Extension News: February 2011 Archives

By Anne Krantz, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

What a wonderful winter for cross-country skiing! And what a wonderful way to enjoy nature during its rest season, when plants are dormant and animals hibernating.

When it's not too cold, I enjoy dashing outside first thing in the morning to make my "wake-up" loops in the gently undulating back field where I have maintained a nice ski trail.

If it's clear, I can welcome the sun as it begins to peek between the trees. Instantly, its warmth hugs me. As I float over the clouds of snow, sometimes I see a diary of animal tracks left during the night.

The other morning I discovered a line of tracks in the snow that ended at a freshly dug hole that descended down to the frozen ground, a foot below. Obviously, a carnivorous animal had picked up the scent of an underground creature, and dug furiously to catch it. No blood, so I assume the intended victim escaped.

But the sight reminded me that there's no sleeping or hibernating for New Hampshire's two most common underground friends: moles and voles. Amazingly, they stay active all winter.
Moles (the M stands for Meat-eaters) survive by expanding their tunnel network to find grubs and worms. As their food sources dig deeper and deeper into the soil ahead of the descending frost line, so do the moles. Thus they stay below the frost line and avoid digging their own graves.

Voles satisfy their voracious winter appetites by chewing on Vegetable matter. Many gardeners have made the discouraging spring discovery that voles happily dined on favorite tulip and crocus bulbs during the winter. Voles scamper about in runs they make in the insulated space between the snow and soil. When the snow melts, these concave depressions in the grass are a telltale sign of a busy winter.

The don't feast only on underground roots and tubers, either. Voles also can do a lot of damage to newly planted fruit and ornamental trees, by stripping the bark from their lower trunks, buried in a deep blanket of snow.

Thornton Burgess, who wrote charming animal stories for children in the early 1900's, provides the perfect explanation of why a creature, specifically Mr. Miner, would want to live underground. He begins his 1915 Mother West Wind "Why" Stories -- Why Miner the Mole Lives Underground, this way:

Thornton Burgess, who wrote charming animal stories for children in the early 1900's, provides the perfect explanation of why a creature, specifically Mr. Miner, would want to live under ground. He begins Why Miner the Mole Lives Underground (1915) this way: "Striped chipmunk sat staring at a little ridge where the grass was raised up....He knew they were made by Miner the Mole." To learn why Mr. Mole lives this way, he and his friends ask wise old Frog who explains. To escape Mr. Fox and others, Mr. Mole cleverly digs a hole and hides. There it occurs to him that hiding in a smaller side tunnel would provide even better protection. He then discovers that the underground life suits him and he is "perfectly happy and satisfied there, and what is there in life better than to be happy and satisfied?"

These happy and satisfied creatures can drive human creatures crazy, as they are nearly impossible to trap or deter. None of the ridiculous potions and remedies for eliminating moles, from chewing gum (they don't have chewing teeth) to castor oil, work. As this Extension fact sheet bluntly states:

Desperate homeowners and gardeners have tried placing various irritating materials in the runways such as broken glass, razor blades, rose branches, bleach, moth balls, lye, and even human hair. Some have hooked up their car's exhaust system to mole tunnels; others have pumped hundreds of gallons of water into the tunnels. Frightening devices such as mole wheels (spinning daises), vibrating windmills, and whistling bottles have also been tried. Aside from relieving frustrations, home remedy approaches have little value in controlling moles.

Voles (sometimes called "meadow mice") are also tough to control, because their burrows shelter them from both the weather and from predators. But most daunting is their reproductive potential: five litters per year ranging in size from one to 11 young. Females are ready to reproduce in 40 days, with a gestation period of only 21 days. This condensed reproduction cycle makes for exponentially staggering birth rates, because they also reproduce year-round.

All vole species are subject to large population fluctuations; populations generally peak every two to five years, but these cycles aren't predictable. These population shifts may result in densities ranging from a few to several hundred voles per acre.

The serene pleasure of winter is that these annoying critters are truly out of sight and out of mind under winter's beautiful blanket of snow. For a few months we can rest form the never-ending gardener's dilemma; the love/hate relationship with Mother Nature. Some of us actually hate to see winter end!

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

"Nice job, Helen," whispered my husband. I had raised my coffee cup and inadvertently startled three crows we were observing out a kitchen window. As they flew off, I watched carefully and noticed the crow I called Hopalong. Pointing this out to my spouse, he too acknowledged noticing this particular individual as he worked in the yard a week or so before.

Hopalong hopped on one strong foot to find food in our alternately wet, snowy, icy, muddy backyard, and kept his other foot close to his body. Spring was coming in lurches and stutter- steps, and the hopping crow continued to return daily.

A few days later, I watched again as Hopalong and two other crows found much to eat in the combined snow, ice, and mud below one of our birdfeeders. Suddenly, one took off as if to fly away, but instead flew at Hopalong, and they did a split-second barrel roll before the aggressor flew off with Hopalong in pursuit.

What was that about, I wondered? Later, I learned that crows often show their interest in raising a family together in just this manner. Could Hopalong be a Herpalong?

Unfortunately, that was the last I saw of the hopping crow. Summer arrived and crows dropped in fairly often to raid the corn we spread for our flock of chickens, to dig up the newly emerging corn seedlings in the garden rows, and to dig in the muddier spots for grubs to feed their young. Often we heard young crows and their odd yelping attempts to "crow" like their parents. I hoped one of those parents was Hopalong.

One fall evening, as I headed out to close up the chicken coop, dark clouds lowering and raindrops sprinkling from a retreating nor'easter, a murder of crows dropped from the cloud cover and proceeded to fly in tight, back-and-forth formations, in search of a place to roost. It was probably the largest gathering I had ever seen--¬40 to 50 would be no exaggeration.

Crows roost in numbers in the fall and winter. In cold, harsh winters they may migrate short distances south of their summer homes during daylight hours to find shelter and food.

As the crows settled into a nearby well-forested ravine, I noticed that they weren't the only birds arriving in my backyard: tiny red-breasted nuthatches and slate-gray juncos blended in with the grass of our backyard popped up suddenly, only to quickly fly away as daylight waned. If I had come out just a few minutes later, I would never have known how busy the migrant bird traffic had been!
Although my intentions were good, I didn't emerge early enough in the morning to see the crows leave. That must have been a raucous departure.


Not so many days after, I began filling a birdfeeder with black-oil sunflower seeds, a favorite choice of chickadees, nuthatches, and juncos, when I came face to face with another arrival from the north. The first hint I got was a song, musical and trilling, that reminded me of a purple finch, but not quite. I then looked more carefully into the lilac bush that holds the feeder: the chest had a pale pink blush, the beak long and thin, a dark streak through the eye, and finally, a bit of red on the head and tail. The hint of red in the head feathers gave this finch a name: Mr. Red Poll.

As winter has progressed with more and more inches of powdery, fluffy snow, the suet I added to supplement the sunflowers seeds placed in feeders earlier has been a big seller especially among the woodpeckers, downy and hairy. They chatter at me peevishly when their stores get low and wait nearby while I refill their wire suet holders.

Nearby the chickadees call and whistle to remind me to hurry and get out of their way. They want sunflower seeds. NOW! Patiently the goldfinches, nuthatches, white and red-breasted, and the red polls line up nearby to return as soon as I leave. Noisily, the blue jays move in and prowl the ground for dropped seeds and nuggets of suet. Once more, I have had to resort to snowshoes as the snowdrifts become too deep to wade.

As the February sun gets warmer and the evening darkness comes later, I am reminded of Hopalong Crow, and wonder how long it will be before, and if, she will return.

Photo credit:

  by  decodrama visual 

By Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

When I got home from snowshoeing today with my dogs (I'm a dog-care provider), I jotted down notes while the images were fresh on my mind. But, as I sat to type my reflections, I put my notes aside so I could just ooze my observations and insights.

I'd carried my FLIP video camera with me to take videos of my three canine hiking companions, but found myself drawn to images other than the dogs. Over and over again I tried to capture my snowshoe tracks in the foot-deep snow next to the established, packed-down trail I'd made over the last two days. I tried so hard to capture the sparkles in the snow. I need to ask a photographer with experience how an amateur can do that.

I remember that initially I resisted snowshoeing, thinking that it would be too slow and too boring, plodding along wearing awkward contraptions on my feet. I was a downhiller. I liked speed. I loved the views from the tops of mountains out over the countryside. How could plodding along ever compare?

I was wrong. Snowshoeing has become a passion. Last winter when I had just gotten home from major surgery, I put on my snowshoes and walked with ease on packed trails. My surgeon was aghast and forbade me to do any more snowshoeing until my next checkup. So I sat indoors viewing old movies in a recliner for two weeks, waiting anxious and depressed for the go-ahead to get out to my beautiful trails and snow.

Plodding along with no views from mountaintops and no speed grounds me. I find myself in a place of peace. When I step off the packed-down trails to virgin snow, I stop to breathe in the stillness and calm. No longer do I have to hear the scrape and clang of my snowshoes. The quiet enthralls me.

I pause and turn around to catch the sun's warmth and rays. I look up to the brilliant blue sky and pull out my FLIP video to capture its blueness against the evergreens, scanning towards the dead treetops that the herons have long abandoned and the swamp plants and dead tree trunks rising from the drifts of snow.

I continue on across the swamp, packing down a trail for the dogs and me to use. Which way next? Should I continue on around the swamp and head back? Should I cut to shore by the rusty car and head onto the snowmobile-packed trails? Why not climb up the hill and connect with a non-trail that will lead me over shrubs, logs and drifts to the established trail?

I used to trek that self-made trail a few years ago during a snowy, cold winter. Why not do it again? After all, wasn't I celebrating freedom, health and vigor? Wasn't I cherishing what New England offers?

So I ended up in a steep gully in 12 inches of fresh, unpacked snow. I had to work my way around, following instinct and memory of how I used to get through this area. I knew I had to climb over a few downed trees and stay to the right of a pool of water that never froze no matter how cold the winter.

The dogs were bewildered as I switched course a few times to get around or over obstacles. They looked to me for guidance in unfamiliar territory. I knew what I was doing. They didn't. As we approached a packed trail, all three galloped ahead with glee, glad they could prance and play without sinking.

My 10-year-old Golden limped along on three legs. I pulled ice off of her feet and spritzed her four paws with cooking spray to keep the snow and ice buildup from getting worse. She happily trotted away when I was done. I felt thankful that a little first aid solved the problem.

As I got to a trail junction that I hadn't been to in more than a year, I longed to get out onto the ice of a wonderful pond and enjoy the sun and packed snowmobile trails. But there's always a risk that a dog will fall through thin ice and need to be rescued. A rope might save a person, but a dog can't grab a rope to be pulled to safety. I ignored my urge to get down onto the ice.

I gave the dogs a rest from deep snow and stuck to the packed trail for a while. But we needed to get back home, and I preferred to stay off the trails for the trip back. So, I turned off the trodden trail and headed to the swamp area again. The dogs chose to trot alongside on the packed-down path, while I enjoyed my peaceful, quiet steps in new snow. I tried to film the beauty of prints in the snow, and again, to capture the magic of the snow sparkles.

Photo credit: Dogs running in snow, by Meg Downey Hardy