Extension News: May 2008 Archives

Over the winter, I began reading about making ponds and waterfalls. Visions of rocks started dancing in my head about the middle of February. I drew and redrew my plans. With my wife looking over my shoulder (no doubt contemplating the rocks in my head), I proceeded to lay out an ambitious rock project.

As the snow melted in late March, I was out on the slope in back of the garage with string and stakes, laying out the watercourse of the waterfall. I bought the necessary materials for the pool, water system, and electrical power for the pump. Then I waited a month for the ground to thaw.

Following the expert directions I found in books, I started from the lowest point. I set the preformed pond in place and backfilled around the upper perimeter. I left the lower side open and built a structure to contain the electrical supply.

A water feature in the yard undergoes constant transition. Now that warmer weather has arrived this season, I've realized I need to change the liner on the waterfall and move more rocks to improve the flow of the water.

Once I've completed the structural work, I'll add plantings to the fringes of the watercourse: astilbe and daylilies around the pond, sedum and vinca hugging the rocks along the watercourse, creeping thyme and alyssum emerging from the crevices between the rocks. As the season progresses, I'll add lights and potted moon-flower vines for night viewing.

In addition to keeping me occupied, the pond has become a center of gravity for my 15 grandchildren, ages 2 to 20, when they visit. Some of them go straight to the pond before they come into the house. Others come in the front door and briefly sit in front of the television set. But soon they become restless and exit at the back of the house, pausing briefly on the deck to observe the pond and waterfall from on high. Then quickly, they leave their vantage point and follow the waterfall to the pond.

I've provided a bench at the bottom of the slope next to the pond from which they can amuse themselves. Some merely sit and watch the resident frog (he's returned this spring). Others reach into the pond's cool reservoir and hum a quiet tune. The more active ones want to grab a stick and poke at the frog or the water lily. Occasionally, a child will insist on trying to catch the frog. Of course the frog has other ideas and takes evasive steps to avoid capture.

I've had to institute a few pond rules:

No squeezing the frog.
The frog stays at or in the pond.
Don't use sticks to abuse the frog or the pond lily.

After they've tired of the pond, I usually give the grandchildren a tour of my flower and vegetable gardens, where I encourage some supervised picking (though I insist they wash the vegetables before eating). Depending on the age of the child, I may offer to give one a ride in a cart pulled behind my garden tractor.

These activities tend to make the visits more pleasant for all of us. I think it also encourages my grandchildren to have more curiosity about the natural world outside and around their own home as well.

Finally, the care and grooming of the pond area provides me many pleasant hours doing something restorative to the soul. If I feel the need of a bit of shade, I step a few feet from the pond and sit down in the woods, find a fallen log next to a live tree and lean back. Absolutely no watches or cell phones allowed there!

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

It started with an eel.

When it came writhing out of the black water that long-ago summer night, my second thought, after first wondering how I would get it off my line, was how it ended up here in a small Chester bog pond almost 40 miles from its origin in the Atlantic Ocean.

I knew from past reading the eel had made its way upstream as a one-inch elver nearly a decade earlier and would soon return to the saltwater as a full-grown adult. The contemplation of that epic journey inspired me to retrace its route.

And so some years later on a spring flood, my 12-year old son and I retraced the eel’s journey in a canoe and, in so doing, discovered the Exeter River.

The Exeter is one of the family of New Hampshire coastal rivers that flow eventually to the Atlantic. The Lamprey, Winnicutt, Oyster, and the river I grew up on the Bellamy are virtually indistinguishable from one another. A voyager plunked blindfolded in a kayak into one of these rivers would be hard-pressed to identify it as one or the other when the blindfold was removed.

The rivers are uniformly tea-colored from the leaf tannins, mixing slow bends with fast-drops over shale rapids, but at some point or another­usually over dams constructed by the first settlers to capture the power of falling water­they become salt water.

Over the 20 years or so following my first spring trip, various companions and I made the Exeter River trip several times, dubbing our adventure “Chester to the Sea” the "sea" liberally defined as the salt water below the dam at Exeter.

