I took a walk today in the woods at Wachusett Meadow, and, obviously, also in the meadows themselves. The summer woods are ^&** owned by mosquitoes. It was MOST impressive, and I relied heavily on and was satisfied by essentially rolling in bug repellent. It was as bad as I remember having been here in the frozen north. (You jest, but you ain't seen what it's like where it never freezes, and the wigglers have free rein.)
It proved to be a good day for it. Where the mosquitoes did not own the field, the fungi did, and that's always a good thing. And there were more than a few late wild flowers, such as the pure wild lily here (if it's an escaped cultivar, don't tell me, k? My illusions are precious to me). Also, the Indian Pipes were up, as were the wintergreen blossoms, which always surprise me -- every time I see them -- with how lovely they are, such little jewels that you have to bend all the way over to see properly, and even then you can't crouch long enough (the whine of mosquitoes increasing in intensity and spirit in both ears simultaneously) to really get
their benefit. In general, though, I believe that to earn the right to enjoy a place you have to see it out of season, or at least in all seasons. I was glad to put in my summer visit to Wachusett Meadow today, to hear the vireos and thrushes (hermit!) and the odd towhee that lives at the top of Brown's Hill with the odd accent. When I ate a blueberry (do NOT tell the people who run the joint, as I think that qualifies as collection) I ate one from a high bush and one from a low bush, and both (OK, six) were warm from the sunshine.
This is why the good lord made babysitters.