NH Outside: Community Archives

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Natural Resources Steward

After you retire and are free to move about the world without the restrictions of regular 9-to-5 work schedules, you tend to fill your calendar with volunteer activities. Some are coerced and some arise because you have chosen to do this or that particular activity. Being a grandpa fits both categories so I try not to be grumpy about minding the third generation. I must say though, my patience has been sorely tried a few times.

Since I have taken some training as earth team/tree steward docent, I get involved in some dirty jobs in other people's back yards. After church a group of us "older folks" gather over coffee and doughnuts and discuss the world problems in our usual erudite fashion. During a pause in the conversation, one of the "really older ones" said that he wished the he had the strength to prepare a place for some spring bulbs. Being a robust 73 year old male still somewhat invincible, I blurted out, "Let me help!"

That's when the trouble began. My friend explained that the spot where he wanted to put the bulbs was currently occupied by a plot of blue flag irises that had not been attended to for about eight years. I stopped by his house during the next week to check the location. I tested the surface of the bed with a shovel and found it resistant to penetration. I told him that I would be back with some additional tools in a week or so. He said that he would order the bulbs in the meantime.

I have been known to do battle with rocks in the past, so I have some tools not possessed by the average gardener. I gathered my mattock, a sledge hammer, a spade and a heavy-duty hoe and set off to do battle. What a battle it was!

First I drove the spade into the bed about six inches. I continued across the bed in similar fashion. Feeling good about how things were progressing, I moved over about 18 inches and repeated the procedure. It was now time to pause for a drink--of water, of course.

Now it was mattock time. I drove the flat blade into the fissure created by the spade and began prying chunks of the lily mat out and tossing them into the garden cart. That was easy enough but the plot was about 6ft. by 20ft. By the time I had removed the entire mat, a couple of hours had elapsed and my back was complaining. I was overdue for another drink and some pain killers.

The soil under the bed was hard packed and very dry. Since it was getting close to my labor limit for one day, I quit and retreated to my recliner for some much-needed relaxation. After a spell of respite, I returned with my spade and hoe. I brought along a bag of peat moss, spread half the bag on the surface, and spaded it into the soil. That was no easy task I'll tell you! The rest of the bag was dumped on the surface and chopped in with the hoe. Last came a thorough watering of the bed. Time for another break while the water percolated into the soil.

We developed a plot plan for the assortment of tulips, daffodils and large bearded irises. The last step was to place the bulbs according to the plan with a bit of fertilizer for each. Hopefully the squirrels won't find them before the freeze. I can't wait to see what comes up in the spring!

Would I do it again? Probably not for someone else. But, on my own plots, I am constantly digging until the snow comes between me and

by Helen Downing, UNH Extension Master Gardener

Living on a busy rural highway can have its advantages: We don't have far to plow in winter and hardly ever suffer power outages. On the downside, I can't just run across the road to open the chicken coop in my bathrobe. That's because the road divides our property; our house is on the west side of the road, the barn, chicken coop, and gardens are on the east.

The road, I need to add, has only been around since 1810. At that time, if the state decided to expand its highways, residents on the road itself were required to help in its construction. The once-quiet, unpaved highway between the county seat and the nearest district court has evolved over time into a paved thoroughfare. It still connects the court with the county seat, but now serves a stream of tourists, businesses, and local traffic.

That same visibility from the highway also caused me some embarrassment with our scarecrows. One year while I was away, my husband put up two scarecrows. One looked kind of like him--plaid shirt, baseball cap--and the other, looked like me--straw hat with flowers, flannel shirt, garden pants and...chubby. (Gasp!)

It's amazing how looking at a scarecrow that resembles you and includes negative attributes can make you feel crabby. Needless to say, that scarecrow got a change of clothes and lost some its stuffing in a hurry. It's one thing to fight the battle of the bulge, another to scream our overstuffed condition to every trucker, bus, and RV that goes by.

Anyone passing by must have wondered if we'd finally lost all of our marbles the day we dragged our chicken coop across the highway. This was a brand new coop built by my husband, who is well known for overbuilding even the most trivial of wooden devices.

He had built in our dooryard (Yankee for front driveway and place to work on really big projects). He and our adult son, also genetically inclined to participate in projects of dubious and complicated strategies, dragged it on skids across the road to its resting place using our Ford tractor.

