Extension News: September 2009 Archives

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

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