Extension News: March 2010 Archives

Like most New Hampshire folks, I’d been looking for a first sign of spring something significant and spectacular to symbolize the change of seasons. For the past few years I marked the long awaited arrival of spring with the happy sighting of early bluebirds, often in a late snow.

But no bluebirds yet. I did scare a few ducks in some open water on the frozen pond the other day, but they were gone before I could really enjoy them.

Unexpectedly, early one morning when I was out jogging, I literally stumbled on a ruffed grouse. This determined bird was pecking at dried leaves along the edge of the road perhaps for salt? I was within four feet of the busy creature, who was totally oblivious or unafraid of me.

What an elegant, beautiful bird with such complex and intricate plumage. So many different kinds of feathers no wonder ladies of 100 years ago wore feathered hats. The sophisticated coloring blended exactly with the dried leaves and debris of the forest floor that was emerging from the melting snow.

I inspected the beautiful feather designs: its breast was checkered with fluffy white and dark feathers alternating, creating an interesting geometric pattern. Above these soft looking feathers were some sharply outlined bars on its wings. Its back was polka dotted in shades of chestnut and tan.

Its foot long body was very round, and after looking at pictures of ruffed grouse, I now realize that was because its plumage was puffed up. The black disk around its neck was very noticeable, and arrayed on top of this disk were a row of lighter feathers that created a scalloped edge, like a ruffle. (For those of us who thought it was a “ruffled grouse,” we weren’t entirely wrong!)

A sharp crest, taller at the back, tops its brown head. At the other end is the blunt tail of beautiful feathers with a black band at the edge. The tail was half fanned so I could admire the lovely striped feathers. I stood in amazement as the grouse continued to peck, even as I took a few quiet steps.

The owner of the house behind the trees saw me from his upstairs window and opened it to inform me that Mr. Grouse showed up a few days ago near his backyard bird feeder and had been hanging around ever since. (Wildlife manuals say that male and female grouse are difficult to tell apart, but seeing that half fanned tail reminded me of the fanning displays ruffed grouse males make during courtship, so I pegged him as a Mr.)

Three days later, a drum roll spring event! As I began my morning outing, I was greeted with noisy quacking in the pond around the corner a pair of ducks, the quacker and a serene female. Continuing up the road to another pond, I heard more quacks.

But what was that black cat like creature crossing the road? Too huge for a cat, and the big fluffy long tail was definitely not like a cat’s, nor the pointed snout like a cat’s cute face. A fisher! It must have alarmed the ducks, but not enough to make them fly away. Now a new worry popped into my head fishers getting into the duck eggs. So much for the peacefulness of nature.

Looping back along the road through the swampy area, again, I almost stepped on my new friend, Mr. Grouse. Looking sleeker today, as his feathers weren’t puffed up, nor his tail fanned, he blended right into the leaf litter.

I studied the grouse in wonder. Does he know I’m watching? He pecked right up to me; just five feet, then feet away. He circled my legs. I observed the feathers again, noticing how they resemble in color and pattern the pine cones lying about. I'd missed the light colored stripe on each side of its back the other day.

I took a few stealthy steps and the bird seemed to be heading in the same direction along the road. Was he actually following me? I continued slowly and so did he, as if I had a string around his neck.

He pecked at everything, finding a fat green leaf under the litter that he plucked out with his beak and swallowed whole, along with the bits of acorns and pine nuts. We went along like this for a couple hundred yards, until I gave up and left him behind to wander into the nearby swamp.

Ruffed grouse are supposed to be loners, but this Mr. Grouse seemed especially lonely! According to the books, mating season is in April.  I hope this poor fellow can last that long. And I hope that fisher finds something better to do than eat duck eggs.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward

Photo Courtesy of Laura Erickson and Audobon.org (Common Birds in Decline)

One beautiful, sunny-but-frigid February afternoon, I bundled up in my new snow pants, hiking socks, heavy winter sweater and earmuffs, donned my trusty boots (this time without the ice grippers) and completed my cold-weather armor with warm mittens.

My friend Jan, who lives down the road, had agreed to join me in a mystery walk. I had a last-minute idea to pack supplies for a tea party in the woods. Jan had suffered several recent personal losses and needed a mood lifter. She loves tea and I knew this adventure would bring her joy.

As I walked down my icy driveway in my ever-faithful boots, I laughed at what I must look like, the neighbors might have thought I was running away. I wore a backpack filled with teacups, napkins, sweet treats, a teapot and a full thermos of hot water with the tea bags steeping for our winter beverage. I'd stuffed stadium pillows between the breakables to prevent transport calamities.

From a distance, I could see Jan waiting for me, wearing bright red pants. As I got closer, she told me they were pajama bottoms reinforced by her recently deceased father’s long underwear. She’s a Wisconsin girl who was accustomed to bundling up but had become a "house potato" and needed to scrounge through a limited supply of outerwear.

We continued our trek to an old country road. As we navigated ruts in the snow left by truck tires, we tried to find safe places to avoid slipping and falling. Jan found a strip of thin ice and delighted in stomping and cracking it. We shared memories of our mutual love of breaking the ice on our way home from school decades ago-I in New Hampshire and she in Wisconsin.

The roadway is usually active with snowmobiles this time of year, but that day the wooded path was silent. Rays of sunshine shone down between the bare hardwood trees. The old boulders in the stone walls wore capes of snow; occasional holes in the white stuff revealed where forest creatures scampered in and out of their homes. The birds and small animals must have been having a siesta because we didn’t hear a peep except the crunch of our feet on the packed snow.

As we scanned the wooded area for a perfect spot to sit for a break, I divulged the contents of my backpack. Jan suggested Bog Road cemetery, about a mile from my home, in an isolated area some distance from traffic and homes.

The backdrop of young pines cast shadows onto the undisturbed carpet of snow surrounding the granite and slate stones--a calming and peaceful view. We figured the inhabitants probably hadn’t had a tea party for a long time.

According to records kept by the local historical society, Bog Road Cemetery is a resting place for about a dozen families buried in the 1800s. The legible stones tell stories of lives lived long ago. Many of these hardy country folks lived well beyond the life expectancy of our 21st century.

After we arrived, we tried to position ourselves on the plastic stadium pillows, but they were like mini-sledding saucers on the heavily crusted snow. We imagined the old souls from centuries ago smiling at our antics.

After setting the cups and saucers out on napkins in the snow, we found the herbal tea had steeped just right in the small porcelain teapot. We were ready to share the warm drink and talk of hopes and dreams. We spoke of quilting and dancing and raising teens. The seasons of our personal lives were similar- two women ready to move beyond motherhood and embrace life with a daily supply of fun and whimsy.

When we finished our tea, we decided to recycle our teabags and threw them gently over our shoulders to rest in the snow near the cemetery stones. The predicted future snowfall would surely cover the tea. We assured ourselves that by springtime the tea leaves would have found a special place in the deep brown carpet, and the gesture seemed like a good luck wish to us.

We packed the dishes and gazed at the various stones before saying silent goodbyes to the cemetery folks. A tall stone with the inscription, Polly Whittemore, wife of Moses Eaton, Born Aug.1, 1793, Died Jan. 16, 1871, 34 years a Teacher of youth. Her works follow her, had always caught my attention on my walks to the cemetery. Polly had been a guest at our tea party. “Polly, it was a pleasure to be in your company,” I said.

As we walked away chuckling about the fun we'd shared, I’m sure the ghosts of Bog Road wondered about those two women, one with a backpack full of china, the other wearing red flannel pajamas.

By Judy Elliott, Writer

I revel in those moments spent sharing time and space with a wild creature. In the last 10 years, I’ve seen my first moose, wild otter, bear and bobcat, all within 20 feet of my house. Each sighting has been a thrill and I remember each one vividly. But the bobcat has excited my imagination the most because I know it to be a secretive creature, rarely seen by humans.

How long has the bobcat been moving through this area? How many times has it passed within sight of the house and not been seen by its human inhabitants? I’ve no way of knowing, but each time I find its footprints beyond the fence, I feel a chill of excitement.

When was it here? What prey was it hunting? Was it hunting by stealth or setting up an ambush as bobcats often do? If there are other tracks around, such as squirrel prints, then perhaps it was carefully stalking its prey. Mostly I wonder, where did it come from and when will it return?

The first time I saw the bobcat was at dusk one evening as I was preparing dinner. I looked out the window over the sink and saw a dark shape moving along behind the lilacs. I didn’t need the binoculars or a wildlife manual to know what I was seeing. The small head, surely misplaced on this larger animal, the short, bobbed tail, the gray mottled coat all declared Bobcat! I watched enthralled as it moved with grace along the line of lilacs, then behind the white picket fence and out of view beyond some tall, wide firs. What a sight!

A couple of years went by before I saw the bobcat again. This time, I was fixing lunch and noticed a dark shape down at the edge of the swamp. I grabbed the binoculars, but the creature had moved out of sight. As soon as lunch was finished, I snatched up a camera and yardstick, shrugged into a winter coat, and set out to try to photograph the footprints so I could match them up with an animal track book.

I quickly found the prints. The animal had walked along the fence then down towards the frozen swamp. I took several photographs of its prints, using the yardstick to measure the distance between prints as well as the size of them. There! Now I’d have something to go by when I got back to the house. I hoped it was the bobcat again.

I decided to follow the prints back as far as I could, and as I turned to do so, I caught a glimpse of something moving quickly on the far side of the swamp. Yes, it was the bobcat! All the time I was focusing on its prints, it was well aware of me and moving quickly away to safety. Which of us is the wiser animal?

Once the bobcat was out of sight, I did follow the trail back. I saw where it had climbed up onto and walked along a narrow, downed tree. Its path led along the edge of the lower beaver pond then curved up to the side of our garage. The tracks then disappeared in the driveway.

I’d had no idea the animal came so close to this building­and in daylight, too. I knew from reading wildlife books that bobcats are primarily nocturnal, yet I’d just seen one in the middle of the day.

While other large predators were nearly pushed out of New England forests, the bobcat remained. Its mottled coat and secretive habits actually have allowed it to expand its range since the time colonists began cutting down trees to build farms. Adaptable creatures, bobcats will eat anything from fawns, cottontails and snowshoe hares, to squirrels, voles, mice, fish, birds, and even insects.

One morning last October, in daylight once again, a family member called from downstairs. I quickly ran down, wondering if one of the dogs had gotten into mischief. “Out front!” came the whisper.

There moving gracefully across the front of the house was a bobcat. It looked neither left nor right, just moved purposefully across the driveway, the lawn, behind the large forsythia bush, along the edge of the arborvitae and then behind the tall grasses, before disappearing into the woods.

It certainly wasn’t running or showing any signs of fear. I was astonished that it would be so bold as to cross an open area in the middle of the day. I felt strongly that our home was a part of its territory and it really didn’t care that we lived there too. What a privilege to share this land with such a magnificent animal.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Drawing: Maggie Decker, UNH Cooperative Extension