With four grandkids sitting beside the road staring in disbelief and cheering wildly, the coop made the trip smoothly and remains in place to this day, housing 20 chickens who just don't know how lucky they are.

Two generations of chickens and their byproducts have lived in that coop and keep the garden compost heap and perennial beds healthy and fertile.

A few years ago as part of a fall display, I placed a four-foot tall, smiling scarecrow dressed in red, yellow, and blue in my garden facing the road. My dentist's receptionist, who drives by daily, commented as I entered the office one day how much she enjoyed my "frog."

It took me a few days to realize that from her viewpoint, in a car traveling along the highway, a scarecrow could resemble a frog! Ever since, frogs have become another staple in my garden, only now they don't look like scarecrows.

A few autumns back, while I weeded in a bed of perennials, my husband mowed across the field from where I knelt. He could see a medium-sized bear approaching from the opposite direction, getting closer and closer to where I was stationed, head down and oblivious.

There was no way he could warn me, since I was too far away to hear him yell. Cars passed, the sun felt warm on my back, and all seemed well with the world. I remember having the distinct impression I could hear a dog panting, but rather than look up, I just continued to exist absent mindedly in the moment.

Later, my husband would tell me he watched as traffic distracted the bear, and it crossed the road heading for the woods behind our house. I doubt that the bear ever endangered me, but still my mind's-eye view of the near encounter made me realize that we all remain too oblivious to our surroundings, including most of the passing drivers.

Over the years, I have noticed that rarely do the tourists and shoppers look left or right as they pass our house and grounds, so my fears of being as the crazy old lady were unfounded. (Okay, my reluctance to become the topic of local gossip still inhibits any urges I might have to cross the road in my pj's and fetch some eggs for breakfast).

Like my obliviousness to the bear in my garden, most drivers are focused on their immediate business. Whether beauty or danger confronts us, we've often become so accustomed to our surroundings that we forget to pause, look, value, and anticipate the amazing choices we have each day.

Hmmm. Maybe I'll add a life-sized bear facsimile to our garden displays. Will anyone even notice?

Photo credit: battlecreekcvb. (Not Helen's scarecrow!) Some rights reserved.

The first week in April I filled my little greenhouse with trays of seeds and watched them sprout and grow. And grow. Soon they outgrew the confines of the greenhouse, but the garden needed more plants.

Enter Superhusband, who built two large, sturdy cold frames. We rushed the trays of eager plants out to the cold frames and started more seeds in the greenhouse. Shortly, burgeoning squash, pumpkins and cucumbers began peering over the tops of the cold frames trying to clamber out. We moved them to a holding area in the middle of the strawberry bed, shuttled replacements from the greenhouse to the cold frame, and started more plants in the warmth and generous light of the greenhouse.

All the plants are now flourishing in the Alexandria Community Garden. Town administrator Christie Phelps and I started the garden last spring. (I'm her assistant in the office; in the garden, she's my assistant.) Feeling depressed by the sparse grass and dingy subsoil sand and rock, and poor quality sand and rock at that around the Town Hall, and being frugal Yankees, we tilled up a 12-foot-wide strip between the building and the parking lot, improved the soil with lime and compost, and planted vegetables.

In late May this second season, we dug the squash, cucumbers and a few melon plants into their new home, surrounded with black plastic. They soon began to flower and by mid-June had set a respectable crop of two-inch squashes. Eggplants and peppers seemed less pleased by their move from the protected areas; weeks after their transplant, they're only now beginning to take hold. Tomatoes have grown tall enough to require staking. All have bloomed, and several have set tomatoes already.

Lettuces and cabbages came directly from the greenhouse and are doing well; the cabbages have already begun folding their leaves over each other as if in prayer. Green and yellow string beans, planted a couple of weeks ago, are fairly leaping up into the sun. We seeded mixed greens and after only a few short weeks have started handing out quart bags of lettuces and mesclun.

We put up a sign at the Town Clerk's window: Would you like some fresh salad greens? See Cat or Christie. This morning I harvested and gave away four quart bags of mixed greens, two of baby spinach, and two each of baby summer squash and zucchini.

The strip garden wraps around three sides of the building. Out back is a pile of horse manure where we’ve planted pumpkins that will provide the Alexandria Village School kids with jack-o-lanterns come October. This spring, we added seven blueberry bushes and 100 strawberry plants to the planting beds.

We've learned that people really like the idea of a town vegetable garden. Even if they don't ask for produce, they just like seeing it growing there. Christie and I gather the vegetables daily and set them in the lobby of the town hall for anyone who wants them. (We cut the salad greens to order.) The vegetables serve as a reminder of how good fresh food is, and we make sure people know that just about anyone can grow their own.

Almost every day I have somebody in here who wants to learn more about growing vegetables. Christie lets me leave my desk, spend 20 minutes to half an hour with these folks, show them what we've done, and explain how they can do it themselves.

Last year, we didn't keep track of how much produce we gave away and how many people wanted information about growing vegetables for themselves. This year, I'm keeping a tally.

We financed the seeds, soil-improving materials, and plants (though not the greenhouse or cold frames) with a grant from the N.H. Master Gardener Association. Last year we spent most of the money on tools. This year we're putting most of it into soil amendments. In just two years we have improved the soil tremendously.

All has not been skittles and beer. Last year we were hit with the late blight and lost 100 heavily laden tomato plants. This year I peer nervously at the garden each time I return from a day or more away. Something has nipped off a few tomato plants, and just yesterday a wretched rodent ate three full trays of seedlings I'd admired in the morning, planning to remove them to the garden on the weekend. In the evening, I found three trays of stubs and a red squirrel. While I didn’t get any fingerprints, the red squirrel is my prime suspect.

The first year the farmer who rototilled the garden leaned down from his tractor seat, fixed me with a steely glare, and said, “Ya do know, it’s just brown sand, don’cha?"

I acknowledged that I was indeed trying to grow stuff on sand. “But, I have a plan!” I exclaimed.

He nodded, “Well, just so ya know.” And he rumbled off nodding to himself­the equivalent in a Yankee farmer of a belly laugh in other folks.

Yet last week he allowed that the garden looked good. That was nice. But did he have to seem so darned surprised?

By: Carol “Cat” White, Master Gardener

Photo credit: Vegetables at Alexandria Town Hall, courtesy Carol White.

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

Actually, on any given day that's clear and not too adverse weather-wise, you can find an ideal place to take a walk. Seniors, including me, may get cabin fever during the winter months and cast about for something else to do besides card games and daytime television.

The Franklin Falls Dam is just a couple of miles from my house. So, on with the boots, coat, caps and gloves and off to the dam I go.

Here, the Army Corps of Engineers has provided the citizens of New Hampshire with an ideal multipurpose, year-round recreational facility, which draws dog-walkers, parents with small children, hikers, snowshoers, cross-county skiers, runners, mountain bikers, hunters­and in other parts of the Franklin Falls Reservoir, canoers, kayakers and fishermen.

The gate to the facility is open during most week days. As you arrive at the kiosk adjacent to the parking lot and want to know more, pick one of three brochures to peruse while you take your walk on a paved road that gently takes you to the dam.

As you stroll along, you pass a nice restroom facility on the right. Further along on the left you pass the ranger station that is staffed during the day. It houses the rangers' office and has a phone you can call on your cell phone if you have an emergency while visiting. The number is printed on all their brochures. They respond quickly and expertly when asked to do so, but otherwise remain discretely out of sight.

These rangers are an example of your tax dollars well spent. They not only keep watch on their facility, they provide educational programs to local schoolchildren and homeschoolers and host a variety of events throughout the year.

Past the ranger station, the road turns slightly left and goes down a gentle slope. Both sides of the road are lined with groves of evergreen trees planted several decades ago, which provide cooling shade in summer for folks who want to sit awhile on one of several picnic benches tucked under the trees.

For those who like to gather in groups, there is a pavilion that can be reserved for an afternoon gathering. There's also a playground for the children. I move on down the drive to a small sign that reads, "Piney Point." Just past the sign is another small parking area for those who don't have the energy to do the whole two miles of road. As I pass the parking area, an impressive vista opens.

The dam is about 200 hundred feet above the Pemigewasset River. Looking across the dam along the road that extends to the edge of the spillway on the west side, I can see the traffic along Route 3. To the left is a view of Piney Point as the birds see it. To the right is the so-called impoundment area. Unless there is a serious threat of downstream flooding, this is a prime recreational area. The Corps has built roads designed for their service vehicles that walkers can use.

The stroll along the top of the dam ends at still another parking area. A gazebo, complete with picnic table and benches, is perched on a flat expanse with a view of the river flowing from under the dam on one side and Piney Point on the other. There I have the feeling that I’m far from the cares of the world and daytime television. Only the walk back stands between me and the rest of the world, but it seems just far enough to change my feeling of being trapped by four walls and stale air.

I head to Piney Point­the trail for people who want a real hike. The trail down to the point provides the greatest challenge, dropping away from the road rather sharply through broken hardwoods and brush for a little less than a quarter of a mile.

Once at the base of the dam, I traverse to the point where the trail begins a loop through the woods on the point. It meanders along the shore of the flowing river until I reach the point and then reverses direction and proceeds along the back water section of the area.

The whole trip from the edge of the road and back is a little over a mile. (There are cutoff connectors for those who don't want to do the whole loop.) Wear your hiking boots for this trip, bring a walking stick and be prepared for a workout.

Of course, Piney Point and the dam walk are just a small part of the entire system associated with the trails, woods, and waters of Franklin Falls Reservoir. A mountain-bike trail map is available online-and of course, all the bike trails are also available to hikers. This map is just for the east side of the compound accessed by Route 127.

One of my favorite areas on the west side­quite a distance up the river, in the area between the towns of Hill and Bristol­is the Profile Falls Recreation Area, a real gem for those of us who like to fish and canoe or kayak.

You access the area off Route 3A about two miles north of Hill. Just beyond the bridge that crosses the Smith River, you make a left onto the road that leads to the parking area for the facility. I won't spoil the surprise of this little gem, beyond saying you won't be disappointed!

Editor's note: click here to learn more about Franklin Falls Dam.

By Bill Dawson, Tree Steward

A pair of white ducks appeared in our neighborhood pond in August. Each time we drove by, we saw them reveling in their element, bottoms up, foraging for food or just swimming around unimpeded in the pond.

It was obvious these weren’t wild ducks, accustomed to the seasonal comings and goings of nature’s cycles. They were domestic ducks, unable to fly or to defend themselves from predators. Still, they survived happily in the pond in late summer.

As fall approached, several of the neighbors joined us in concern for their fate. My grandsons, with their mother, brought food and the ducks welcomed them and even seemed to anticipate the children’s visits complete with handouts. These ducks were used to human beings. No doubt they had been adorable, fluffy ducklings at Easter time.

But by the end of summer, the charming babies had become full-grown ducks, perhaps a bit aggressive and needing accommodations that some suburban family couldn’t provide. Were they then abandoned to fend for themselves, without thought for their ultimate fate? Did parents persuade their children, and perhaps themselves, that the ducks would live happily ever after in our neighborhood pond?

September passed, and then as October moved on, the neighborhood became increasingly concerned. The ducks themselves grew more dependent on the children’s provisions. We all knew if we did nothing these two couldn’t survive once the pond froze over. They would become dinner for someone, if not for Mr. Fox, then for the coyotes or a fisher.

So, one day the children and their mother arrived at our barn with the ducks in the back of the Subaru. The female had been easily captured, but the drake was skittish. The timely arrival of a neighbor saved the day and the pair came to their adopted home in a pen by the barn.

We wondered how they would get on with our ancient Chinese geese­noisy creatures but otherwise harmless. A single Indian Runner drake shares their pen. (His mate succumbed to a weasel last winter. I found her headless carcass in the pen one snowy morning.) What would they think of these new arrivals?

As it turned out, the ducks were welcomed and moved in without incident. They may have missed the freedom of the pond, but they were glad to have food and shelter as winter approached and the cold intensified. Each morning I broke the ice in their water pans, and all drank gratefully.

No sooner had the days begun noticeably to lengthen, in late February or early March, than a white egg appeared in the shelter. Every day, through the spring and early summer, Mrs. Duck produced a single egg. We used them in various ways and found them rich and tasty. We saved a half dozen for the nearby Montessori pre-school that likes to hatch some chicks or ducks each spring in their incubator. Some of these orphans come back to our farm, either to lay eggs or to find their way to the freezer in the fall.

Sure enough, after 28 days of incubation, the duck eggs hatched, producing four fluffy ducklings. School was over, so home they came to our “nursery.” When they outgrew the small nursery pen, we introduced them to the ducks and geese at the barn.

Mrs. Goose embraced motherhood so enthusiastically that she crushed one of her offspring. Another succumbed to her overprotective instincts; she was too big and her size overwhelmed them. The others were returned to a safer pen.

After a few weeks we tried again to integrate the little flock of water fowl. This time the Indian Runner drake proved such an ardent lover that the poor ducklings were tattered and thoroughly intimidated by his attentions. So, they are back in a safe haven for now, and we shall have roast duck later this fall.

Such a responsibility we assume for our fellow creatures even if we will eventually eat them! And the parent ducks, rescued from the pond, will survive another winter to produce eggs. The children at the Montessori school can again experience the miracle of tiny ducklings emerging from their shells. We’ll make egg salad of the rest.

By Carolyn Baldwin, Community Tree Steward

When I was an English teacher, teaching poetry was one of my favorite activities. For my sophomore classes, I decided to do nature poetry. Each day we read and discussed some famous and not-so-famous nature poems. For inspiration, we studied nature photographs and went outside for walks around the campus and across the street to the little pond.

While outside, each of us made a list down the middle of a piece of paper of the things we had seen or heard, and when we got back into the class room, on the left side of the paper, we wrote down three adjectives for each living creature or thing we saw and three adverbs for each sound we heard. We couldn't overuse any adjectives or adverbs and they had to be descriptive. On the right side of the paper, we wrote similes or metaphors describing the noun or sound.

Then, choosing words from our list, we each wrote a poem. These usually came out well, and the students were amazed that, although we had all looked at the same things, the poems were very different. I always participated in these poetry-writing exercises alongside my students. Their poems were often better than mine, a fact that amazed them and delighted me.

We did this exercise every year, and I looked forward to it. I wanted my students to think of poetry not as something rarefied that took exceptional talent, but as a way of communicating anyone could use.

During one class, to push them, and myself, a little harder, I borrowed rulers from the art department and we went outside, spread out, and each measured off one square foot of ground. We marked the corners with debris we found or stuck pencils in the corners.

Then we each got down close and looked long and carefully in our square foot. A square foot is pretty small, but we found amazing things. Ants, lots and lots of ants: red ants, black ants and red-and-black ants. Worn-down grass with roots twisted at the surface competed with spindly weeds for a bit of sun and space, and dead pine needles crisscrossed each other, making delicate patterns on the of the ground.

Dried bits of seeds, bark, and tiny twigs filled in spaces, and here and there rocks and stones pushed up through the gray dirt. In some of the squares we found beetles; once someone found a spider with eggs. It seemed that everyone found pieces of acorns or the husks of seeds. We all wrote down our observations of our square foot of earth.

Back inside the classroom, I had the students read quietly to themselves the poem, "To Look at Any Thing" by John Moffitt, which begins: To look at any thing, If you would know that thing, You must look at it long.

Then for homework, I asked them to use their observations of their square foot of earth to write a free-verse poem between 10 and 20 lines. I struggled with my poem until I simply focused on all that was going on in that one square foot of earth and how amazing each thing in it was, and then I wrote it as if that one square foot was all there was to the Earth.

When we read our poems to each other, a quiet reverence filled the room. No one laughed or said anything crude or cruel. After we shared, one girl said, "Who would have thought we'd see all that in one square foot of earth!" Who indeed.

So go outside and, as Moffitt advises, "enter in to the small silences between the leaves." Let the natural world around you and beneath your feet fill you with wonder. You don't need to be a poet or a student to learn to have an appreciation for nature. Just imagine all the earth in square feet, imagine all the life teeming within each square foot, and tread carefully.

By Sheila Roberge, UNH Cooperative Extension NH Outside Volunteer

Fishing poles in hand, my brother and I startled as the chunky, dark bird flew from beneath the black spruce forest. “Mark, it’s a spruce grouse!” I said, awestruck by the beauty of the rare cousin of the ruffed grouse, a popular game bird. “That’s the first one I’ve ever seen.”

When we entered the woods on a brook trout fishing expedition in the summer of 2001, that part of the forest hadn’t yet been conserved as the Connecticut Lakes Wildlife Management Area, nor had anyone conceived the notion of an action plan to protect the state’s wildlife. Looking back on that fishing trip, I realize how far we’ve come since then toward protecting many of the wildlife and habitats that are important to me and to the ecological and economic well-being of our state.

Two years ago I was asked to co-coordinate a New Hampshire Fish and Game Department team that would create the New Hampshire Wildlife Action Plan. On the way to developing that plan, our team created a list of wildlife species and habitats in need of conservation attention—some of which I’m sure many of you have enjoyed over the years: eastern brook trout, wood turtle, purple finch, American woodcock, mink frog, and bobcat, to name a few.