We typically leave at first light from a roadside in Chester and finish, sometimes in the dark, at Newfields, Adams Point or Newmarket, depending on how well we judged the outgoing tide. We may portage as many as 20 times over dams and blowdowns along the river’s length.

A friend and I once estimated we dipped our paddles 20,000 times during the 12- to 14-hour trip.

We start out bundled against the morning chill, shed clothes in the midday warmth, and rebundle as the shore lights twinkle. Along the way,we see the best and worst of this coastal river that rises in hillside seeps in Chester, gathers itself from many streams, then passes largely unnoticed through six towns on its way to becoming the Squamscott River that finishes in Great Bay.

The best parts of the river are the confusing swamps, where the river’s true course is often determined by the bend of the underwater grass, and the stretches of dark rapids where the tea-colored water disguises the rocks that scrape plastic curlicues from our boats.

The worst parts of the trip aren’t the natural hardships of the journey but seeing the insults to the river done by those who see it as convenient disposal for their leaf piles, old tires and worse. Less obvious, but more damaging, are the chemically-treated lawns at the river’s edge whose lushness spells slow death for the river.

It has been the misfortune of the Exeter River, like the other coastal rivers, to flow through some of the most heavily populated areas of New Hampshire, doubly unfortunate because the rivers have been largely unprotected by the state’s Shoreland Protection Program and so have suffered more insults than their larger inland counterparts.

Each year we’d set out optimistic, hoping that for every clear-cut shoreline with a lawn sweeping down from the house to the water’s edge, we’d find a secluded river bend, and for each discarded tire, we’d find a log covered with painted turtles.

This year, we have cause for new optimism. Changes to the Comprehensive Shoreland Protection Act due to take effect July 1 will protect the Exeter River from Sandown to the sea. The new rules will prohibit many insults to the river.

So each spring when the trout lilies bloom and the water is high enough to allow passage, we’ll once again dip our paddles and head downstream. I like to think that as we paddle, we float above elvers squirming upstream toward a distant bog pond.

By Greg Lowell, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

Today I watched a turkey vulture as it dipped and turned and circled over the swamp. The day was cloudy so perhaps the thermals hadn’t built up enough to enable the big bird to soar high in the sky as it usually would. I was pleased to see it so low though; I could watch it clearly with bare eyes and didn’t need to move the binoculars around the sky, trying to keep up with it.

Watching a large bird effortlessly float through the air is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Just the slightest dip of a wing and the entire bird changes direction, zooming down towards the ground to check out a dark spot that might be a road kill; another brief movement and back up it soars.

When I first started going on bird walks with experienced birders, I was thrilled to see these black specks way up in the sky.

“What’s that bird?” I asked eagerly.

The reply was a bored, “TV.” These people had seen so many turkey vultures circling around that they weren’t really interested. Another jot was made on the list and the hunt went on for more exciting birds, like the golden-crowned kinglet calling softly from a thicket.

I remained interested, however. Imagine being able to float like that, for hours at a time, gently gliding into a dip, then out again, soaring higher, then making a quick movement and a change of direction to bring myself back over the territory from a new angle.

My interest was really sparked the day an enormous black vulture with an ugly bald head swept past me at great speed, just above eye level. I suppose it had seen or smelled something dead and tasty nearby, and I had walked nearly into its path when it came down for a closer look.

Yes, I did say “dead and tasty.” They soar over fields and forests, roads and highways, to seek that unfortunate deer killed by a motor vehicle, or using their incredible sense of smell to seek out a carcass hidden by a successful predator, or a calf that died shortly after birth.

Once they’ve found a carcass, they descend immediately and begin to feast. Bird biologists believe the turkey vulture’s bald head ensures that rotting remains won’t damage feathers where the bird can’t reach to clean them. They are neither neat nor fussy eaters. Dead amphibians, reptiles and birds are just as welcome to them as domestic and wild mammals. They’ll even eat fish.

You might wonder why you’ve never seen a turkey vulture nest high in a tree. Surely a bird this large would need a very big nest. The answer is simple: they don’t bother to make nests. They lay their one to three eggs (usually two) on the ground on rocky ledges, in large crevices, in caves, or in hollow snags (dead trees). In the Northeast, they lay their eggs in May or June, and about two and a half months later the young have fledged.

