Extension News: December 2007 Archives

Resolved to avoid the usual holiday stress, I arose one morning recently and planned my day around wrapping Christmas presents. I decided to get out and fill the bird feeders first. Recent snow had coated the ground with almost a foot of light powder and the chickadees were getting impatient. A bucket of black oil sunflower seeds, a few ears of Indian corn saved from this year’s harvest, and I was ready to roll.

As I was filling the feeders hanging on an old lilac bush, the chickadees arrived above me and scolded hungrily. Plodding through the snow, I crossed the yard to a wooden feeder mounted on an old pine stump. This feeder has a roof and is a favorite of blue jays and squirrels, both red and gray. The stump is on uneven ground, so I need to stretch and balance precariously to reach the feeder and pour in seeds and cobs of dried corn.

A slight sound above my head made me look up; an owl flew slowly and silently from a branch just overhead to a tree not too far away. With my eyes locked on the owl, I finished refilling the bird feeder.

The owl continued to perch and watch me as I backed away silently, wondering how much time it would take to run in the house and get the binoculars before it flew away. When I returned, the owl had flown back to its original branch, assured that it was now safe to begin its vigil anew.

I had noticed that in flight it appeared to be a light, creamy beige with touches of a golden brown. In addition, streaks of brown ran vertically down its lighter chest, and under its beak, a band of checkered brown and cream feathers formed a thick ruff about the neck.

Perched with its back to me, its large dark eyes peered first to its left and then its right, head turning to look in my direction, which gave the illusion of a full, 180 degree revolution. For the next three and one half hours, it remained on its watch; apparently, a bird feeder can feed more than the seed eaters on my list.

Suddenly, the owl’s tail lifted and its wings opened; it dove below the feeder and slipped gracefully into the space created between a log and the several inches of new snow. For a few seconds, the owl disappeared, only to reappear suddenly as it emerged from the trough. It sat a few minutes in the snow with a mouse like tail hanging from its beak. Lunch soon over, it flew back to its perch.

What a photo op! Would this owl with its presidential like stature stay long enough to pose? I made another mad scramble to retrieve my camera, and, sure enough, the stately bird posed as patiently as a New Hampshire presidential primary candidate, turning its head first left, then right, then swiveling to look directly behind itself.

I don’t know when the owl left, but it couldn’t have been long before dark because both my husband and I continued to check every chance we had, and it was there until the light faded.

Needless to say, I didn’t get much gift wrapping done. At some point during the afternoon, I checked my bird book and discovered that this was a Barred Owl, the one who calls, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

Checking the reports of recent New Hampshire bird sightings at Virtual Birder (www.virtualbirder.com/bmail/nhbirds/latest.html), I discovered that Barred Owls are more plentiful in New Hampshire this winter than in years past and learned this may be due to a crash in the red backed vole population in Canada, which forced the owls to move south for food. Barred Owls typically hunt at night, but under stress, hungry owls will hunt during the day.

Knowing that hunger may have driven this bird to my backyard adds a bittersweet tinge to my owl sighting. Hopefully, the owl will survive the winter here by finding all the voles that plague my garden.

If I stop and think back on this day, my neglected to do list didn’t get any shorter, but my list of memorable moments did get longer.

By Helen Downing, Community Tree Steward

I used to think of a river as a place to go fishing with my pals. Now I have a much broader sense of rivers. A few years ago I became a member of the planning board in my community. One duty of the board is to protect the natural heritage of our community.

The Winnipesaukee River flows along the northern boundary of the town into Franklin and joins the Pemigewasset River to form the Merrimack River. As it flows downstream, the Merrimack forms the western border of our town. So we in Northfield feel a double obligation to the flowing waters that need our care and concern.

The Winnipesaukee is an interesting river. It finds its source in the big lake by the same name. It flows over many dams and through several lakes before it reaches the Merrimack in Franklin. Just as it enters Northfield from the east, it crosses a giant aquifer shared by Belmont, Tilton and Northfield. The aquifer furnishes fresh drinking water for the three town region.

As a member of the planning board, I was asked to be a part of three town committee to study the aquifer and its future adequacy. While serving on that committee, I became aware that what happens on the land surfaces in our towns has a direct effect on what goes into the aquifer and the river as well.

One of the activities we undertook was a survey of all the potential contamination sites in the three towns. That was certainly a learning experience. We identified a former asbestos plant site, a battery manufacturing site, two closed town dumps and a junkyard containing several barrels of an unidentified oily liquid. We also discovered that all parking lots and roads in the towns produce contaminated runoff.

One outgrowth of our work was the compilation of a best management handbook for use by present and potential industries in the three towns, a document extolled as a model by the N.H. Department of Environmental Services.

Although I still approach the river with fly rod in hand, I now also pay attention to what's growing on the bank and what's in the water besides fish. I know a lot more about the ecology of the stream because I joined a group called the Upper Merrimack Local Advisory Committee. We serve as a sort of watchdog committee on development planned on or near the banks of the rivers in our area. In addition, we monitor stream flow and the types of plants and insects found in or near the streams.

My interest in the river has also led me in another related direction. About a year ago I attended a UNH Cooperative Extension training to become a Community Tree Steward. The training had a lot of content related to the trees that grow along or near the river.

“Invasive species” are a concern of many New Hampshire conservation people, plants that have been imported into our ecosystems on purpose or by accident, but that are now crowding out native species. Other invasives have been brought in by migrating birds, in the case of water plants, by boats towed in and launched on the water.

I recently began working with a N.H. Fish and Game Department project called Wonders of Wildlife (WOW) to educate the next generation about wildlife habitats and how they should interact with it. The project teaches citizen volunteers like me to go into elementary school classrooms and present programs as an adjunct to the curriculum units developed by their teachers. There is no directive to be brilliant. My job is to communicate sincerely to the children that the environment needs them to help monitor and save their natural home.

Buried, not too deeply, are my own feelings and understandings about the river that runs through their town. One activity in the presentation is a game that requires them, as a group, to evaluate a group of pictures of animals that might be found in a wetland, a forest or a grassland habitat.

After the classification exercise, I remind them about the river trail that begins about 100 feet from their classroom. Along that trail they can find all three habitats. I usually offer to guide them and their teacher on hikes in the spring.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

The thermometer this morning read 16.4 degrees F. Time to burrow into the hall closet for the heavy coat, hat, gloves and scarf. It was 7:30 and the birds were hungry. Time to get their feeders out and hung for the day.

The first spring I lived in this area, I didn’t know about bears. The former owner of the house had said something about losing a feeder to bears, but what with unpacking boxes and settling the dogs into their new home, I hadn’t really paid attention.

Outside was a sturdy metal pole, well installed into concrete. On top was a bar with two hooks, perfect for bird feeders. In no time, I had the feeders up and birds had begun visiting.

One morning I looked out and didn’t see the feeders or the pole. What? I dressed swiftly and headed out to the area. The feeders were there on the ground, empty, and the sturdy pole had been pulled down and bent over at an angle of more than 90 degrees. I tried to pull the pole back up but couldn’t get it to budge.

Later that day, I walked over to the neighbor’s house and asked about bears. “Don’t leave your feeder out overnight,” she said. “Bring it in every night from April 1 to December 1.” I decided that was good advice.

Among my stuff I’d packed and moved was an old bird feeder, the kind with a plastic lining and a metal cage to keep out squirrels and large birds. The plastic had long since deteriorated and been thrown out, but the metal cage was perfect for holding dog hair and thread orts. I’d used it before and had always enjoyed watching the birds take the hair and bits of thread for their nests.

After the pole incident, I didn’t dare hang the cage too high, so I looped it over a hook about three feet off the ground. I figured a visiting bear would see what it was and leave it alone. I was wrong. One morning I came out to find the cage on the ground, stomped flat in the middle an obvious expression of disappointment on the bear’s part. I tossed the cage.

I believed I now had an understanding of what to do and not do as far as bears and bird feeders go, but the bears had one more lesson for me. It was October, we’d gone out to dinner and I’d left the feeder out because it was still light. When we got home, it was twilight still bright enough to see into the yard without turning on any lights. Bright enough to see the feeder hanging from its hook except it wasn’t there. In that short time, before full darkness, the bear had come and taken the feeder away with him. It was two years before I found the feeder, down at the edge of the swamp.

One summer night, just as I was getting into bed, the motion detector light came on outside the garage. I quickly made for the window in time to see the rear end of black bear ambling away. I’d seen a bear! It’s one thing to have your feeder stolen by one; it’s quite another to actually see one.

A later visit to the Squam Lake Science Center gave me a very different view of our native black bear. Two captive bears were interacting with one another, standing up to their full height and chasing each other around the fenced area. Seeing live black bears, full grown, teeth bared and claws extended, was a stark reminder of their true power.

They aren’t cuddly overgrown teddy bears, but wild creatures, intent on filling their bellies before the long hibernation, rebuilding their reserves after a long winter’s sleep, and protecting their young from any danger, real or imagined. It isn't wise to encourage them to come too close to our homes or our pets, or to allow them to think of our home grounds as feeding areas.

So now, well before twilight sets in, I bring the feeders into the house every night. I don't even dare leave them on the enclosed porch for fear of the smell enticing a bear to break in. Each morning I don a coat and gloves and carry the feeders back outside, a ritual I don't enjoy.

On this particular morning, I looped three feeders over my arms and walked out to the poles in the frigid air. In the nearby trees, several chickadees warned others of my approach. A nuthatch gave its odd call. I hung the feeders, then walked a few feet away to check on the dogs. When I turned back, the birds were already feasting. I watched for a moment then returned inside. It was time for my breakfast.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener