Like many middle-aged married couples, Consolidated Cooperative members Bruce and Karen Beck of Mount Gilead enjoy long, leisurely bike rides together. Their rides, however, are a little longer than most — the last one covered 6,500 miles and took four months to complete. They have another such ride scheduled later this year.
When billowing clouds of steam begin rising from family sugar bush operations that dot the landscape this time of year, you know two things: Winter’s grip is finally beginning to ease a bit, and underneath all that steam is one of the tastiest treats there is.
Poured over pancakes or drizzled over ice cream, there is no better seasonal treat than pure Ohio maple syrup, and Geauga County produces more of the stuff than any other county in the state. The two main reasons: many mature sugar maple trees and many Amish farms — most of which operate a sugar bush.
When I was a kid, my mother couldn’t keep me indoors. I was constantly roaming the woods and fields near our home, dragging back sick and injured wildlife — probably to the animal’s detriment. But the day Mom drew the line (“No more critters!”) was the day she saw me coming down the road with a live great blue heron under my arm. The 4-foot bird with the dagger-like beak was nearly as tall as I was.
On Thanksgiving Day 2017, an uninvited guest arrived at an Amish farm just a few miles north of Berlin, Ohio — and decided to stay. It was a young snowy owl, and the bird hung around for several weeks, perching atop the peaks of Orris Wengerd’s several barns. It quickly became a celebrity, attracting hundreds of birders and photographers.
If you have a concern for wildlife, it’s easy to get caught up in the plight of current endangered and threatened species — so much so that we sometimes forget to celebrate the victories of those species that have stepped back from the brink of extinction or extirpation.
The return of soaring bald eagles to the skies of Ohio and to the nation as a whole is definitely one of those victories.
Not many people get excited upon seeing a rat, at least, not in a positive way. But there is a group of folks in southern Ohio who go absolutely giddy when spotting one. They are wildlife researchers, and the object of their ardor is the Allegheny woodrat, a state-endangered species.
I had the opportunity to tag along with this group of dedicated wildlife biologists on a perfect early-fall day. The prior evening, they had set more than 50 live traps in a steep, heavily wooded valley in the sprawling Edge of Appalachia preserve in Adams County, near the Ohio River.
North America’s prairies once stretched from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains east into western Ohio, a staggering 1 million square miles or more of native grasslands that covered a third to nearly half of our country.
But what took millennia to develop disappeared in only half a century. The transformation began in 1833, when John Lane Sr. created the polished-steel, self-scouring plow, which could penetrate heavy prairie soils. A fellow blacksmith then improved upon Lane’s original design and marketed the new plow aggressively. That second blacksmith was John Deere.
What is it that attracts us to lighthouses? Could it be their immovable stability in an ever-changing world? Mute guides to somehow show us the way, much as they do for wayward sailors?
Whatever the reason, people have been visiting the Marblehead Lighthouse on Lake Erie at the mouth of Sandusky Bay for nearly two centuries, ever since its construction in 1821. It’s the oldest lighthouse in continuous service anywhere on the Great Lakes.
A journey into America's 18th-century eastern frontier
Where others see modern-day cities, he sees ancient Indian villages. Where others see today’s crop fields, he sees vast virgin forests. In short, Robert Griffing sees Ohio as it was long before it ever became a state. He also sees — and paints — the Native American people who lived here more than 250 years ago.