Once, it was rare to see turkey vultures circling in the sky. For much of the last hundred years, the birds kept to a range more south of us than they do now. But these large birds are now increasing their range dramatically. Is a warmer climate bringing them north? Maybe the growing deer population is encouraging these carrion-eaters to move our way. We keep building more roads, and the increased traffic probably means more road kills. Perhaps these easy meals are driving the turkey vultures’ expansion.

As I watch the bird turn effortlessly, its wing tips flared out, its light-colored head easily visible against the dark body, I’m not thinking about why it’s here. Just watching it float and dip and circle is such a treat.

I think of the nature programs I’ve seen on television, with the big vultures of Africa squabbling over a dead rhino or giraffe. The scene appears exotic and far away, but right here in our own corner of the Northeast, similar scenes are repeated every day.

Just substitute a road-killed deer for the rhino-the action is the same. Turkey vultures fill an important niche in our environment, recycling the remains of dead animals. And it’s happening right outside our doors.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener
UNH Cooperative Extension

My experience with rocks began quite suddenly when I moved into my new house in May of 2005. Inside everything was finished, but outside, alas, was a field of dirt and lots of rocks.

The builder had created a small lawn in the front. He'd applied topsoil and grass seed: some evidence of growth showed above the soil. His last instruction before he drove away was, "Add water." He gave no instructions for dealing with the rocks.

In all fairness, I must add he had created some nice rock retaining walls at strategic points around the foundation perimeter. But it soon became evident that I'd have to come up with a plan for the rest of the acre. I started with a drawing. I expanded the drawing.

In the expansion stage,I found myself caught between a rock and...many others. Questions began to arise. Which rocks to move first? Where to put the ones I'd move? Back to the drawing to study the situation further.

Then came the question of how to transport and place solid objects ranging in weight from a few ounces to 70 pounds. I took stock of my equipment: a long piece of one-inch pipe, which would help pry rocks to the surface, and an assortment of shovels.

So much for the levers, but what did I have to transport the weightier rocks once I'd pried them out of the soil? I considered my wheelbarrow. It would work well on the skull-sized and smaller stones, but what about the really big ones?

My search led me to the back of the basement. Hidden in the corner was a professional-sized hand truck belonging to one of my sons-in-law,just the ticket. It had remained there unused since he had brought some items in for temporary storage. The items are still there, but the hand truck is my favorite adopted tool until he remembers where he left it.

Observing the retaining walls, I envisioned a pattern of rocks next to the house. Starting with the walls next to the end of the house, I connected them on my paper plan with dots representing a row of medium-sized rocks. I later laid the rocks to create a raised bed sloped for drainage.

I piled additional rocks around and rising above some stumps, and back-filled over and around the stumps to create circular raised beds for annuals. I still had plenty of rocks, but winter overtook me and I quit for the season.

The following spring I found numerous places to create rock enclosures: round ones here, rectangular ones there and, just for fun, a pinwheel or two. They were a bit hard to mow around, but very decorative when planted with flowers. I took a break for the rest of the year to pursue trout fishing and other fun activities.

The next winter, I began reading about ponds and waterfalls. Visions of rocks started dancing in my head about the middle of February. I drew and redrew my plans and proceeded to lay out the biggest rock project of all.

As the snow melted in late March, I was out on the slope in back of the garage with string and stakes, laying out the watercourse of the waterfall. I acquired materials for the pool and the water system and the electrical power for the pump. Then I waited a month for the ground to thaw.

Following the directions of the experts I found in books, I started from the lowest point. I set a preformed pond in place and backfilled around its upper perimeter. I left the lower side open for a structure to contain the electrical supply. I laid the watercourse from the lowest point to the highest, created two points of release for the water, and joined them halfway to the pond. I put down larger rocks along the perimeter and placed small and medium-sized rocks in the watercourse to create a cascade effect.

It is now the spring of 2008. All my hard-rock work is done and my beds and other creations are calling out for attention and eventual planting as the last frost date approaches. I look out and see the bones of the beds emerging from the snow and I get itchy for action. I still see rocks I can use to enhance my landscape artwork.

Alas, there is a downside to this tale. I messed up my shoulder placing some of the larger rocks. But time heals all. While I'm healing, I can sit back, have a cup of Joe and smell the spring flowers.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

UNH Cooperative Extension

I was quite young, perhaps 10, when I found the head.

 I had by that point seen a few gruesome horror films on the sly, but my imagination couldn’t grasp an explanation for the sight of the severed head of a goldfinch impaled on the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the field. It must have been spring; the goldfinch was in his bright courtship attire. I must have looked anxiously over my shoulder.

 A decade or so later I read about shrikes, and another decade or two passed before I saw one. This winter again I’ve heard a northern shrike singing in the field across the road. Its scientific name Lanius excubitor translates to “butcher watchman.” Carolus Linnaeus, the famed father of modern taxonomy, gave this bird its name of “watchman.”

 Linnaeus was praised for developing a logical, double-name system for describing the relationships among plants based on similarities in their reproductive structures. He was apparently more patient in observing the minutiae of flora than fauna because he concluded that the shrike was taking its sentinel stance at the tops of bushes, poles, and trees to forewarn little birds of the approach of a hawk.

 Shrikes may indeed be watching for hawks in their own self-interest, but they also have a culinary interest in the songbirds. This revelation has been utterly horrifying to some bird lovers. A close look at a shrike reveals an unusual head-size-to-body ratio and a distinct raptor hook to the bill. Sweet little birds sometimes overlook this anatomical feature. It is said that the shrike will even lurk in the underbrush beckoning curious birds with pleading murmurs.

 It was an unfamiliar voice that drew my attention to the shrike, a series of not-quite-melodic phrases that go nowhere and seem not to repeat. “If perseverance deserved success, the shrike would take high marks as a singer,” wrote Frank Chapman in the 1895 Handbook of Eastern North America. It is written that both sexes will sing and, come to think of it, I wonder why this bird would be singing at all, given that its breeding home—Alaska and central Canada—is so far north?

 This wolf in sheep’s clothing has the delicate feet of any perching bird. The element of surprise and a swift knock on the back of the head secures a meal for the shrike. The word “shrike” has the same Anglo Saxon root as “shriek,” though whether the shriek comes from the shrike, the victim, or the horrified bird-fancier is not clear.

 “One has to have something of the savage in him to enjoy thoroughly the study of the shrike,” wrote Edward Brayton Clark in 1901. “As a matter of fact, the close daily observance of the bird involves some little sacrifice for the person whose nature is tempered with mercy. The shrike is essentially cruel. It is a butcher pure and simple and a butcher that knows no merciful methods in plying its trade. More than this, the shrike is the most arrant hypocrite in the whole bird calendar. Its appearance as it sits apparently sunning itself, but in reality keeping sharp lookout for prey, is the perfect counterfeit of innocence.”

 The older nature books are full of such accusations directed at this hunter. However, the shrike gives chase solely for the purpose of culling the not-so-fleet to secure food. These writers choose to forget that a human hunter often kills for mere sport or trophy.

 It isn’t every year one can find a shrike in a New England pasture. “Like the bold Norse robber barons of old, these birds come down from their Northern wilds to prey on Southern wealth,” wrote Ora Willis Knight in 1908. Ornithologists report that it is mostly the immature shrikes with faint barring of the breast that wander south in the fall and depart in the spring. In times of cyclical rodent crash in Canada, even more birds will visit and these may travel even further south into the U.S. At this time of year, this northern shrike is sating him or herself mostly with rodents.

 In its summer breeding grounds, the shrike is also known as grasshopper hawk, cricket hawk, or mouse hawk, acknowledging the main staples of its diet. Shrikes can also take a few snakes and frogs. Like a storefront butcher, a male shrike may hang a flamboyant display of fresh kill in a thorn bush or shrub to impress a prospective mate with his powers of providence. Food may be similarly cached against lean times, and this is probably the circumstance I witnessed so many years ago.

 If you should be lucky enough to glimpse one of these gray visitors, wish him or her well on the passage north come spring. Certainly we have mice to spare here this winter.

Note: A version of this article was first published in the Bradford Bridge, a community newsletter

By Ann Eldridge, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator