New Hampshire Outside

The Cortland and the Castor Canadensis

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 10:16:31 -0500

Two months ago, if you were sitting on the patio overlooking my gardens, you would have had to peer in and around the canopy of apple trees to see the old piece of hand-painted barn board hanging from the wisteria-laden arbor. Barely legible, it read “Beaver Brook” with a darling silhouette of its namesake.

Beaver Brook rises in Chester and flows south 30.7 miles, passing through several small ponds and lakes. The brook forms the boundary between Londonderry and Windham, then flows through my backyard in Pelham. Eventually the brook crosses into Massachusetts and flows into the Merrimack River in Lowell.

Our property (and the house my husband grew up in) sits up quite high from the brook, but every now and then you can hear the mallards down below. If you are quiet enough and can ease your way down the steep, sandy embankment, you may get to see the turtles sunning themselves on fallen birches.

In September we were preparing to go off for a long weekend. As we looked around the yard to make sure we had taken care of everything before we left, we remembered the apples. For the first time in seven years, we had apples on our Cortland tree (though the McIntosh was looking sickly as it always does this time of year).

The Cortland, however, had never looked so good and showed no sign of disease, nor did the apples hanging from her branches. We ran off for the ladder, so we could pick them before “something happened to them.” Happy with our harvest, my husband and I packed our things and our three dogs, and set out to enjoy the Maine coast for three days.

After returning we performed our standard ritual of walking the gardens, checking in on the koi pond and the greenhouse. As we rounded the fence enclosing the vegetable garden, we were stopped in our tracks.

Oh no! Someone had come into the yard, cut the fruit-laden lower branches off one of the dwarf trees, and hauled them off. Horrified, I thought, “Who would do such a thing?”

I looked around frantically to see if anything else had been damaged. As my husband stood there trying to rationalize why someone would do this, I let out a scream. “Over here! Over here!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Our Cortland, although still standing, had its thick trunk whittled to a slender waist. Strewn about the lawn, chips of what used to be the tree’s trunk gave a clue. This was no human vandal, but a Castor canadensis and its large sharp teeth! Beavers (Castor canadensis) are the largest rodents in North America. They live in rivers, streams, ponds, lakes, or other wetland areas. They feed on a variety of vegetation, but the outer bark and cambium layers of fast-growing tree species such as alder, willow, aspen, and birch make up their principal diet. During the summer they eat herbaceous aquatic plants such as sedges and cattails.

They increase their tree-cutting during the fall to build up their food supply for the winter months, anchoring branches on the river bottom or bank near their lodges. Although there are many suggested ways to protect trees from beaver damage, not all have proven successful.

Looking for signs of entry, we walked the fence around our two acres, while my husband reminisced of his childhood here on the brook. He’d seen everything from great blue herons to great floods, but never a beaver.

Finally we headed towards the potting shed, which sits at the very edge of the steep embankment leading down to the brook. An old wrought iron bed rail, until now, had made do as a gate, to hold back an unwary visitor or a curious dog from the steep drop. But it didn’t keep the beavers out; the disturbed leaf litter leading down to the brook was the telltale sign they had been very busy hauling branches under the rail.

So today I was sitting on my patio. The Beaver Brook sign, still barely legible, but now clearly visible, swayed in the autumn breeze. The sunlight danced off the four-foot-high metal skirts that now adorn the remaining fruit trees. When I closed my eyes I could still see the shadow cast by the Cortland tree.

We decided not to cut down the Cortland completely, but to leave about four feet of trunk as witness to the story to be told. I will nurse the McIntosh back to good health, and I think one day I’ll give that old sign a new coat of paint. And maybe a stone Castor canadensis will find a home here.

By Cheryl Cravino, Master Gardener

Photo credit: Cheryl Cravino

Adventures in the Yard

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 09:04:17 -0500

I'd seen the lot before they built my new home and liked what I saw. But when I moved in during the spring of 2005, most of the trees I’d seen had been hauled away by the men who cleared the lot.

They'd attacked the soil around the house with bulldozers and backhoes and mixed it thoroughly with the rocks that lurk just below the surface in New Hampshire. What they'd left was mostly stumps and a burn pile.

As May approached and the house was finished, things started turning green. Most of the green was furnished by the trees remaining in the perimeter. Most of them seemed healthy except for a few minor scrapes where the backhoe operator had bumped them.

As in any stand of second-growth trees, many were devoid of limbs for the first 30 feet or so. One strange phenomenon I found kind of scary was how much they moved in the wind, bending easily because of the unnatural perimeter created by clear-cutting the lot. The birches, poplars, and scrub oaks would sway, knocking dead branches from the pines. After every storm, I'd have to go out and clean up the debris.

Many of the small pines and hemlocks died at the top and I had them removed for aesthetic reasons. A number of paper birches grew brittle and snapped off at the base or bent their heads to the ground in grotesque ways.

So, the paper birches have given way to green ash and some other underbrush as yet unidentified. I've replaced some of the unidentified underbrush with my annual plantings. Since I’m in charge, I get to make the life-or-death decisions.

Since arriving, I've used grass as a temporary filler. The grass grows sparse and spotty. It yields to dandelions and other broad-leafed plants instead of aggressively filling in all the space. Expensive grass varieties requiring exotic fertilizers seem to falter, while crabgrass and other clumps of coarse un-named grasses flourish. After years of grass warfare, I've given up trying to have even a small piece of perfect lawn.

The first spring and summer seasons I put in some trees and shrubs around the perimeter: Norway spruce, dogwoods, crabapples, mountain ash and bayberry bushes from the state forest nursery. They survived and are now well established, all pleasing to the eye and critter-friendly.

I've continued that practice with several other species each spring, adding rugosa rose, Scotch pine and shadbush to the edges. Once the edges were established I began creating non-grass islands of dogwoods and crabapples, surrounded by groundcover plants such as pachysandra, vinca and sedum.

Two of the remaining large trees have become my favorites. One is a stately red oak that stands near my driveway and greets me as I turn in and head for the garage. In the winter it stands starkly against the sky with some of its leaves waving forlornly. When spring arrives, it jumps into action. Blooms and leaves burst from its vast array of limbs that extend some 50 feet in the air and spread some 20 feet each side of the trunk.

The other is a large ash in the back corner of my property. It was already dying when I moved in and has continued the process. The top was lost to a wind storm. The remaining 40 feet began the decay process that eventually happens to older, damaged trees if left in place long enough.

First the bark loosens and insects find their way under it. Then the woodpeckers arrive, hammering away at the bark and the layer below to get at the insects. Their pecking has progressed from the top of the trunk to the base of the tree. A pile of chips has accumulated at the base of the tree, while much of the bark has completely disappeared. In some places the wounds on the trunk are several inches deep.

Though I've I enjoyed watching the process, I'm concerned the tree has become a hazard. It will have to come down. Maybe I will have my son-in-law take his chain saw, cut it into bite-size pieces and serve it up to the woodpeckers a piece at a time.

Meanwhile, the crabapples, dogwoods and elderberries are becoming major stars in my yard. Not only are they pretty, the birds simply love the fruit they produce. The tasty elderberries aren’t just for the birds. I get the best of the crop for jelly and the birds get the rest.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

Turning and Falling

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 11:38:07 -0500

Here we are again at the turn of another season. For me this a major point of the year; the harvests are in and the corn fields are stubble, haunted by mice and their kin.

Now I prize the rare days of October’s bright blue weather, a gift worth sapphires. More accurately, they are days of rubies and topaz, citrines and garnets strewn across the hills. I revel in the days of golden sun and towering white clouds soaring over New Hampshire’s mountains are the days brimming with life, and their brevity is a reminder to enjoy it while we can. Wring out the gusto!

It’s true that every lake and pond has a frame of reds, oranges and gold to bronze. Quiet summer days are gone. Blustery days bring whitecaps riding on the larger lakes, but there are those few still mornings when the colors are doubled at the water’s edge. Paddling quietly, moving on the water’s surface, I can cross reflections that disappear as I come to them, beckoning me on like a mirage in the desert.

But the mountains are where autumn’s treasure is on full display. Miles of roads and trails wind through our White Mountains to give unparalleled views over thousands of acres of color and an incredible variety of textures and topographies. I love to move through the deciduous forests from the bright softness of comparatively lush growth to the more austere, rocky slopes.

In these mountains every trail is cut by streams, clear water running from the rocks, seeping or leaping as it obeys gravity and finds its way down the slopes. The sounds of water offer a counterpoint to the rustle of leaves.

As I gain height the evergreens become more prevalent. The breeze has a more whispered voice. Shade holds a chill, but in the sunshine warmth melts through my jacket, sinking into my body. On such a sunny, slightly damp day, I climb higher still, where the balsams fur the rocky slopes, to enjoy the incomparable scent of balsam riding on the cool breeze.

I turn and look out to the northwest to the huge U-shaped valleys where once glaciers hung above like solid clouds and rivers of glacial silt scoured the land. I try to imagine it. I close my eyes and feel the cold wind, chill from the mile-high ice blowing past me. I open them again and it is our own bright and bold October in the mountains.

The views out over some of the glacier-carved valleys give a tempting idea of what the hawks and eagles see as they ride the thermals up the mountainsides. A huge bowl of brilliance, hemmed in by the old worn mountains of New Hampshire’s ranges.

I see how the colors follow ridges and valleys and notice the flaring scarlet of the swamp maples clustering where their roots trail into the dampest soils. Following the jewel-box of deciduous colors trailing up into the dark, spiky evergreens, I see how the evergreens infiltrate the gray of bedrock and talus slopes. I long for wings.

Previews of November’s bleak days come at the very tops of windward slopes where October’s gales have already scoured away the leaves on the few dwarfed hardwoods. Even the hardy evergreens are bent and stunted, edging rock outcrops worn as smooth as pavement.

Still, even in the grey of old rock, I sometimes find an echo of autumn’s colors, a hint of deep red, where actual garnets lie in the stone. I retreat quickly back to the next lower level patting the balsam needles as I pass, hoping to keep their fragrance lingering with me at least until I get home.

These October days of gold and garnet will be my treasure box in winter; one that I will open when the grey and cold gets oppressive. They will see me through until the next turning of the year.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

The Quiet of Fall

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:48:22 -0500

Hasn’t it gone quiet? The only natural sound seems to be the wind as it blows the leaves in swirls and sways the tall grasses. There are still birds around – sudden little flocks of chickadees landing in the elderberry bush, feeding for a bit, then moving on. They’re here, but so quiet. Even the blue jays move noiselessly through the trees. A shadow on the ground is the only indication that they have swept through the yard. I see a squirrel dash across the yard, but quietly. He hasn’t scolded in weeks.

The sunflower heads hang heavy with seed. They appear bowed in prayer. The bright yellow petals of the black-eyed Susans show only the cone-shaped centers now. The petals have all withered away. In the daylily bed, only Ollalie Keith stands tall and budding. All the other plants have been shorn of scapes and are now resting. The red leaves of the aruncus brighten a dark corner of the woodland garden.

Even the raspberry patch is quiet. The canes are bent over with ripe, purple fruit. The sweet aroma still draws the bees and wasps but they move slowly now. I inadvertently touch one while picking berries and it simply, slowly flies away. I fill a large bowl with the fruit, tossing a berry occasionally to the dog that sniffs around the ground-touching canes.

The other dog has discovered something near the daylily bed and can’t be tempted away. At last, my bowl full, I walk over to check out her discovery. She’s found a new hole near the corner of the stone wall. As always, I’m amazed at the perfect roundness of the hole. Only two inches in diameter, it is as round as a pipe and hidden in the grass. There are no piles of dirt nearby, not like the piles the moles leave around. I once saw a chipmunk come out of just such a hole so I presume a chipmunk made this one. Where is the dirt? How could it have hidden the entrance so well? When I think of the size of the animal and the tiny size of its brain, I’m in awe of what it has accomplished.

This past summer, we’ve been visited by several Northern water snakes. Their black skin is checked with dull red, black, and tan figures, most easily seen when they are digesting a nice meal. Dull from the warmth of the sun and the energy they need to digest, they lounge on the rocks around the vegetable garden. The bulging meal expands the skin, easily revealing the intricate pattern. I know the garden is riddled with chipmunk holes and tunnels, and I wonder if the snakes simply wait near a hole to grab a meal or if they move down into the tunnels to seek their prey. I think they dined well this summer, but I haven’t seen any snakes at all for weeks now. Are they already hibernating, wound around each other in some den?

The ground is littered with acorns, making walking dangerous for the unwary. I pick up empty caps and save them for the fairy houses I hope to make this winter. Perhaps I’ll also scoop up some of the acorns and set them aside to throw out when the winter snow has hidden all other food. I know the blue jays and the squirrels will enjoy them. I wonder if a bear or deer will come by tonight to feast on the acorns. Surely this is food they need to help them fatten up before winter comes.

The pine trees look so odd at this time of year. The old needles are turning brown. Before they fall off, they make a sad contrast to the green of the new needles at the ends of the branches. Once they are gone, the tree looks fine again, the spaces simply dark, not empty.

The needles fall on the lawn and the creeping thyme and the driveway and we rake them up. Some I’ll use in the compost bin throughout the winter to balance out the wet greens from the kitchen. Others I’ll save for an experiment in discouraging slugs from getting to the green beans. Some needles fall among the leaves under the trees and these we leave to compost and give back nutrients to the soil. The lush pile of colored leaves and brown needles are Mother Nature’s own fertilizer, one that has worked well for millennia. I kneel down to smell the aroma of earth and fall and the promise of regrowth come spring.

The air is chilly now. A frost has been predicted for tonight. My outdoor tasks for today are done. It’s time to freeze some raspberries.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

A Walk in the Woods

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 14:52:17 -0500

I picked up some leaves on my morning walk through the woods. One is an oak leaf, its vein a brilliant red amid the curled and mottled green. Two others are a maple turned yellow-orange and a pale-lemon-colored, oval leaf with pointed edges.

The change of leaves from green to gold, crimson and bronze is a miraculous yearly happening. In New Hampshire, where the colorscape is renowned for its beauty and draws tourists from all over the world, “leaf peepers” bring money to our state. To me, though, the value of the leaves is in the looking and smelling and appreciating the wonder of it all.

I recently returned to New Hampshire, my native state, after four decades of living elsewhere. No matter where I lived, I always had moments in September or October where I thought about fall back home. People I’ve met in those elsewhere places, who remembered I was from “up there in New England,” would remark knowingly to me about the beauty of fall in Vermont. Yes, fall is pretty in Vermont, I’d say, but I’m from New Hampshire and our trees are just as good-looking as those next door.

There are times when I stop and take in the magnificence of a scene. The swath of rubies, goldenrods, coppers and mahoganies blending with pointy green firs and stands of white birches against a radiant cerulean sky sometimes looks too surreal to be true, but I know it is. I imprint the panorama, because within a week or so after peak season, a rain storm or big blow will scatter those jewels to the ground where they quickly turn brown.

I walk along paths strewn in places with pine needles as thick as sponges underfoot. I see spring ferns that popped up along the sides of the trail and have now turned lime or rusty brown. The heavy summer rains this year spawned many mushrooms, which add to the wide-ranging flora layering the forest floor. Tranquil ponds along the way mirror the kaleidoscope of color and sky. Boulders, their rough surfaces covered in patches of velvety green moss, stand like sentinels watching the land. There’s a pleasant, decaying, earthy smell in the air. Most glorious of all: the canopy of red, orange and yellow I hike beneath.

I’ve read that leaf-color changes begin as deciduous trees sense the shortening days and longer nights. They stop making carbohydrate to feed themselves, and the chlorophyll breaks down, revealing the yellow and orange pigments that were always present in the leaves, but masked by green during the growing season. Bright light and sugars trapped in the leaves produce other pigments that dominate the fall color in many tree species.

I don’t know the names of all the trees whose leaves I picked up, but a Web site declares there are 70 native trees found growing wild in our state, and a state forestry report estimated four billion trees larger than an inch in diameter statewide. So many types, some rare, it often takes a tree expert to identify some of the trees that live here.

There are as many leaf shapes as tree species. Leaves are defined as simple (leaves with one leaflet per stem), or compound (many leaflets per stem). Leaf shapes are given names such as ovate, lanceolate, heart-shaped, and cordate and names such as entire, lobed, serrate, and crenate, to their margins (edges). Botanists say trees evolved their many leaf shapes to capture adequate sunlight and carbon dioxide for photosynthesis, to prevent overheating, and prevent excessive water loss.

An article in the Nashua Telegraph estimated that 608 billion colorful leaves fall in our state each year. Many homeowners grouse about all those falling leaves. They see red when they imagine themselves raking and bagging for weeks.

But what proves irritating to some is a rich food source for Mother Earth. As they decay, fallen leaves release nitrogen and minerals such as potassium, calcium, iron, manganese, iron, sodium and zinc to nourish and renew the forest for another growing season. Decaying leaves provide fodder for the lady slippers, wild calla, goldenrod, bittersweet and other woodland plants I see along trail edges early in the year. Smart homeowners mow, mulch and/or compost the leaves to use in flower beds and vegetable gardens.

Like a well-tended garden, my soul is enriched by autumn’s glory. I am reminded fall doesn’t spell the waning of another year, but signals the magic renewal of life itself.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

Fall Planting, Winter Dreaming

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 11:17:52 -0500

Some of my best ideas have come to me as I relax in my hammock, recovering from prying up rocks, digging holes and spreading heavy mulch. This particular brainstorm came as I contemplated an enormous apple tree under full sail of pink and white blossoms.

Underneath the tree, hellebores prospered near the trunk, and the drip line was hemmed with lamium. Very nice. But it lacked something. It lacked strength. It lacked purple, that’s what it lacked. Very good. Problem identified, now a solution. What would fill the intermediate space, provide the color, and be low maintenance. “Yes, please, low maintenance.”

Well, crocuses, of course.

Like most really good ideas, fulfillment came at a cost. I diligently saved my pennies, trimmed here and there, and by the end of July placed my order for 1000 purple and purple-and-white-striped crocus. Every time I looked at that apple tree I had to smile. It was going to be great.

I waited, waited, and waited some more. My corms were due the second week of September. I gave them an extra two weeks, then called the vendor.

The bulbs had been sent on schedule. Was I sure I hadn’t received them? Okay, I’ll never win prizes for my powers of observation, but I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed a thousand crocus bulbs on my front steps.

Another week later the package was located in upper New York state. I received constant notification of its inchworm-like progress from New York to Michigan. (Michigan?) From there to Connecticut and thence to Massachusetts.

Good grief! When the poor cardboard carton arrived another five days later, it looked as if it had been the focal point of a buffalo stampede. Somehow the corms hadn’t been smashed, and there were still exactly 1000 of them.

I placed them, one by one, in the soft, prepared earth, viewed the arrangement from all sides, did some rearranging, and began to plant. The sun set and still I planted. My back protested vigorously. My knees sang counterpoint. Still I planted.

The more frost-proof mosquitoes sang in my ears. I really thought about quitting, but I just couldn’t leave my carefully arranged crocus. I planted until every last corm had been lovingly tucked into its appointed spot.

Then I discovered that I really, truly, couldn’t get up. Nothing was working. Communicating, yes. Loudly. But I couldn’t force my back and knees to get me off the ground. What to do?

Yelling for help was out. I’d collect frost first. I rolled and crawled to the spading fork and used it to lever myself up. I then lurched the interminable distance between my garden and the housea superlative imitation of Quasimodo, if I do say so myself. The next morning, I was unable to get out of bed.

The reminder of that evening in the garden stayed with me through the winter. Ah, but so did my mental images of the apple tree billowing over its carpet of purple crocus and hellebores. Ibuprofen and my imagination were my soul’s support throughout that long and snowy winter. I imagined my crocus, safe under the snow, putting out roots. Then as the snow melted and the soil warmed I made a dozen trips a day looking for new shoots.

The apple buds swelled. The hellebores bloomed. The only activity where the crocus had been planted was the appearance of dozens of dark, round, little holes. Holes where vole families, vole clans and entire tribes had wintered on my crocus.

My friend in the Air National Guard thought I was perhaps overreacting when I asked if he could arrange a practice air strike on my apple tree. Hah! Norse mythology had a serpent gnawing at the root of the tree that supported the world. I have news. The mythologists had it wrong. It was a vole.

I tried everything. Voles blew bubbles with gum dropped into their holes and made nests of human hair gleaned from the hairdresser’s floor. Rototilling merely meant redecorating to the voles.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes, the landlady just rearranged the roof and walls.”

I also rearranged things. I moved. I have never planted another crocus, I have no apple tree. I encourage the feared fisher cats to come and prowl my flower beds. My only tangible memory of that hammock-induced vision is the twinge I get in my back any time I pick up a shovel.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Of Bears and Beetles

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 16:52:51 -0500

Raising chickens or trying to raise vegetables in a normal, sunny summer can be difficult; in a rainy, cloudy summer, next to impossible. Blights and bugs, bears and deer, raccoons, slugs, and mildews abound. Everyone has a story.

Just last month, a black bear crept into our barnyard, crushed a window screen, and crawled into our chicken coop, resulting in six casualties: two Barred Rock hens, one Rhode Island Red, and three squashed geranium plants from my window box. The bear left paw prints the size of a man’s hand on the boards of the coop.

After a quick call to Fish and Game, we reinforced the window with stock wire and boards, filled recycled tuna cans with ammonia, placed them on a shelf under the window and, cleaned up all the feathers. (The obvious question arose: if ammonia discourages bears why would they want to invade a chicken coop?) Because it was an easy strategy, we went with it.

Ten days later, I went to open the coop door, only to discover the leading edge had been cracked and split by what looked like an unsuccessful bear attack. This time, no dead hens, but the door required surgery and a splint.

A few days after this, I discovered bear scat while walking around the barnyard. This was not Baby Bear’s! It definitely looked as if Papa Bear had been about in the night.

So now, not only do we make sure the front door to the coop is latched seven ways to Sunday each night, but we also screw down the chickens’ doorway that slides on a rope pull. One good swipe of that paw and it would have opened wide although it would have required squeezing through. When I think of all the times in the past I forgot and left the coop wide open at night...

The three surviving hens seem fine now, but after their first fright they were definitely traumatized and hesitated to leave their pen for grazing and scratching. We talked gently to them and fed them live Japanese beetles, which they love. Pretty soon their chicken brains adjusted and thought they had always been a trio.

The Japanese beetle is a big problem in our gardens. It has no natural predators and loves green beans, hollyhocks, roses, and hot weather. The sound of tapping on a tin can has conditioned the chickens to come running to the garden when they hear it. I can hear their little feet pounding the ground as they respond to my tap-tap-tap. Who knew chickens had such noisy footsteps?

If I bend the plant stems down to their level, they will jump up to snatch the coppery-colored critters in their beaks. Shaking plants with beetles often results in an orgy of scratching and pecking in the area under the plants to scoff up the destructive beetles. Sometimes, I just load the beetles into my tin can and deliver them in bunches. By doing this once or twice a day, we have cut down on our beetle population dramatically.

Letting chickens run free can be a problem on a couple of fronts. First, there are the little piles of chicken droppings to avoid on the bottom of your shoes. Then, the hens may do some “accidental” plant removal if they are allowed to scratch in vegetable and flower gardens.

So far this year, we’ve had enough rain to dissolve much of the former, and because I didn’t let them run free until plants were larger, the latter problem hasn’t been so bad. Scratch one lavender transplant and everything else seems okay. I thought I might cover the kale and Swiss chards with a wire enclosure, but they haven’t done well with all the midsummer rain, so no problem there.

If only keeping the bears out of the corn and coop were so simple. By searching online for information regarding bear problems, I’ve learned bears that interfere with people’s gardens and chickens are often dealt with harshly. My own reactions involve reinforcing structures and remembering that humans actually cause the problem by putting out trash and garbage any curious bear would want to investigate.

Since I don’t count on my birds for meat and eggs, we will survive, but I am not so sure about Papa Bear. Somewhere he will ingratiate himself beyond someone’s tolerance of wildness and that will probably result in his demise. This particular bear has graced the town dump with his presence and has several stops on his “rounds” that also involve other chicken coops, gardens, and possibly camping areas.

My mornings now involve a trip to the chicken yard to see if the bear has come again. So far, so good. His paw prints on the front of the chicken coop serve as a reminder. The chickens and I make our rounds to find beetles and make the most of the remaining days of summer. So, we hope, does the bear.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

Summer Storm

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 09:22:35 -0500

This morning I awoke to the sound of gentle rain hitting the porch roof. The sky was pale gray and furry like a mouse. The rain was falling straight down with no wind to weave it around obstacles and through open windows. Ah, I thought, nature is catching up on her watering today. This will be a good chance for me to catch up on some of my indoor work, too.

I sat down at the desk and started paying bills. The sky got lighter and brighter and before long a fully beaming sun was calling me outside. Nature had finished one chore and had moved on to another. I decided to do the same and wandered into the yard.

I deadheaded daylilies and checked the size of the cucumbers in the garden. Those darn Japanese beetles were back at the beans; I made short work of them and then went inside to fix lunch.

The day continued sunny and grew increasingly warm and humid. I forgot about the bills and other paperwork and decided to transplant some daylilies. It was hard work in that heat, but the finished product of three curves of arching tapered leaves was well worth the effort.

But what was that sound way off in the distance? It sounded like thunder. The sky was robin-egg blue and clear, but that thunder was definitely rolling along somewhere.

As I put away my various tools, I looked to the north, where the large beaver impoundment always beckons me. The water is nearly covered with lilies now and the bullfrogs are often quiet. The tall, dead trees with their massive great blue heron nests stood stark against clouds the color of wet rocks. Yes, a summer storm was coming our way, and it wasn’t going to bring a soft, gentle rainfall.

I watched as the clouds swung over the tops of the nests and began to fill the sky, spilling from the north, across the arch of the sky and towards the south. The wind began to build, and the thunder grew louder. As I finished a few quick chores outside, the darkness swept in the approaching storm. I decided it was time to head inside and quickly.

Just moments later, the first patter of raindrops began to play on the porch roof. The soft drumming lasted briefly then turned into a full orchestra of sound as the rain pounded the metal roof. The wind pulled leaves from trees and flung them in dervish circles. The water cascaded down as if off a tall cliff. There was something wonderful about the wildness of the storm – something elemental and it called to me. Had it not been for the flashes of electricity in the air and the quickly following thunder, I know I would have been tempted to run outside to feel the strength of the deluge, the exuberance of the storm. Would it have felt like needles on skin or would I have been pounded until I staggered? Would I have joined the leaves in their crazy dance or been pushed down and held there by the strength of the wind and rain? What would it have felt like to be a part of that display?

The storm left as it came, the rain and wind slowing down, a music box nearly unwound. The clouds seemed to turn over, revealing their white puffy side, and blue sky began to peek through. The rain petered out, allowing the returning sun to glisten on every wet leaf and flower. The hummingbird reappeared and moved rapidly among the monarda. A squirrel began to scold from the tall pine. All was peaceful again. It was as if the storm had never hovered briefly over us.

The sunlight after a storm seems nearly miraculous. How could it still exist after what had just occurred? Surely the wind and rain, thunder and lightning, must have broken the sunny day like a piece of crockery smacked against the edge of the counter. How could it be whole again? Where could it have been hiding? How could it have returned so quickly? It seemed to be laughing, as if it had enjoyed the storm.

The wildness of the storm made the day feel more alive. It seemed to dance now, lifted from humidity-induced torpor, enjoying the cooler temperatures. The water drops and little pools sparkled and sang and every blade of grass stood up straighter. It was beautiful. The entire day had been beautiful.

The day had made me feel a part of the symphony of nature. I wasn’t just a listener at the concert but a part of the orchestra. I played the music of each movement. Oh, I hope another day like this one comes along very soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Rain(y) Garden

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 15:41:27 -0500

Rain, rain, and more rain. How well I remember the dry summers of years gone by. You won’t hear me complain.

There is something about moisture from the sky that no watering by hand or hose can replicate. Throw in a bit of lightning and thunder, and the world is suddenly a greener place. That something is the nitrogen-called “poor man’s fertilizer” by some-that results from the wonderful chemistry of our atmosphere.

Another result from all the rain has been a full-to-the-brim wet area in our backyard. My husband and his tractor created it when I complained that he had filled in an area where the cedar waxwings were coming for mud to make nests. Not far from that spot he dug out another bowl-like area about 10 inches deep at the base of a natural spring.

The original builders of our house must have thought the natural springs on this property a sign of good farming land. According to the history of our town, the original householder to live here had water for his cattle because of at least one of those springs, even in dry times.

This water has always drained into a culvert and further on down into the Rocky Branch of the Asquamchumauke (Baker) River. It still does, but now it stays for a time in a small, six-foot-in-diameter pond, a rain-garden by definition, design and default.

We did this in late fall. Winter followed and we waited. The little pond froze over, and snow fell on it and buried it. Then spring arrived, and time reversed itself: first the snow left, then the ice melted.

Then the frogs arrived. First, the peepers and their repetitive medley of hope, followed by birds swooping for water and mud for nest building: tree swallows, goldfinches, bluebirds, robins. Grasses with arching stems grew about and flowered over the pond. Then, the green frogs and their profound harrumphing chorus. The calendar of nature’s sounds.

Over April vacation, the grandkids and I experimented: Could a dozen goldfish survive the summer and eat mosquito larvae? There was some discussion and the pessimists among us hypothesized the fish weren’t long for the pond; the optimists prevailed.

So far, five stalwart survivors remain. Every day I check, and every day they rise to the surface around one in the afternoon, swirling and swooping, swimming in choreographed motion and military-like maneuvers. When the grandkids come over, they shake some feed into the water, but mostly the fish fend quite nicely for themselves. Later on, the fish return to the shade close under the bank and wait, perhaps for another optimal time to surface, to rest, to meditate.

One day, I observed a crow who perhaps thought the goldfish looked like a protein-rich meal for her noisy brood hopping about in our side yard. She flew over and landed on the far side of the pond. Instantly, the fish hid from view. She crooked her head to get a better view, but vanished they had. The crow paced about for a bit and left in what seemed like a huff.

A weekend ago, as two of my grandkids helped me work on creating a woodland garden, we discovered what else might be attracted by water: dragonflies. The first one I saw was a super-sized beauty with a lovely blue tail. I have not spotted that one again, but many others of varied hues and sizes zoomed back and forth as we worked.

Eleven-year-old Liam seemed the natural candidate to help spread wood chips. His idea to drag over a child-size garden bench made the area seem even more defined. His sister, Julia, 8, her creative juices flowing, designed a sign proclaiming “Nana’s Garden” with an arrow, in case anyone couldn’t find it on their own. She added colorful bees and butterflies just in case the real ones buzzing and flitting about needed encouragement.

A note of caution: I never leave my younger grandchildren unsupervised around this area. Water is tantalizing to children. Watching frogs, yes! Doing it alone, no!

Work remains to be done. I’d like to make some cement stepping stones with the kids. Six should do it.

Every day I wonder, are the fish and frogs still there? One day, I penned this haiku.

frog looks up at me
from his watery puddle
plop! Green legs pump fast

By Helen Downing, UNHCE Master Gardener

An Alpine Ramble

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 09:22:09 -0500

I don’t know what I expected, but I was a slightly disappointed when I got my first glimpse of the Alpine Garden near Mt. Washington’s summit. I didn’t expect to see Maria von Trapp whirling around a lush mountaintop of plateau-filled flowers, but I did expect to see more than the low-lying green patches around rocks and boulders.

On closer inspection, I saw a microcosmic plant world blooming in this inhabitable place. I’m awed so many of these plants, animals, birds and insects survive in this area’s most brutal weather. Some plants on this mighty mount have lived 100 years or more, and some are endangered.

I’d heard so much about this site, so when I read about a hike there in mid-June, I signed up. Rain poured the entire morning of the nearly three-hour trip to the meeting place. But, like magic, the rain disappeared as the 28 of us caravanned up the Mt. Washington Auto Road.

Our plan was to stop at two transition zones 2,000 and 4,000 feet before trekking down the trail to the Alpine Garden. The idea was to view different mountain environments at various elevations and observe the changes in the landscape as we climbed.

The lower elevation was mostly hardwood forests, thick with sugar and red maples, gray barked American beeches, paper birches and red oaks, all of which turn brilliant colors in fall and bring leaf-loving tourists. We saw yellow birches with peeling bark that glistened like metal. There was wild sarsaparilla, used as drink by colonists and American Indians. Sarsaparilla is sometimes confused with poison ivy, we were told, but the former has five leaflets with fine teeth running along is edges, while the poisonous latter has three leaflets with smooth edges.

As we climbed to the 4,000 foot zone, the hardwoods began to vanish and spruce and fir trees began to take over. Along the way, waterfalls sprouted along the roadside. The forest floor became rockier and the terrain was dotted with mosses, small pines and ferns.

The krummholz, meaning “crooked wood,” marks the 4,000 foot region. The balsam firs and black spruces here are dwarfed and look like broomstick freaks on the scenery. The black spruce, more of a blue-green color, is amazingly adaptable. In this zone, these trees lay flat along the ground and its branches root. This is a necessary adaptation in the alpine area, for if the trunk dies, the roots start new life.

Just down from the summit, our group caught the nearly one-mile trail to the Alpine Garden. This boulder-strewn trail, marked by five- to six-foot high cairns, was wet in spots and not easily traversable. About 40 minutes later, the trail flattened out, and before us was a swath of green among the lichen-embossed stones and boulders. We were warned not to step on anything green. It is important not to destroy these plants so future generations could enjoy them as well.

Among the blooms was the genuine arctic plant diapensia, whose white blossoms grow in tufts and which grows symbiotically with pink Lapland rosebay. There were alpine azaleas and rhodora, both of which are the same types as the larger shrubs budding below. The rhodora and Lapland rosebay are from the rhododendron family, and the flowers are thumb sized. There were little fingertip-sized alpine bluets white in the alpine garden, not blue colored as their relatives elsewhere. We also found skunk currant, whose red berries are edible, but whose fruit and leaves smell like skunk.

What impressed the group was that all this variety of plants could survive in this harshest of worlds, enduring excessive wind and extreme cold while we were there, swaths of snow still showed in some depressions. Their adaptability is key to their survival.

Coming down the mountain, we saw a bear and two cubs gamboling across a barren valley. We stopped a few times to photograph and admire the white-flower tipped hobblebush shrubs, painted trillium, and pink lady slippers orchid family members. What amazed me, a lady slipper lover, was seeing three white lady slippers.

I knew there were yellow lady slippers, and some colored both pink and white, but I never realized there were white lady slipper colonies. I guessed the whites were an aberration, but our guide Dana Sansom, a UNH associate professor, said she has seen vast colonies of white lady slippers in Jackson, N.H. She said they are a variety of the pink lady slipper, or Cypripedium acaule. After a 45-year absence, I moved back to New Hampshire three years ago. I questioned if this small state held any marvels for me. The discoveries of the white lady slippers and Alpine Garden were answers enough.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

The Rescue

Tue, 18 Aug 2009 11:14:04 -0500

When the daylilies had expanded to the point that some had to be moved into a new bed, we walked around the yard to find a good spot for another garden. The area we chose was awkward to mow, with sparse grass and sandy soil. I set to work removing the grass before amending the soil and transplanting the daylilies. It was the height of the summer a hot, sunny day with high humidity, and the work was hard.

I developed a sequence: dig up a clod, bang it against the side of a pail to remove whatever good loam was attached to the roots, and toss the remains into another pail for removal to the compost pile. Dig, bang, toss; dig, bang, toss.

Suddenly, as I was tossing another clump, I heard a call for help. Instantly I froze and listened intently. Silence. I looked around, but saw nothing. I knew I had heard a call for aid. The language wasn’t English and the voice wasn’t human, but there was no mistaking the intent of that call.

After a few moments, I returned to my labor: dig, bang, toss. Soon the pail of remains would be full and I’d take a break after carrying it to the compost pile. Without warning, it came again: a definite, plaintive plea for help. This time, I put down the tools and stood up, carefully surveying the entire area around me.

Then I saw them well down into the grass, nearly hidden. A garter snake, not large, but certainly ambitious, had slithered silently up behind a toad and grabbed one rear leg. Every few minutes, the snake would inch a jaw further up the leg and the toad would call out again. I cannot describe the sound; it was soft but clear. That amphibian was begging to be rescued.

What to do? I know I shouldn’t interfere with nature. The snake had to eat to survive, and a healthy snake can rid a garden of a lot of insects. But the toad was begging for help! How could I turn away?

Well, I did. I went up the porch stairs, opened the door and into the kitchen, down the hall to the study and grabbed my camera. Then I ran back out and took a picture! After all, how often do you see a scene like that one?

The photography accomplished, I looked around for a way to save the toad. Finally, I picked up the shovel and slid it under the snake’s head and lifted, hoping to frighten the snake so it would let go. Quickly the snake wiggled off and plopped to the ground, toad still firmly held. I tried again with the same results. That snake just slid off the smooth shovel, keeping its grip intact. I couldn’t think of any other way to free the frog without hurting the snake, so I tried again.

This time, the snake must have gotten fed up, or perhaps thought it wiser to get away. At any rate, it opened its jaw as it slipped off the shovel. In a moment it was gone, leaving behind not even a wave in the grass to show it had been there. Gently, I used the shovel to pick up the toad and, moving it in the opposite direction from that taken by the snake, I set it down on a large rock.

The toad sat there in the sun. I visually checked its leg for damage but saw no bleeding or obvious signs of problems. Deciding the creature needed some time alone, and I needed to put the camera away, I went inside. When I returned, it was still there on the stone but had moved slightly, so I went back to work. Dig, bang, toss. Another area completed and the compost pail was full. I carried it off to empty it. When I returned, the toad was gone.

My rescued toad didn’t ask for a kiss and didn’t offer me a wish. I already have my handsome prince, but it’s gratifying to know that one hot summer day, in the midst of clearing some land, I rescued a creature that lived to enjoy another day.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Birds, Bees & Babies

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 10:29:40 -0500

Seeing a “new” bird or animal is an unexpected thrill. We have enjoyed two new bird sightings already this summer.

The first sighting happened recently in Franconia, when an unusual mewing sound caught our attention. The mewing turned out to be birds!

A woodpecker like bird was scampering up and down a white birch tree next to the high deck, just six feet away. Its coloring differed from that of hairy or downy woodpeckers. A quick check in our bird book confirmed we were observing a yellow bellied sapsucker, a member of the woodpecker family.

The sapsucker was industriously drilling rows of holes to get the sweet birch sap. Later we saw several more drilling away. These two had no red markings on their heads and speckled buff breasts the markings of juveniles. They had already learned to drill for food and were happily sucking out the birch sap.

Next we noticed bees flying about. They were obviously attracted to the sweet sap, too. And could it be? Yes, a humming bird! What a fabulous example of the interdependence of the flora and fauna of nature a little ecosystem right in front of our eyes, like a TV screen, but real. Watching this intertwined ecosystem reminded me of a favorite paperback book, Forest and Thicket, Trees, Shrubs and Wildflowers of Eastern North America, by John Eastman, with beautiful drawings by Amelia Hansen. Eastman not only describes a tree or plant, but gives its “lifestyle.” For white birch he notes that it “does not thrive where average July temperatures exceed 70 degrees Fahrenheit.” He also relates fascinating information about each plant’s “associates” and “lore.”

Eastman confirmed our amazing sighting in his chapter about white birch trees: “[A] pitted area of holes drilled in regular horizontal rows, usually fairly high on the tree, indicates the feeding site of the yellow bellied sapsucker. After drilling the holes, the sapsucker returns at intervals to lick up the exuded sap and any insects attracted to the flow. The ruby throated hummingbird is a secondary feeder. Though not the only tree ‘tapped’ by sapsuckers, white birch is a favorite.” I was curious to know more about sapsuckers. I discovered they breed north of the Nashua Manchester line here in New Hampshire. They like to nest in second growth woods.

White birch and aspen are tree species that sprout first in a cut forest, because they thrive in full sun. Sapsuckers like these pioneer tree species, but they need the older trees that are beginning to decline and have rotten centers. They excavate or dig out the punky centers for hidden and well protected nest sites. Obviously pecking holes in trees is the woodpecker’s unique adaptation. Woodpeckers may use the same tree for several years, but they excavate new nest cavities each year. They usually rear a clutch of five or six, incubating the eggs for 12 to 13 days and nesting for 24 and 26 days. In addition to sucking sap, they eat inner bark, insects, and fruits and berries. Our second “new” bird nested in the shrubbery next to our house in Amherst. Wood thrushes made a nest at the top of an overgrown lilac under our bedroom window.

We were alerted to the nesting activity by the lovely, flute like song of the thrushes. They started singing at sunrise, giving us a melodious alarm clock for a week or so. Then they moved on to other behavior that didn’t require singing perhaps incubation is quiet time.

Soon there were babies in the nest I could barely see by peeking through the dense cover of leaves. With the continuous rain this summer, the roof of leaves proved strategic. In early July we finally had a sunny Saturday. Not only were baby swallows fledging from their nest in the box in the garden, but we also heard lots of commotion near the thrush nest. A baby thrush was perched on a branch near the nest making a loud racket. Mother thrush paid no attention to the little ball of fluff, which eventually figured out how to flap its wings in the damp air. I didn’t pay enough attention either. Soon it was gone along with its mother, and the nest was empty.

I’ve just learned that bird nests next to houses are a bad idea because of bird mites. The life cycle of the mites coincides with the nesting schedule, and the mite population can explode just as the birds leave. With the birds gone, the mites can invade a home and bite humans to test them as potential hosts.

So I will cut back my lilac tree to shrub size to eliminate the perfect nesting site. The thrushes will find another location nearby, although maybe not so perfect for bird watching.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Tree Steward

More than Ribbits or Croaks

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 10:22:37 -0500

It was the slightest of movements, an almost imperceptible slide, which I caught only out the corner of my eye. So smooth and slow was the action that the water remained perfectly calm, with no telltale ripple or sudden plop to catch a predator’s attention. The drift downward into the vegetative depths continued with infinite patience and care.

Had I not caught the initial start of the slide off the log, I would never have known that a huge bullfrog was quietly, carefully watching me with its enormous eyes.

We hear the bullfrogs and their smaller cousins in spring and early summer. The concert of mating calls begins with the peepers. Theirs is a light and cheerful song of high-pitched whistles, ascending with the joy of rebirth after the winter hibernation.

The sound makes you smile and turn to your companions, “Ah, spring is truly here! The peepers are back!” If you find a tiny frog, only three quarters to just over an inch long, tan to brown to gray with a dark X on its back, then you’ve found a peeper. Their songs are among the most delightful in spring.

I like the call of the tree frogs. When I first heard it, I wondered what bird was hiding in a nearby tree so I went over to investigate. When I got near the tree, the song stopped. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find that bird and the song stubbornly refused to restart. When I walked away, the song returned.

Again and I again I circled that tree but just couldn’t find the bird. Then the call was echoed by one in another tree. Two birds of the same species that close together? I was quite puzzled.

Only later did I learn I had been hearing the call of the tiny tree frog. It’s hard to believe that such a hearty, reverberating call could be coming from a frog barely two inches in size! Sometimes, during the day, I’ll find a gray tree frog sitting on a leaf several feet above the ground and wonder how ever did it get up there? Amazing.

I also like to listen to the call of another small frog. The pickerel frog runs from just under two inches to about three and a half, but what a song it sings! The low croak (yes, it really does croak) is steady and sounds like a snore coming from under the water. One day as I was checking on some plantings near the large vernal pond on the east side of the drive, I heard a sudden plop! Then another and yet another. Carefully I parted some branches and searched the water. Soon I found three frogs, floating gently and silently, legs splayed out behind and to the side, eyes bulging and alert, back glistening with drops of water. They had been quiet when I approached, no dueling songs for mates or territory.

All of these small frogs are important consumers of mosquitoes and other insects. Soon the ponds will sport gelatinous masses of their eggs, stringing out in long strands. I like to look closely at them to see the squirming inside the eggs as the next generation rapidly grows to hatching size. Then it’s tadpole city out there! Quick darting everywhere in the water, tadpoles eat tadpoles and whatever else they can find. I’m always happy to see the little ones flipping around, knowing they’ll help keep the mosquito population in check.

But this day, on this visit, I was seeing something I’d only heard, but never witnessed before. This monster of the frog family totally dwarfed those smaller frogs I’d been admiring for several years. The eyes bulged almost menacingly out of the head. The legs seemed to go on forever. I watched, enchanted, while the bloated body continued to slip ever so slowly down until only the eyes and top of head remained visible above the water. There it stayed.

Elsewhere, another frog gave a loud croak, but there was no response from this one. Did he think I was a heron looking for a meal? He simply wasn’t taking any chances. The water was murky, obscuring my view of his coloring, but I could clearly see the large circles just below and behind the eyes. On smaller frogs, these are hard to see, but not on this specimen! Everything about it was simply huge.

I knew I shouldn’t disrupt it any longer. It needed to get back to resting or sunning or feeding or mating. Silently I thanked it for the pleasure it had given me and, turning, I headed back up the path to the house.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Drawing By Pamela Doherty, UNH Cooperative Extension

Rows of Treasure

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 18:30:01 -0500

I don't mind picking berries alone.

When my children were young, we’d take an annual field trip to the local strawberry patch. They started off crawling on the matted straw between the rows. I quickly picked berries while their attention focused at their handfuls of straw. When they crawled towards the strawberry plants, I watched them explore, making sure they didn’t eat any leaves or moldy berries. The few berries they picked left red juice dripping through their chubby fingers.

As they got older, berry picking became an adventure. We'd wait for the hay wagon to take us to our pick-your-own row of strawberries. When the wagon arrived, passengers holding their brimming baskets of berries took a big step down from the wooden cart. I looked enviously at them and thought, "Did they get all the good ones? Were there any left for us?” My children were more interested in being the first ones on the wagon.

Once everyone was seated, the tractor bucked into gear and slowly pulled us towards the picking area. We lurched back and forth as the wheels dipped into the pot-holed, dirt road. We passed several rows with people picking, but didn’t stop until we reached a strawberry sign with the number 5 on it. The kids bounced up and down anxiously waiting to get off the wagon. We jumped down from the wagon and were directed to our designated row. The treasure hunt had begun.

I usually walked down the row about half way before starting to pick. I wanted to be immersed in the patch rather than sticking to the edges. As she found her first berry, my Kelly would boast, “Look at how big this one is!” My son, Casey, would retort, “I found the biggest, bestest one of all!”

Sometimes the berries were right on the edge of the row and easy to find. But the best ones often hid in the center of the plant under the leaves.

I loved gently brushing the leaves and stems aside to see what treasures were hidden. When I found the perfect berry, I cupped it in my hand with the stem between my fingers and gently pulled. The berry snapped off the stem and made a crisp, pop sound. Perfect berries had a squeaky, red shine and were evenly speckled with seeds. The caps provided handles to hold onto as you bit into the garnet delight. The warm red juices burst into your mouth and left your fingertips stained with precious memories.

I knew the treasure hunt was over by my children’s pinkened lips and face, filled baskets, and whines of “I’m hot!” As I slowly stood up, my back also creaked it was time to go. So, we started walking back to the farm stand in our red-blotched sneakers.

As we walked down the row, I inevitably spotted another strawberry that I had to pick. So I stopped and picked it. Even though my tray was full, I thought, “Just one more.” The strawberry fields bedazzled me, and I was addicted. That was it-the last one. But then it happened again. I had to pick another strawberry. I averted my eyes, looking toward the farm stand, trying not to look down. I quickened my pace and finally exited, leaving thousands of unclaimed jewels behind.

Now my children are older, so I go picking alone.

Occasionally, I eavesdrop on child-parent conversations. “Look Mom! It’s two strawberries stuck together.” I continue to listen as the mother gives instructions on which ones to pick. “Now Zachary, make sure you pick the nice red ones. The green ones aren’t ripe and the black ones are rotten.” As the children emerge from picking, they remind me of my children with red-stained lips and red smudges on their white tee shirts. I remember that I usually had Kelly and Casey wear red tee shirts when we went picking.

One June day in the strawberry patch, I wasn’t quite alone. I walked to the end of the row, close to the edge of the woods. I’d never seen a snake while picking berries, but this day I heard a rustling under the strawberry plants. Scared of snakes, I feared the worst and quickly hopped back from the row. I watched and waited for my nemesis to slither out from beneath the plant and onto the straw.

The leaves rustled again. I prepared to run. Then out popped the furry, striped face of a chipmunk with a huge strawberry in its mouth.

It looked side to side as if checking to make sure all was clear. As it hopped off into the woods, I compared his booty to the strawberry I’d just picked. He picked a good one, but I smiled and thought, Mine was the biggest, bestest ever!

By Alice Mullen, Family & Consumer Resources Educator

Confession of a Turtle Killer

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 13:28:03 -0500

People who run over turtles were to me nothing but cold-blooded killers. I took their inattention for indifference to the world around them. Until I became one of them.

My hubris was brought up short the day I ran over one. I was driving a busy state route, when I was distracted by three children on bikes riding on the shoulder. I swung out to give them a wide berth, only at the last minute seeing the small black shape between the double yellow lines. The sickening pop under my tire sent a jolt through me. Returning, I saw the crushed body and the woodland stream flowing under the road where the turtle had emerged. From then on, I held my anger at the operators of turtle-killing cars, chastened in the knowledge that I had joined the criminal element.

Turtles, more than any other New Hampshire animal, are most affected by our roads, our cars, our pets, and our subdivisions. Low, slow and driven by ancient impulses and long-imprinted navigation cues, they follow the same routes year after year, regardless of the changes in the land around them.

So precipitous has been certain turtle species’ demise that the state of New Hampshire recently upgraded the Blanding’s turtle status to “Endangered” and the spotted turtle to “Threatened.”

For many years, I had a front row seat to the diminishment of these two turtle species.

Our house and small lot was bounded on two sides by a large marsh and a country road on the front. At the end of our property a small pond, a dip in the road, and an active vernal pool on the opposite side, made for a turtle super highway as turtles began to wander to feed or lay eggs in May and June.

Painted and giant snapping turtles were the primary travelers, but the delicate and beautiful spotted turtles and the rare Blanding’s were also there in notable numbers. I was raised an outdoor kid on the rivers, ponds and lakes of New Hampshire, but I had never seen a spotted turtle until we moved there. Smaller and slightly flatter than painted turtles, these black and yellow turtles are celebrated in New Hampshire naturalist David Carroll’s Year of the Turtle. The contrast of their yellow spots and orange skin patches on their ebony shells make them the most beautiful of all turtles.

The shy spotted turtles spend most of their time hidden among the grass humps and the sloughs of marshes, except in the spring when they come out of hibernation and make for the vernal pools to recharge their batteries with wood frog and salamander eggs and again later, when they emerge to lay their eggs.

It is during this time that they are most vulnerable to natural predators and automobiles.

Fast and fluid in the water, most turtles are as slow and cumbersome on land as piano movers. Except for the spotted turtles. The little turtles seem to realize that their time on the asphalt is deadly and move quickly.

I learned to recognize their sprints from my home and quickened my own step to try to save them.

Many were the times I sprinted down the road to help them complete their perilous crossings. I saved many. But as the number of houses on my road increased, so too did the traffic and the body count.

The final death sentence for the turtles was a 60-home subdivision. Construction vehicles first and then cars were a constant on the road. I was gladdened by those motorists who stopped to let the turtles pass, but they were far outnumbered by those who did not.

Short of quitting my job for two months and keeping 24-hour vigil, there was little I could do to stop the slaughter.

But I persevered. I marked their nesting sites, mowed my lawn cautiously as I watched for them in the grass, and tried to educate my neighbors on the turtles’ ways. I even attempted a clumsy Caesarean on a dead spotted turtle, thinking I could salvage her eggs and be a surrogate parent.

But every year the number of dead turtles increased, annually including two or three spotted turtles.

When we sold the home after nearly 30 years, I wondered who would watch out for the turtles. I left the new owner a carefully written instruction sheet on where the turtles nested in the yard, when the quarter-size hatchlings emerged, and the care to take when driving on the road. I hope she’s paying attention. I know I am.

More so than ever now when I drive roads near water, I take care – my eyes always on the road surface for the glint of sun off wet black domes or the dusty gray of a basking turtle. It is the most penance I can do.

By Greg Lowell, Coverts Cooperator

Photo taken by Jack Gleason, Master Gardener and Tree Steward