Extension News: February 2010 Archives

I found it! For years, I've been searching every woodpecker hole in every dead or live tree I could reach. All the books say that many birds use woodpecker holes for nesting sites, but I'd never found a nest in a hole.

I've seen many nests built in crotches of trees, including one I noticed only because a brilliant male scarlet tanager flew right in front of me and up into the nest to feed his young. I've seen nests in bird houses I've put out and robins' nests on the jut-out of the dining-room bay window under the shelter of the porch roof.

The phoebes also like the tops of our outside spotlights and frequently nest there. Once I found the nest of a northern Baltimore oriole out in the middle of the swamp. But a nest in a tree hollow carved out by woodpeckers? No, never. Until yesterday.

Each fresh coat of snow for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing means hours of clearing. By the time I've shoveled the paths to the woodpile and bird feeders, cleared the decks and porch, created paths for my little dogs, and pulled snow off the porch roof, I'm too tired to get out there and enjoy the snow.

Yesterday, however, I stole some time. I'd donned snowshoes to get behind the woodpile to clear snow off the back. So when I finished, I headed out into the woods. They were so lovely still, and peaceful, the snow clinging to many branches. I could walk everywhere since the fallen trees, small boulders, stone walls, and low shrubs were covered in snow.

I followed a path made by a deer, trekking over to a large, dead tree to check it out. This tree must have been a monster in life. It had at least four trunks, one which showed signs of someone attempting to cut it with a saw 10 feet above the ground. One of the trunks lay buried under the snow. The bark was gone, and I could see many tunnels made by grubs and holes made by woodpeckers. I searched carefully, but no sign of a nest.

Out onto the swamp I went. On my last visit, I'd noticed an odd hole, with dirty footprints all around it but none leading to or away from it. Some creature must have come up from under the snow, looked around, and headed back inside. The most recent snowfall, however, had left only a small opening under a dead tree.

Up above, the five heron nests, piled high with snow, stood out starkly from their tree supports. I hope that somewhere down south the heron pairs and their 14 young are feeding well and enjoying the warmth and sunshine. Next month, the first arrivals should be here, scouting out the territory and choosing the best nest site. I'm glad these nests are all still intact. A few additional branches to refurbish and they'll be all set for a new crop of squabbling youngsters.

A hairy woodpecker flew nearby and began working on a tree. Bits of bark and wood flew out and fell onto the snow below. The dead evergreens seemed almost alive again with green moss hanging from each branch. I love to look at the dead trunks. Stripped now of bark, they reveal the twists and turns each tree made as it reached for the sun, shifted slightly to one side to grow around another, repaired the damage from a broken limb. One tree in particular was covered with knobs formed when the tree grew out over a stub. Little insect holes filled the trunk as well as one or two larger ones made by the birds.

I moved to a new area and noticed a broad snag about eight feet tall. The lower portion was nearly hollow and above, at eye level, was a large hole clearly bored by a woodpecker. I peeked inside and there it was, a beautiful bird's nest.

Snow had filled the nest's cavity so I carefully removed it to see the construction of the nest itself. Dried mud and grasses formed a perfect circle. The inside was as smooth as a carefully turned and sanded wooden bowl. The nest was large, at least as large as the ones the robins build above our window. The birds had carefully selected an opening which faced east, avoiding both the heat of the summer sun and the winds from the north and west. Perfect.

I noted the location of that tree. In the spring and summer, I won't be able to see the opening from the shore, but I'll be able to watch for adult birds flying in and out of the nest. I'm curious to know what species built the nest. Now that I've found it, I'm going to enjoy it.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Drawing: Pamela Doherty, UNH Cooperative Extension

Northfield, New Hampshire has been my home for 40 years. Five years ago I moved into a new home, but stayed in the same town.

Each move requires adjustment to new surroundings and a pulling away from the old. Pulling away from the old takes longer than adjusting to the new, because you usually have strong feelings invested there. The old place fit me like my skin after I’d lived there for 35 years. I felt I knew every blade of grass (most of it of the crabgrass variety), so I had mixed feelings about moving.

Although I've lived in urban or small-town environments, teaching and raising children for most of my adult life, I still have strong memories of other places I've lived. For example, the way I live now is heavily influenced by what I did as a youngster growing up on a farm in the Great Plains, where the principal activity was making things grow.

Our rural farm had 40 acres for growing things to sell and sustain ourselves. I learned to grow garden crops as well as orchard and vineyard products. We had a farm stand for the various vegetables and a pick-your-own arrangement for the orchard and grape vines. Planting, pruning, harvesting and general care of the livestock were skills I learned early on the farm. Like most boys, I didn't always enjoy what were, in retrospect, a lot of good life skills.

As I began my retirement, I made a conscious choice to go back to my rural roots. I wasn't inclined to return to the flatlands of Kansas. I wanted to stay in Northfield, so I began looking for land on which to build my dream house.

Neighbors were wondering if they had put me off somehow, but I assured them that now the children were grown, I wanted a place where I could apply some of the long-unused skills that were such a part of my early life. Simply stated, I wanted to play in the dirt and become more intimate with the seasonal changes.

I moved into my new place in the spring of 2005.The brand-new home was surrounded by a thin layer of topsoil in the front yard and some pretty rough stuff in the back and side yards. I must say that I worked harder those first two years than I ever did on the farm as a boy, because everything needed to done at once.

There was lawn to seed, wildlife-attracting shrubs to set in place, vegetable and flower gardens to plant, and piles of rocks to organize. I started saving table scraps and yard rakings and began to compost in earnest. With a strong back and planning, I brought order to the chaos. My wife worried that I'd have a heart attack, but I assured her that a broken finger was more likely. Actually, my muscle tone improved dramatically and I lost a few pounds of city fat. The amazing thing is that all those long-dormant skills developed in the fields of my youth came flooding back.

I took the UNH Cooperative Extension Community Tree Steward training, which helped me deal with the shrub planting I had in mind. I contacted the State Forest Nursery for a list of seedlings appropriate for my site and for sale at a reasonable price.

As soon as I let them know I was a Tree Steward, they asked me if I would like to volunteer when they sorted the plants in the spring, and I agreed. One side benefit of that ongoing relationship has been lots of expert advice and a pretty good selection of undersized but healthy plants for free.

As I prepare to launch into my fifth spring I’m beginning to feel a new sense of place, an attachment to this small space in the world and to what I have done here. When I pull into the driveway, I see a creation I have planned and shaped. As an encroacher on the woods around me, I 'm fulfilling a responsibility to make the land benefit not only me and my own aesthetic tastes, but the mammals, birds, snakes, amphibians, insects and other creatures who also have an attachment to this place.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

Drawing by Mary West, UNH Cooperative Extension

Whenever my husband and I walk together in the woods, he is looking up and I am looking down. Up because he is thinking about his woodlands: which trees need thinning, which need to be allowed more light; down, because I am looking for anything that might grow on the forest floor: wildflowers, mosses, lichens, mushrooms, rocks.

Looking down keeps me from catching my toes on surface roots and fallen branches. (My husband is much more sure-footed than I.) But I have decided to look up more often. There’s so much to see­clouds, sky, the stars, bats and birds­that require leaning back and looking up.

In winter, cloud action has a different energy from that of summer; look up and you will see. The wind in the earth’s troposphere can be quite severe, and when it is, "lenticular" clouds appear more often. These clouds are lens-shaped, concave and smooth with curved tops like a lens. They occur more frequently over tall mountains and out west, but do happen here, just not as often.

One day a few weeks ago, I watched as three lenticular clouds became thinner and more stretched out over the course of 90 minutes. How long they had been there I didn’t know, but they are known to last quite awhile due to their location in the upper atmosphere and strong, circulating winds that swirl around mountain tops.

The smooth, rounded shapes may even pile neatly, one on top of another, making layered lentil-shaped clouds. Add a touch of color as occurs sometimes due to light and dust in the air, and…magic! Going back to my high school meteorology lessons, the more frequent denizens of the sky are delightful also, a sky full of mackerel cirrus or pink cumulus clouds make any day better. Look up.

Last September, in that too-brief time when summer-like conditions returned, I witnessed a spectacular sight that was seen all up and down the Asquamchumakee or Baker River Valley just south of the White Mountains.

Planting bulbs with my back to the sky and Carr Mountain, a light shower began just as the sun was setting in the west. I moved under an ancient apple tree waiting for the rain to pass. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but sunlight continued to spill over the low mountains to our west.

Suddenly, a rainbow began to appear in the northern sky, first faint and then full strength color arcing across the horizon. I dashed for my camera and got some great shots. At times it was a double rainbow and lasted much longer than usual. The combination of water droplets and sunlight at a low angle made for an amazingly bright and vivid rainbow.
The immediacy and rarity of such a sight left me feeling as though I alone had viewed it. Later, in speaking with others from up and down our valley, I was amazed to discover that many had shared my experience across at least three towns. Now, I was not alone but a member of a special club. Good thing I looked up, or I would’ve missed it all.

Looking up can also reap views of intrigue and adventure in the bird world. While looking up the other day I was fortunate enough to see a light-colored hawk being chased by several crows. The insouciance of the hawk with its mocking, leisurely glide and the raucousness of the harpy-like crows made me laugh out loud.

Later, studying some field guides to the birds, a northern goshawk seemed the likely upstart I would not have seen if I hadn’t looked...up.

Last winter, while filling a bird feeder I heard a slight noise from above, and when I looked up there sat a barred owl in broad daylight and in all of its feathery glory. I watched it for more than an hour from the relative warmth of my shed door as it waited patiently for mice and other prey. When it dove, it did so with a sureness and speed I wouldn’t have imagined. And, when it ascended to its perch, a tail dangled from its mouth. Breathtaking! Look up.

Sometimes, the reminder to look up comes from the source of wonder itself. While I was loading the birdfeeders again, a hairy woodpecker skimmed the top of my head as it dove from one tree to a nearby bush to feed on suet. I still remember with a shiver down my back the thrum of his wings, and the swoosh! of skimming feathers. Whether or not he meant to “buzz” my head, I felt as though he did mean his warning peek! for me and me alone! Translation: Look up!

Communing with nature resonates throughout our lives and enhances our days on this earth. That special connection to nature reminds us as humans we aren’t alone on our planet and in our natural environment. To reaffirm this, I’ll continue looking down but also occasionally remind myself to look up.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener