scalloped at the edge. The plant is said to be bitter, so that if cattle must forage on them the cows produce bitter milk. But Bitterweed is a familiar and welcome sight to me, and I often find them blooming deep into winter.
Bitterweed
I sat in the shade of an oak and wrote for a bit and then decided to turn back. I became increasingly grateful for breeze, and thankful for the bright sunshine only in a more abstract sense. It’s true that it was a beautiful day, but the day was determined to show that it was still summer for another week. I found myself looking down the trail for the next spot of shade and heading for it. Perhaps my age is catching up with me, or perhaps it was poor judgment in choosing midafternoon to take this walk.
Down the road was the big pine grove in Unit 30 where people love to camp. And it is a wonderful place to sit and listen to breezes sifting through the crowns of those big Loblolly Pines. Not only that, it is dotted with a number of ponds with turtles and frogs. That made it a perfect place for me to sit beneath those trees, breathing the smell of pine trees and listening to breezes and birds. The grove is a good crow hangout, and I heard several. The identification app Merlin also heard Great Blue Heron and Northern Cardinal.
I walked to a spot near one of the ponds and sat beside a big pine tree and across from another. My camp stool rested on a mat of pine needles and dropped twigs that had accumulated over the years. At the water’s edge were the bent but mostly straight trunks of twelve to fifteen understory trees, and beyond was the water, brown from the sand and clay of the soil. On the surface of the water were mats of Floating Water Primrose and clumps of small reeds.
As I watched for the movement of a frog or turtle, I saw skimmer dragonflies dart this way and that. By now it was 4:20pm and the sun was getting lower and the slanting light more golden. Some insect trilled a steady “wrrrt-wrrrt-wrrrt” – almost but not quite like a gray treefrog. Occasional concentric ripples appeared in the water, maybe from fish or some invertebrate. Between the insect trills and the low, hushed sound of breeze in the pines it was very quiet.
It was peaceful here. The smell of pine needles, the lullabye of the breeze, ripples in the water, the sudden appearance of dragonflies; I was very lucky to be there for all of it. And while I’d like to share all of it, I am thankful for the solitude.
False Gaura on the ridge
At 6:00pm I had moved to a limestone ridge in Unit 71, with a clear view to the west. Here, the Leavenworth’s Eryngo adds some spikey purple to the landscape, and False Gaura is scattered around with flower clusters looking like popcorn waving in the breeze. During the next hour, the sun was obscured behind some clouds near the horizon and it began to feel like the day was ending. Although there were some distant noises, a pump somewhere, an occasional car or jet, it seemed very quiet. No sounds of birds or insects. In the blue sky to the south, a few wispy clouds were drawn out like a downy feather.
Leavenworth’s Eryngo
The sinking sun reached a point where it was behind some clouds, lighting them from behind so that they looked like islands and archipelagos in an orange sea. The ones several degrees up from the horizon were orange, while the ones just at the edge of land were dull red-orange.
Out of all this, I began to hear gunfire. Somewhere nearby, someone was shooting a rifle or shotgun. When visiting the grasslands, I understand that hunting is allowed with the restriction that only shotguns are allowed (not rifles, where stray bullets would be more dangerous) and shooting is not allowed near trails and campsites. I find bullet casings at the grasslands frequently, so I know that people who like to shoot may not care about the rules. And so, hearing gunfire is a real concern for me. I moved further south along the top of the ridge, and after a while I heard more gunfire – not very close, but not very far off. I sat on the other side of my car from where the sound seemed to be coming.
Forest Service land, including the National Grasslands, are supposed to accommodate various uses, including everything from logging and drilling to hunting and fishing. I understand that public lands cannot be reserved just for one kind of user such as birders or naturalists. However, some kinds of use pose no threat and little chance of degrading the land. Other uses could result in someone being shot or patches of habitat being bulldozed and potentially poisoned for gas and oil drilling. Maybe the “multiple-use sustained-yield” law that opens forests and grasslands to all these uses should have taken into account these different impacts on the land.
Hunters and gun owners might claim I was overreacting. I must acknowledge that the statewide hunting accident data in Texas for the past three years show one fatality each year and between 10 and 18 non-fatal accidents per year from 2022-2024, a lot of them while dove hunting (it is currently dove hunting season). Statistically, I’m safer at the grasslands than I am on Texas highways, where there were over four thousand fatalities last year.
At 7:25pm that orange, red, and blue sunset sea was more brilliant and well-defined. And every minute changed the view. The sun was now fully hidden, shining down between the cloud and the horizon like fire, glowing red-orange in the mists. Then the ball emerged below the cloud, reaching for the horizon.
Ten minutes later, a cool breeze came up, steady this time. With it, the beginning of a pulsing, buzzing insect song. The last burning ember of the sun disappeared at 7:37pm, leaving a brilliant sky. The edges of the clouds were left like burning scribbles, and closer to me the undersides of clouds were lit in gold. Even the tattered clouds overhead were lit up in yellow-orange. Just a bit later, looking back from the west the clouds were blue-gray brush strokes edged in pink and orange. The sky was deep blue overhead but pastel all the way around the horizon, perhaps from light pollution and haze.
Nearing 8:00pm, still not full dark, stars were not yet visible. The color had left most of the clouds and the ridge was quiet. Just as the summer was ending, the day also was coming to an end.
Yesterday I took a couple of friends to visit the LBJ National Grasslands (LBJNG). There was a little light rain as we walked around the pine trees and ponds, seeing a few frogs and toads. We wandered out onto the prairie at sunset, seeing some flowers that are a reminder, for a while, of the spring that has just passed. Some time ago, Kayla West and I led walks there regularly to introduce people to this amazing place, and we had a Facebook group for a while.
I’ve adapted some of what I wrote during that time, providing it here for those who may not have visited yet, to help you get acquainted and consider taking a walk there. You might also want to subscribe to Mary Curry’s blog, “Looking Out in North Texas,” in which she describes lots of ramblings in places like the National Grasslands and finding plants, fungi, mosses and lichens, and wildlife.
The LBJNG is located along the eastern edge of the Western Cross Timbers, which is an area where patches of prairie are mixed in with woodland (largely Post Oak and Blackjack Oak). You rarely walk very far in the oak woods without emerging into a little meadow or perhaps a large expanse of grassland. The grasses include Little Bluestem, Indiangrass, Switchgrass, and some other native species, some smaller ones like Sideoats Grama and big ones which, in some patches, stand above your head.
A prairie in Unit 71 with an oncoming afternoon storm
The soil and rock beneath it is largely Antlers Sand with some Walnut and Goodland formation limestone and clay (see “Geology of Wise County, Texas“). These geological features are from the Cretaceous period (roughly 145-65 million years ago). Walking the trails of LBJ National Grasslands, you come into contact with reddish sand and clay, or along ridges in southern units there is limestone filled with fossil oysters.
A winter view of Black Creek Lake
The grasslands are dotted with many small ponds, and many were created by people with the aim of reducing runoff and soil erosion as well as providing water for cattle. There are also several small lakes constructed for the same purpose as well as providing recreation. Those include Cottonwood Lake (about 40 acres in size), Black Creek Lake (about 30 acres), and Clear Lake (about 20 acres, with a small fishing pier).
In several spots within the grasslands there are areas dominated by Loblolly Pines. They are generally in areas of deep sand with one or more ponds and are popular with campers. Pine trees are not a typical part of the Cross Timbers plant communities, and we have been told by Forest Service staff that pine seedlings were brought to the area 40 or 50 years ago and planted. Today many of the trees have grown quite tall, and smaller trees and seedlings show that these pine groves are well-established and even expanding.
Pine grove in Unit 30
As delightful as the pine trees may be, there is nothing that compares with the prairies and their spring flowers or the native grasses in autumn, or the oak and juniper woodlands on a quiet autumn afternoon.
A spring meadow at LBJ National Grasslands
Visiting the Grasslands
From the Dallas-Fort Worth area, it’s a little drive to get there (somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 miles, depending). However, it’s one of the best nearby opportunities for some solitude and quiet that I know of, along with thousands of acres of oak woodlands, grasslands, and ponds.
Here is a basic map of the grasslands, showing the administrative units (in green), county roads, and many trails. A more detailed map of the major trails can be downloaded here.
Making Your Visit Great
Before you walk the trails out there, ask yourself, “What do I want to get from this visit?” and also ask, “How can I be open to what the LBJNG offers?” Perhaps you are looking for beauty. You might want to see wildlife – birds or butterflies, Armadillos, Tiger Beetles, or a beautiful Rough Green Snake masquerading as a vine in the shrubs. You could sit in a pine grove and listen to breezes whispering in the treetops. You might keep walking to see the endless ways that prairie grasses, Post Oaks and Junipers can appear as you explore around the next bend of the trail.
An Armadillo seen during a winter walk
It also is helpful to be open to what a particular visit may offer. Things might be different than you expected, and if you can be flexible you might find that different can still be rewarding. Another way of being open is to widen your attention beyond what you expected or planned to receive. Become quiet and still for at least part of your visit. Be aware of everything around you, noticing sounds, smells, the feel of sunlight, water, and soil. As much as you can, let thoughts and worries go (you cannot stop your brain from coming up with thoughts, but you don’t have to hold onto them and let them take over). Such a practice of mindfulness can be a great way to visit any place in nature.
Leave some room to reflect on what the experience meant to you and, now that you have some connection with the grasslands, what that connection means. For some people, the opportunity to be away from the “built” world of cities, towns and crowds is like being rescued from chaos and recovering for a while. For others, the multitude of living things is some reassurance of life’s – or a creator’s – benevolence and creativity. Some of us see the grasslands as a sort of sanctuary we can share, and at the same time a place that needs our care and support in order to survive in the world.
Even if the meaning of the grasslands is largely about a scientific list of species and their characteristics, I’d like to encourage you to write about it and draw things that catch your eye. I suggest carrying a notebook of some sort and stopping periodically to write and draw while you’re out there. This nature journaling will strengthen your memory of the day and give you a chance to reflect on what the place means to you.
Writing in a journal – in a session Kayla West and I taught at LBJNG
One way to write about your visit is to write a letter to the grasslands, as if the ponds, prairies and woodlands could read what you wrote. Maybe that sounds a little weird when you first consider it. However, when you write to somebody, you’re writing from within a relationship, and each person in the relationship has intentions and wishes to be considered. Kayla and I have led walks in which we suggested that participants write a “Dear Grasslands” letter, and the results were often personal and meaningful.
Taking Care of the Grasslands
All of us should take care that our visit does not harm the grasslands. We hope you’ll take a small bag with you to place any snack wrappers, disposable water bottles (get a non-disposable one!), or other trash so you can pack it out with you. And be very careful with fire, if you make a campfire. The Forest Service occasionally does prescribed burns to maintain the ecosystem, but the time and place of such burns are carefully planned. Clear the area around your fire and make sure there are no branches or shrubs close by – including above the fire. Then stay with the fire until every spark is out.
I hope you will leave things the way you found them. There is a role for legal hunting and fishing (especially for food) and scientific collection, and I think there’s no harm in taking a few samples of things like leaves, acorns, or empty mussel or snail shells.
Taking Care of Yourself
There are few dangers to worry about at LBJNG. Nevertheless, please pay careful attention to the following hazards:
Dehydration and heat illness. It is very easy to forget water at the start of a walk when you’re not thirsty. Please bring water with you, even on a winter walk. Additionally, in summer you can get overheated and dehydrated very easily. Read up on heat exhaustion, heat stroke and sunburn and bring water, a hat, and sunscreen.
Guns and archery equipment. People may be hunting in the area. For guns, the Forest Service rule is black powder hunting only, because buckshot is less likely than a bullet to travel far and injure someone at a greater distance. However, be aware that not everyone follows this rule (you occasionally find bullet casings). The Forest Service also forbids hunting in developed areas like campsites and within 150 yards of hiking/equestrian trails, but not all hunters know this. Hunters are, in most situations, required to wear fluorescent orange to make accidents less likely, and hikers are encouraged to do the same during hunting and archery season. Information from Texas Parks & Wildlife Department about hunting seasons can be found here.
Plants. Depending on the area, Prickly Pear and other cacti may be common. Greenbrier is a thorny vine that is common especially in the woodlands. The stiff, pointed leaves of Yucca can also cause a puncture if you stumble into one. In places you will find Texas Bull Nettle, a plant covered with small stinging hairs. Another plant to be careful around is Poison Ivy, especially in woodland areas.
Wildlife. Most of the larger wildlife at LBJNG is no cause for fear. Coyotes live there, but you are more likely to hear them than to see them. If you see a coyote that stands its ground, especially in spring during pupping season, you should back away and leave the area. More information about interactions with coyotes can be found here. Feral pigs are seen in some areas, and while they usually run away, they are potentially dangerous. Avoid them, especially sows with young pigs. We should keep a respectful distance from wildlife, even deer. There are two species of venomous snakes that are common in suitable habitat within the grasslands. These are the Northern Cottonmouth (also called the water moccasin) and the Broad-banded Copperhead. Cottonmouths typically are seen near the bigger lakes and ponds. Through most of the year, copperheads are primarily active at night. If left alone both species will avoid interacting with people. Don’t put your hands under rocks or logs where one may be concealed, and watch your step. More information about these snakes can be found here.
Broad-banded Copperhead from the grasslands
I would love to hear your thoughts about this great place, especially if you visit after reading this article. After 25 years of visiting off-and-on, I believe there is always something to make each visit interesting and each walk a little gift of renewal of body and spirit.
Our Lives In Nature 
