Extension News: January 2011 Archives

by Robert Powell Hughes, UNH Cooperative Extension Marine Docent

Two acres might qualify as a tree farm in the Bronx. In New Hampshire it's a dooryard. But my residential lot in Goffstown had been only partially cleared in 1982. A mature stand of native pine, hemlock, birch, oak and maple remains, with a dense scattering of saplings in the disturbed areas surrounding the lawn.

Since the home I purchased included a full-sized woodstove, I have been a consumer of cordwood ever since. Recognizing that standing timber provides a direct source for this commodity, I acquired tools for harvesting (chainsaw, mauls, wedges, sledgehammers, etc.) even before hanging the curtains.

However, offsetting my desire to reduce home heating costs has been my sentimental regard for flora and fauna. I have always had qualms about yanking a weed or swatting a fly. Consequently, I have purchased most of my cordwood from dealers. Only my distressed, deformed or crowded deciduous trees qualify as fuel for my woodstove. Once the justification issue has been settled, I must then deal with an even more vexing one: DIY or hire a professional?

Admittedly, I have immense respect for a tree that towers above me like the mainmast on a clipper ship. This respect is bolstered by a deep-seeded fear of dealing with objects capable of crushing me like an ant beneath a size-10 boot.

A few summers ago, I noticed that the branches at the crown of a 60-foot red maple were leafless, while the remaining lower branches were properly attired in green. "Distress" was the word that immediately came to mind. The more vexing issue now had to be addressed. Who is going to take it down?

Over the next couple of years I would stare at the maple from my patio, a distance of some 90 feet, and think, "I can do it." But then I would stride boldly to the thick trunk and gaze upward to the leafless summit only to slither away in humble retreat.

One day I lingered somewhat longer at the trunk and noticed a distinct cavity at waist level on the far side of the condemned maple. Perhaps this explained the die-off at the top, but the structural weakness promised to make the successful felling more difficult.

Further procrastination ensued. Seasons drifted by like leaves on a mid-autumn day. I seemed to avoid the maple in order to avoid the decision. Finally, I returned to the scene, only to find that a change had occurred since my last inspection. Surprisingly, two new limbs had erupted just below the west-facing cavity, one on the north side and one on the south. Of course, they were much lower than normal lateral branches and were growing upward like suckers or leaders, their sturdy diameter fusing with the trunk.

It seemed clear to me that this plant understood its dilemma and had taken steps to provide support so that it might survive in spite of the weakness of its trunk. But this only further complicated my dealings with the valiant maple. I knew that in spite of its heroics, its malformation would always leave it vulnerable.

Shortly thereafter, I took up the chainsaw and removed the portions of the two support columns above the adhesions. I knew that I had foiled the maple's survival adaptation and must decide immediately. I summoned the professionals.

A three-man tree service team arrived to do the work. They dropped the maple a few degrees off target and it became lodged in a thicket of white birch. The foreman attached a chain to the base of the felled maple, hooked it onto the rear of his truck and roared away with spinning tires and flying turf. The tree was dragged clear and laid to rest in peaceful repose.

After the team departed, I proceeded to cut and split my maple. All but a five-foot section of the lower trunk was stacked for seasoning. That section remained due to its thickness and the presence of the significant cavity.

The seasoned maple burned admirably last winter, and I sprinkled the ashes on the garden in spring. All that remains of the tree is my humble respect and that section with the cavity and the stumps of the arms that embraced it.

Photo credit: Shamanic shift. Some rights reserved.

by Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

A group of us tries to meet Tuesday afternoons to cross-country ski or snowshoe. The recent warm weather followed by the return of freezing temperatures had melted and iced up the skiing trails, so today we chose snowshoeing.

For much of the trek, we followed the hoof prints of deer that had chosen the packed-down snowshoe trail in lieu of the deeper snow on either side. We could see from the different-sized tracks that more than one deer had been through there.

Occasionally one of us would catch a snowshoe on a stub and nearly tumble down, but generally, we walked without poles and enjoyed the sound of our shoes crunching on the iced-up snow.

Our trail took us through wonderful woods with tall trees, but everywhere we saw traces of the life that had been lived on that land in earlier years. We skirted a massive stone wall, still waist-high after many years. The boulders were much larger than we could have lifted. I guessed that the builders used a stone ladder to hoist the stones in place. There were no small stones anywhere along the length of the wall.

Surely the land had been cleared once, then used for grazing livestock or perhaps as a hay pasture. Had it been farmed for crops and plowed under every year, numerous smaller cobbles would have been scattered throughout or perched on top of the wall.

The wall turned a corner eventually, and coming off the corner, following the original line, was a lower wall, made up of much smaller stones and standing only two-thirds as high as the original one. With snow on the ground, it was hard to tell if the second wall had once been higher. Had weathering taken a toll and rolled parts off? Perhaps a walk this way in spring will give an answer.

In another area, we found a pair of 6 x 6 beams side by side. They stood easily seven feet tall above ground. On one hung old metal hinges. Obviously a gate had once barred the way here. Did it keep cattle or horses in?

We could find only the one side of the framing; the other had been removed or fallen some previous year. The old farm path was now part of the snowshoe trail, so we continued on, treading on ground that once felt the hoofed feet of domestic animals.

Further on, we found more proof of a time when the land had been cleared---­barbed wire. The trees embedded with it were easily 10 inches around, and the wire ran almost right through the middle of them. We could tell that the area on the far side of the trees had been the pastured side­--cattle pushing against the wire would push it into the tree, not away, popping it out.

We also surmised that the pasture had held cattle. Farmers didn't use barbed wire for sheep since the animals' thick coats prevented them from feeling the barbs. In no time at all, you'd have one tangled, and probably injured, sheep.

Sadly, throughout the forest, we found evidence of alien, invasive plants. We clumped through a patch of Japanese barberry, far from any homestead. No doubt, birds had dropped the original seeds and now the plants were well established, taking the place of native plants that should have been calling these woods their home.

Worse, we found miles and miles of Oriental bittersweet. Climbing for the sun, it flaunted its bright orange berries, more numerous than the stones in the walls we had passed. We even found a dead tree, with deep impressions of bittersweet vines spiraling up the carcass. Whether the invasive vines played a role in its demise or not, the tree is now dead and the bittersweet lives on, seeding and spreading and killing as it goes. How many years will it be before most of this beautiful area is suffocated and overrun with this pernicious vine?

Eventually we climbed a knoll and stood, catching our breath and peering through the young saplings to catch a glimpse of the lake beyond. It was a gray day, with a light shower of snow falling, but we could see the snow-covered lake and the dark mountains rising behind it.

The saplings gave evidence of recent clearing, for surely they were no more than 15 years old. What a view there must have been when they were just seedlings. We realized that all the land we had just been hiking through must once have been cleared, giving fine views of the majestic lake beyond. When humans abandoned the land, Mother Nature took it back as she always does.

As we walked back, passing yet more bittersweet, we were saddened by the thought of all this beauty being destroyed by those vines and their orange-red berries. Our walk was, indeed, bittersweet.

Photo credit: djprybyl. Some rights reserved

We started the NH Outside writers' collaborative in 2004, recruiting natural-resources volunteers who love to write from among our Master Gardeners, Wildlife Coverts, Community Tree Stewards, Marine Docents and others.

The project's only purpose: to produce essays that would connect readers to the natural world in some meaningful way. Every week, we send out a new essay to print media statewide.

Because the classical Japanese poetic form called haiku works so well to help writers improve their writing, we encourage NH Outside writers to write haiku as often as possible. (Some of our Cooperative Extension staff have also taken up the practice.) In 2009, we began introducing each month in our award-winning NH Outside calendar with a haiku.

To welcome 2011, we offer 12 of our favorites from over the years:

January
ice-storm surgery
leaves trees with splintered scars and
amputated limbs

Alice Mullen

February
snow whirls around leaf
dancing across empty field
dreaming of spring

Juli Brussell

March
winter melt warm day
droplets off roof and trees
cold music soothes me

Stephania Pearce

April
writing, gardening
one on your butt, one on knees
both require good seeds

Helen Downing

May
running through
clouds of lilacs
spring in every step

Gini Cornila

June
jumble unfolding,
an otter
slips into the water

Susan Poirier

July
one last strawberry
hides in mulch, small, misshapen--
no less delicious

Peg Boyles

August
glossy bronze beetles
feast on plants, then drop like bombs
leaving leaves of lace

Arlene Laurenitis

September
chipmunks' constant chirps
upset by the looming cat
the woodpile is home

Charlene Andersen

October
bobbing, gobbling birds
turkeys prancing through fall fields
dinner on the go

Peeps Bogaert

November
a cat convention
patiently waiting, tails twitch
mouse safe under stove

Terry Handel

December
chilled bare fingertips
soft powder snow wraps around
breath puffs float on air

Lisa Jackson

Etching by J. Ann Eldridge. All rights reserved. Used with permission.