Extension News: February 2007 Archives

When he was little, our oldest son, Kevin, loved birthday parties. It didn’t even have to be his birthday, he loved all birthday parties. For his own special day, he especially liked to be able to go up in his grandparents’ back woodlot and have a family weenie roast over an open fire. This was a challenge, since his birthday was in March.

His Nana would pack the frankfurters, rolls, condiments, beverages and chips in a picnic basket, since refrigeration wasn’t a problem in March, and off we’d go on our snowshoes to meet up with the fire builders, usually my husband, his dad and, when he was old enough, my son. After the sacrificial offering of two or three wieners into the fire, everyone perfected their technique and prepared their own fire-roasted hot dogs to eat slathered with mustard and relish. I usually spent most of my time watching over Kevin’s younger brother, Christopher, who was still a toddler and breathed a sigh of relief when we all arrived back at the house, unsinged and ready for cake and ice cream.

Since Kevin now has four children of his own, two of whom were also born in March, a few years ago we began re-enacting the family tradition. Now it was my job to pack the wieners, rolls, etc. and help make sure my toddler grandkids didn’t suffer from cold, hunger, or getting too close to the flames. In place of birthday cake, we substituted s’mores, that well-known delicacy made from layering molten marshmallows and milk chocolate bars between graham crackers—a recipe for the ages.

Thanks to my digital camera, there are now many pictures to relive this occasion, and every one shows someone stuffing a hot dog or “s’more” in their mouth.

This winter, history got a chance to repeat itself again Our younger son’s wife, Marcella, having heard of our birthday weenie roasts, suggested we have a mid-winter weenie roast. A subtle difference, to be sure, but we had to wait until mid-January this year for snow—what’s the point of trudging into the woods to have a winter cookout if there’s no snow?

When we finally had the prerequisite four to six inches of packed snow, plans were made. We decided to hold our cookout a bit closer to the house which proved to be a great idea, since I turned out to be quite forgetful as the cook-out planner; did we bring the mustard? The relish? Napkins? Being able to scamper down the hill and run 50 feet into the house was extremely convenient. Just as in the cookouts of yore, our two young grandsons, Oscar and John-Henry, four years and 10 months respectively, loved the event to a point and then demanded to be brought back indoors, cheeks red, tummies full, and nap-ready.

Having a weenie roast in the winter is a lot like what folks have come to know as barbecue, but it makes for better memories. My sons remember those birthday cookouts, I know I do, and hopefully my grandkids will someday, too.

Forgetting ingredients doesn’t really matter; if anything, that just adds to its memorability, as does mustard dribbled on your parka.
The best thing? No mosquitoes. Let the sun shine on your face and insulated body; smell the co-mingled aromas of smoke, pine trees and cooking food; listen to the breezes blowing through the pines, the red squirrels scolding, the jays calling to one another.

Call “pish-pi--r ” to the chickadees; look up and watch for them to come see who calls, and for the clouds going by in a sky that can only be that blue in winter. Observe the kids struggling to cook food that just might fall into the fire and char to a fine ash. Savor their smiles of pleasure as they sample the results of all this work. Suddenly, fast food seems far, far away, and pales in comparison.

2/21/2007

A sunny morning after the recent ice storm when the thermometer hovered around zero and I couldn’t get out for my morning run, I contented myself with enjoying the ice-palace scenery out the window. Happily, some birds had survived the freezing rain, ice and the zero nighttime temperature, and swooped to the feeder that hangs just a foot from the back window. Perky little chickadees and tufted titmice braved the bitter cold, with no obvious signs of hypothermia.

I stayed inside because I learned the hard way that breathing in such cold air leads to a sore throat. But here were these miraculous little creatures fluttering about normally, using up tons of energy both to stay warm and to fly. Just imagine the wind chill of flight!

Obviously, they needed more food for energy after the bitter night and headed for the feeder as soon as the sun was out. The fluffy, puffy titmice flew about in a normal way, while the chickadees hid under shrubs and darted up to the feeder for a quick mouthful and then scooted back under the bushes. Both birds stood on the frozen feeder to retrieve the seeds. Their thin little legs and feet looked and functioned normally—no signs of frostbite on their toes. Their beaks worked okay, too—no frostbite there, either.

I learned a lot about birds’ winter survival strategies from the book Winter World: The Ingenuity of Animal Survival,by Bernd Heinrich. Heinrich explains that birds, especially chickadees, maintain a very high daytime body temperature of up to 108 degrees F. Talk about warm-blooded! They need an enormous amount of food to sustain their high energy output and their high body heat. They must eat all day to store enough fat (up to 10 percent of their body weight) to get them through the cold winter nights.

Chickadees’ downy feathers thicken up in the fall. When fluffed up in the bitter cold, their feathers add an inch of insulation around the tiny little bodies that weigh but 10-12 grams. At night they ball up, tucking their heads under their wings. Also, they lower their body temperature to about 85 degrees F. to conserve energy, and sleep inside cavities, maybe snuggled up with other birds.

Other unique adaptations enable winter birds to survive sudden cold snaps. Their circulatory systems pump the warmest blood to their feet to keep them from freezing. To do this, their tiny little hearts can beat up to 600 beats a minute (who counted?) Also, they shiver to maintain their body temperature, although the trembling is hidden by their feathers. This is a way of converting muscle energy into heat, and how they warm up in the morning.
 
Cold rain is their worst enemy. Wet feathers lose their insulating value. To waterproof themselves, chickadees use their beaks to squeeze oil from glands on their backs, with which they coat the protective back and wing feathers that they then spread over their bodies like an umbrella.

But most incredibly, chickadees hoard food in the fall. In fact, a region of their brains gets bigger in the fall to increase their memories, so they aren’t wasting energy looking for lost stashes of food. Now there’s a survival trick we’d all like to borrow!

When out enjoying the bracing winter sunshine, whether skiing on mountain tops, or snowshoeing in the woods, we hardly give these common little birds a second glance, but they are truly wondrous creatures. Say “Hello” to the next one you see and spend a minute watching its busy survival behaviors.

By Anne Krantz, Community Tree Steward & Master Gardener                                             

 2/15/07

Thick and blue, tried and true
Thin and crispy, way too risky

My story involves ice—lake ice and ice skating. Back in the ‘80s, when winters were really cold, they sometimes delivered that unique sequence of weather conditions needed to form perfect ice on ponds and lakes, even here in southern New Hampshire. If the ice set during the long, cold December nights before the big snows, it became glass, which made for exhilarating ice skating.

I learned to skate on rinks made by flooding tennis courts, so I was excited the year a local shallow pond froze like glass early one December. I can remember skating around the edge on new ice that looked to be about three inches thick, safe for one person according to my son’s Boy Scout manual

The ice was so clear I could see all the leaves and debris on the bottom as I skated across—a weird sensation. It was also scary as the ice cracked under my skate blades, so I never skated more than an arm’s length from the edge. But great adventure!

A few more cold nights and I was able to venture farther out. Then it snowed and I traded skates for skis. But the memory lingered. I looked forward to more really cold Decembers with ice forming before the arrival of the snowstorms.

Another winter, all 222 acres of Baboosic Lake froze, first around the edges and then way out toward the middle, although I could see a spot of open water where the gulls kept the water stirred up. But the ice was well over a foot thick in many places, so I ventured out to find the smoothest patches. What a thrill to skate straight up and down the lake to the point of exhaustion. What a view I had, gliding alone in the middle of the frozen lake, looking off to the distant hills.
 
Early one winter the entire lake froze like a piece of thick plate glass. It was miraculous—not a ripple or blemish, clear blue ice, which hairline cracks showed to be well over a foot thick. We could skate straight across, up and down, around and around, inspecting all the summer cottages.

One beautiful March day I was lured to the ice by the sun. Alone, I set out on my route across the lake. It must have been after an Olympics; I tucked down and slid into my speed-skating zone. Suddenly I saw ripples of open water straight ahead. Wrenched from my zone, I made a screeching skater’s stop. I did a quick about-face, totally unnerved by the waves in my path, even though I realized almost immediately that the rippling water I’d encountered had just seeped across the thick ice from a nearby inlet. Nonetheless, I headed for safe ice at the other end of the lake.

I relaxed again and was enjoying the warm sun on my face and the beauty of nature in late winter when a gunshot jolted me from my reverie. Of course it wasn’t a gunshot, only the ice cracking in the warm sun, but logic didn’t prevail at that moment. Total terror overtook me; the deadly sound trumped the visual reality of the very thick ice. Although my heart stopped, my legs became motorized. Back in top speed-skating form, I tore across to the safety of the shady cove and the shoreline, the “gunshots” cracking all about.

I’ve never told anyone this story because I didn’t want to admit my folly: skating alone, far out on a large lake in late winter. Perhaps Baboosic will never freeze again like it did that winter, so others won’t be able to repeat my recklessness.

Despite the mounting evidence for global warming, we’ll probably have ice thick enough for winter sports this winter. If the season continues with little snowfall, we may even get some great skating. I hardly need to point out that skating alone is a dangerous idea, or that late-winter skating is especially risky because the ice changes quickly as the sun gets stronger and the ice thins out from underneath.

The N.H. Fish and Game Department already issued one warning earlier this season through its web site: “N.H. Ice Conditions Unpredictable—Check Before You Go Out on Ice.”

Winter has made its appearance in New Hampshire at last, but the warm weather and uneven temperatures that have prevailed in the state so far this season mean the condition of ice on New Hampshire's waterbodies is unpredictable at best and could be treacherous. New Hampshire Fish and Game officials urge outdoor enthusiasts to play it safe and check ice carefully before venturing onto ice-covered waters.

And, if you skate out far and long, don’t skate alone.

By Anne Krantz, Community Tree Steward & Master Gardener

2/7/07  

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You may have noticed the advent of winter in more than just a change in ambient temperature. There are fewer leaves, fewer bugs, and fewer birds. The surfaces we tread upon outdoors change in texture and normally turn a lighter color. Indeed, most of us get paler, too, and heavier, encumbered with thicker trappings.

Many other animals also put on heavier coats. A few actually pale all the way to white. I regret we don’t live with arctic foxes, tundra hares or the willow ptarmigan. But we do cohabit with snowshoe hares, ermines and long-tailed weasels. These three also completely change their seasonal garb from shades of brown and gray to snow white and then back again in spring.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine the advantages of this seasonal fashion change. Ermines, also called short-tailed weasels, and the somewhat larger long-tailed weasels hunt small animals over and under the snow cover. There is a huge benefit in being difficult for your targeted dinner to see you coming and take evasive action. Although mice, voles and shrews might have benefited from adopting similar strategies, their high reproductive rates are adequate for the continued survival of their species.

Another advantage to the weasels’ winter camouflage: weasels themselves are sought by owls, hawks, fishers, foxes, coyotes and bobcats.  Tips of the tails of both of our local weasels remain black both summer and winter. Biologists have a plausible explanation for this seeming paradox: predators are apt to fixate on the more expendable bobbing tail, a far safer target from the weasel’s point of view.

Mink, another smallish member of the Mustelide family, remain chestnut-colored year round. They hunt along and in dark waters for their meals, and a change to a lighter color would prove disastrous for them.

Weasel predators and the weasels themselves all hunt the snowshoe hare. Also known as the varying hare, the snowshoe hare is the only wild Lagamorph we are likely to see in the central and northern parts of New Hampshire. The best strategy for the hare is to remain motionless and hopefully unseen. Unlike the weasels, the snowshoe hare changes only the color of its guard hairs, the longest, coarsest hairs that make up its outer coat. In September or October these start to grow in pure white, obscuring the darker underfur.

Biologists suggest the color white exchanges less heat with the surrounding environment, meaning that although a white coat absorbs less heat from the sun, it also allows less body heat to escape.

For snowshoe hares, the autumn molt starts on the ears, feet, and legs, and ends on the back. In March, the spring molt starts on the forehead, muzzle, and body and finishes with the ears and feet. The mottled effect usually coincides with the mottled effect of patchy snowmelt. Weasels also have definite molt patterns, which follow approximately the same schedule as the hares.
Temperature change isn’t the major factor stimulating color change. Shedding is triggered by day length. The reduced intensity of light entering through an animal’s eyes as the days shorten signals the pituitary gland in the brain to start the fall molt. This gland also regulates the release of pigment to cells in the hair follicles, resulting in a color change. As the days lengthen again, the spring molt reverses the color scheme. Long-tailed weasels and snowshoe hares don’t change color in the snowless parts of their ranges.

Though some of us may yearn for early melts or even snow-free winters, some of the other residents prefer and may even require snowy winter seasons. I wonder how they are faring this year.

By J. Ann Eldridge, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

2/01/07