In the spirit of continuing our exploration of the Kettle Moraine, the productive summer of 2016 saw Ithi and myself out on the trails for yet another excursion, this one falling about a week after the previous. This hike was full of learning experiences and I added a few new species to my collection (and my mental repertoire!), which is enough to make any outing more than worthwhile to me; to top it off, the weather was nothing less than lovely, ensuring yet another perfect outing.

We began the day with our typical late-morning start at the Lime Kiln Trail, arriving a little before eleven. I had been interested in hiking this one because, after having been working in the Kettle Moraine for a year at that point, I hadn't heard a word spoken about it — not even the name. The trail is notable for featuring the Oleson log cabin, a restored two-story cabin built by Norwegian immigrant Ole Oleson for his family in 1846, as well as a large granite boulder kiln for which the trail is named, which was built by Norwegian settlers from the nearby Skoponong Settlement and was used to render lime into powder for use in a plethora of products. This trail intersects with several others, and we found it to be notably different from our previous hikes up to that point.

The trail begins at a small prairie opening surrounded by a deep green treeline. The Oleson cabin is situated straight ahead and to the right, dwarfed by a towering willow and colossal oaks beside it that shaded a portion of the path.

It was immediately apparent that this was a good time to observe wildflowers (both native and, unfortunately, invasive); the grassy expanse was dotted with color along the walkway, a delight for our eyes. We passed a patch of oxeye daisies (Leucanthemum vulgare), one of just a handful along the trail, observing with interest that they were practically overrun with insect visitors. A multitude of wasps, flies, and day-flying moths rested to feed on the surface of the flowers, which were so vividly bright that they seemed to be giving off their own light in the intense blazing of the sun.

The grassy habitat proved to be an excellent place for other insect watching, and we observed several species of dragonflies hunting and poised at rest.

As we neared the treeline beyond the cabin, an unfamiliar sound drifted down from overhead. Ithi and I lifted our gazes to search for the source of the clean, two-note whistling tip-peeeeee, quickly singling out the form of a raptor circling above. The distinct call alone was enough to later easily identify it as a broad-winged hawk, previously unfamiliar to me and my first photographed.

Despite the short distance from the trailhead to the forest's edge, we spent half an hour on the prairie enjoying the countless sights that nature had on offer for the day. As we took shelter under the shade, it was quickly apparent that this was a very different kind of forest than we had explored in other parts of the area. The dominant deciduous hardwoods that were typical on our other hikes gave way to tall conifers, filling the air with a heady, resinous fragrance and padding the trail with needles that made the going soft underfoot.

The new habitat hosted a new cast of characters as well. I had been told that red squirrels, practically exotic to me, preferred this type of forest, and we weren't in the woods long before we heard the rattling trill of their scolding calls off in the brush.

Unlike the deciduous woods with which we were more familiar, this evergreen wood seemed far quieter, not bustling with an abundance of songbirds as we might have expected elsewhere. While their absence was definitely a downside, the silence made for an unusually serene walk, almost surreal, which was pleasant in its own right.

As we hiked on, the path became almost stairlike, gaining a little altitude with each step. The character of the forest began to change, the conifers yielding their hold to broad-leaved trees. We stopped to admire an immense lichen- and moss-covered boulder that I took a fascination to, no doubt deposited there by a glacier countless years ago. Examining it close up, it almost appeared like the rise of some far-off scrubland mountain, covered in wiry junipers and with the last melting remnants of snow. It set my imagination alight, and I spent perhaps a little more than a reasonable amount of time appreciating it.

After over an hour on the trail (as always at our extraordinarily unhurried pace, allowing ample time to stop and both literally and figuratively smell the roses), we arrived at the titular lime kiln, a structure some ten feet deep, now largely overgrown and reclaimed by the forest. I admittedly found it to be among the least remarkable aspects of the trail.

As we investigated the area, the now-familiar two-note call of a broad-winged hawk sounded from above once more, and I was able to snap another shot, this time of a pair, through the canopy.

We stood for a time by the bench overlooking the kiln, listening to the denizens of the forest. We heard the strange, unearthly call of a veery from deep within the woods, and then a muffled, chilling quiet, soon marked by another sound. I had been paying so much attention to the distant veery that I didn't notice that the soundscape had been gradually building with far-away, rhythmic, echoing knocking. Not the knock of a woodpecker upon a tree or of distant construction. It was a strange, disembodied knocking, and when I noticed it, I began to realize it was coming from many different directions, joined gradually by more and more until it was the only noticeable sound.

So, what was the noise? Frogs? Some odd bird? After some post-hike investigation — and I want to point out now that this required substantial sifting through bigfoot websites, I'm talking like 75% of all results — I learned that this is an eastern chipmunk call, different from the high-pitched birdlike alarm squeak I was familiar with. Removing the mystery from it made it somewhat anticlimactic, but that chanting knock, rising up from an otherwise quiet backdrop, was mesmerizing nonetheless.

We had stood for several minutes, immersed in the sounds of the forest and simply enjoying our presence there, before we continued, unsure of quite where the end of the non-looping trail fell. The path appeared to continue on unofficially beyond the kiln, and we followed it for a minute or two, wondering whether this desire path might connect with the very nearby John Muir mountain biking trail system, before it tapered off into an unpassable tangle of undergrowth and we accepted that we should turn back.

As we began our backtrack, suddenly there was a melodious call from a few yards away. I knew it was one I'd heard recently, but couldn't place it — having studied calls online, I couldn't remember if I recognized it from a personal encounter or just from such browsing. I hazarded a guess that it was the call of a hooded warbler, which I had looked up recently hoping to hear one on the Scuppernong Springs Nature Trail. Ithi obliged and looked up the call on his phone, and it sounded similar, but it didn't sound quite right (that regional variation again!).

However, our nearby singer recognized it, and took action! After having spent several minutes unable to see this stationary singer, we were surprised to see him approach us directly, apparently offended by the rival's territorial call within his boundaries!

I excitedly urged Ithi to keep playing the call. The warbler's responses became more frequent and he circled us repeatedly, looking for the intruder, perching conspicuously in his righteous indignation.

We brought the phone lower to the ground, hoping to tempt him even closer to locate the culprit, until we were both squatting on the forest floor, Ithi laughing as he held his phone just above the dirt and me poised with my tripod, frenetically tracking the warbler as he darted from perch to perch.

Desperate for the perfect shot, I took many photos of him over the course of our deceptive ploy, which I'm a little ashamed to say lasted for some fifty minutes. Eventually, still lacking the perfect image, I relented and released the poor bird from our trickery, making peace with what I had been able to obtain. I like to think that the tenacious little warbler believed he had driven out the most persistent rival in the bird world, and had subsequently risen in rank with the ladies.

This little ruse proved to be a valuable learning experience, and we added it to the mental arsenal for future birding encounters as we continued on our way.

About half an hour later, we emerged from the treeline and found ourselves back on the prairie leading to the trailhead.

As we walked, we took in the many-hued palette of the forest-field boundary; the young foliage and mixture of conifer and broadleaf trees produced a rich array of greens that were a delight to my eyes, enhanced against the generous variety of yellows of the grasses and touches of purple here and there from blooming vetches.

We once again passed the Oleson cabin as we returned, and this time around I actually thought to take a picture of it as we did so.

After over three hours of slow wandering on the trail, we had made it back to the trailhead. We were in agreement that this would be a good point to stop and have lunch before continuing to the next destination on the docket. We had not predetermined a picnic spot as we planned the day, but figured it should be easy to find one in the vicinity of the nearby Whitewater Lake, a popular recreation area. We began cruising around in the hopes of scoping out a good spot when I noticed an intriguing-looking street on the map: Ridge Road, a long, narrow peninsular road jutting out into the lake.

We decided to check it out, dedicating a few minutes to exploring the interesting street, which was residential. The center is relatively high, dropping off steeply on either side such that some of the houses, although less than perhaps ten yards from the road, had roofs that barely, if at all, reached the level of the road; many had elaborate decks overlooking the lake. The setting as a whole had a slight fairytale feeling to it, and I was glad to have explored it.

As we continued our slow drive, we followed the northwestern shore of Whitewater Lake, Rice Lake to our north, and soon stumbled upon the Dr. O. R. Rice Memorial Picnic Area, a picturesque little spot on a small peninsula overlooking Rice Lake which did not appear on our map. Barely catching more than a glimpse of it as we passed by, I exclaimed victoriously, Ithi practically having to slam the breaks to make the turn into the parking lot.

We were the only people at the site. The small picnic area was beautiful, well-shaded, cozy and secluded. The tiny peninsula is dome-shaped, furnished with several picnic tables and grills in the middle and along the shoreline, so that even if other people had been there, the topography would isolate almost every table in its own hidden corner of the near-island. The tables offered a very pleasant view of the lake. Handsome homes along the opposite shoreline had docks on the water, and some of the lake edge was lined with eye-appealing stonework.

It was barely even a short walk from the car to the table we chose, which offered perhaps the best view of the lake of the handful that were available to chose from. After a few short minutes we were all set up and ready to eat, enjoying our simple sandwiches under the rustling canopy of the trees and admiring the tranquil setting around us. The strategic vantage point ensured no shortage of critters for us to observe as we ate, and we found ourselves lingering for some time well after having finished, just soaking in the sights and sounds and relaxing for a while.

We spent a few minutes wandering around the picnic area, me trying my best to locate the maker of an unfamiliar energetic call I had been hearing high up in the oaks overhanging our table. Calling back to our technologically-based solution from earlier in the day, Ithi recorded the song and played it back, and, to our amusement, the hidden singer began upping his ante, singing in longer and more frequent bursts, which we then also recorded and played back, resulting in further antics. Much like the hooded warbler had done previously, the mystery bird's response was accompanied by frantic darting from perch to perch, and despite the fact that it was quite high up in the canopy, I was at last able to snap a single, albeit poor, shot of the lower half, the rest obscured by leaves. That shot was enough to leave me with the contentment of capturing a new species, which I was later able to identify as a warbling vireo.

A few minutes later I spotted a single eastern kingbird resting on a twig overlooking the water. I snapped a few shots, but in an attempt to get it to turn to face my camera I whisked at it, producing the squeak to get its attention. My efforts were in vain, so I turned once again to Ithi, having proven himself in the past to possess some kind of bird magic. He powerwhisked loudly and the bird immediately turned towards us.

We had managed to linger for quite some time, reluctant to leave the idyllic little spot, our stay spanning nearly two hours by the time we had everything loaded back into the car and resumed our adventure. From there, we made our way to the Rice Lake Nature Trail, located a short drive away on the other side of Rice Lake from where we had eaten our lunch. Just a few minutes later, we were on the trail, ready to embark on the short third-of-a-mile hike.

I had heard from numerous coworkers that Rice Lake Nature Trail was not as nicely maintained as the others, and was curious if it would live up to that reputation. Initially I was in disagreement, but as we continued it was apparent what inspired such comments. At times, the trail was so close to the water's edge that the buffer ground between it and the lake had eroded away, forcing us to walk on the very edge of the land, hoping that the muddy bank would not collapse under our feet, leaning over the water to avoid the trees (and at times trusting to grip them for support so as to not fall in, camera in tow...). It was, however, still a beautiful trail, surrounding a small portion of Rice Lake that is separated from the majority by a minuscule strait.

The water was still and serene. Perhaps our being there in the evening had something to do with it, but I couldn't help but feel as though it was rather lacking in animal life; had this body of water been in Texas, I thought, it would be teeming with herons, coots, nutria and other lake creatures. As it stood, virtually all we saw were a few dragonflies and damselflies, although we did hear the occasional banjo twang of male green frogs.

The small strait connecting the two sections of the lake was crossed by a narrow wooden bridge. We heard quite a few green frogs calling here, unseen but no doubt floating in inconspicuous spots on the water's surface, concealed by floating algae and other pond flora.

It was at this point that we somehow managed to lose the trail. We found ourselves suddenly in a small picnic area beside the road, confused, as the trail was supposed to loop! Ithi suggested walking along the road back to the trailhead, which was very close, and taking it in the other direction to see where we went wrong. I made the best of the roadside walk, taking in the variety of plant life as we went.

We arrived once again at the trailhead and turned clockwise this time, soon reconnecting with the bridge where we had become disoriented before. We quickly realized that when walking the trail counter-clockwise as we had initially, the turn is so inconspicuous that we had missed it outright — perhaps something we could attribute to the less-than-stellar maintenance of the pathway, but probably the result of some amount of user error as well. We followed it back to the trailhead once more and returned to the car.

Despite the hiccup, we both thoroughly enjoyed the trail, which made for a wonderful ending to yet another excellent day of excursion in the Kettle Moraine. With our initial exploration of another two trails checked off our list, we looked forward to whatever the next adventure might bring, knowing that we would be back soon for more, be it new or familiar.