While the federal government mandated and funded this mammoth project nationwide, the New Hampshire Fish and Game Department made our Wildlife Action Plan truly New Hampshire-specific. Biologists scoured the records to make sure we knew as much as possible about where our critters live so we would start with the best available information.

Then Fish and Game contracted with experts from many conservation organizations and agencies to help write specific profiles on our wildlife species and key habitats. More than natural history, these profiles contained an assessment of the risks to the species and habitats, and listed actions that could help ensure the long-term viability of each one. They presented assessments of the current condition of New Hampshire’s wildlife habitat as a baseline against which we will measure our progress over time.

Our team pulled together all the species and habitat profiles and looked for continually reoccurring risk factors. Biologists then wrote descriptions of these most prominent risk factors followed by conservation strategies that would help New Hampshire reduce those risks, thereby improving conditions for wildlife.

While the writing was hard enough, getting the job done will be much harder. The Fish and Game Department recognizes that, and put forth an implementation plan that includes descriptions of the next steps to take, emphasizing the importance of the work of individuals, communities, regional planners, conservation groups, state and federal agencies, and many others.

The bottom line? Fish and Game can’t do it alone. They are counting on many partners to come together with the common cause of keeping New Hampshire beautiful and ecologically sound. Wildlife is truly a public resource and each of us has a stake in ensuring its long-term protection.

I hope someday to take my three sons on that same fishing trip to the Connecticut Lakes Wildlife Management Area, where perhaps they will have the same awe-inspiring experience of seeing a rare spruce grouse, and perhaps even catching an eastern brook trout or two.

Click here to view the New Hampshire Wildlife Action Plan on the Web.

By Darrel Covell, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Extension Specialist

A pair of white ducks appeared in our neighborhood pond in August. Each time we drove by, we saw them reveling in their element, bottoms up foraging for food or just swimming around unimpeded in the pond.

It was obvious that these were not wild ducks, accustomed to the seasonal comings and goings of nature’s cycles. They were domestic ducks, unable to fly or to defend themselves from predators. Still, they survived happily in the pond in late summer.

As fall approached, several of the neighbors joined us in concern for their fate. My grandsons, with their mother, brought food and the ducks welcomed them and even seemed to anticipate the children’s visits complete with handouts. These ducks were used to human beings. No doubt they had been adorable, fluffy ducklings at Easter time. But by the end of summer, the charming babies had grown to full-grown ducks, perhaps a bit aggressive, and needing accommodations that some suburban family could not provide. Were they then abandoned to fend for themselves, without thought for their ultimate fate? Did parents persuade their children, and perhaps themselves, that the ducks would live happily ever after in our neighborhood pond?

September passed, and then as October moved on, the neighborhood became increasingly concerned. The ducks themselves grew more dependent on the children’s provisions. We all knew that if we did nothing these two could not survive once the pond froze over. They would become dinner for someone, if not for Mr. Fox, then for the coyotes or a fisher.

So, one day the children and their mother arrived at our barn with the ducks in the back of the Subaru. The female had been easily captured, but the drake was skittish. The timely arrival of a neighbor saved the day and the pair came to their adopted home in a pen by the barn.

We wondered how they would get on with our ancient Chinese geese—noisy creatures but otherwise harmless. A single Indian-runner drake shares their pen. (His mate succumbed to a weasel last winter—I found her headless carcass in the pen one snowy morning.) What would they think of these new arrivals?

As it turned out, the ducks were welcomed and moved in without incident. They may have missed the freedom of the pond, but they were glad to have food and shelter as winter approached and the cold intensified. Each morning I broke the ice in their water pans, and all drank gratefully.

No sooner had the days begun noticeably to lengthen, in late February or early March, than a white egg appeared in the shelter. Every day, through the spring and early summer, Mrs. Duck produced a single egg. We used them in various ways—they are rich and tasty. We saved a half dozen for the nearby Montessori pre-school that likes to hatch some chicks or ducks each spring in their incubator. Some of these orphans come back to our farm, either to lay eggs or to find their way to the freezer in the fall.

Sure enough, after 28 days of incubation, the duck eggs hatched, producing four fluffy ducklings. School was over, so home they came to our “nursery”. When they outgrew the small nursery pen, we introduced them to the ducks and geese at the barn. Mrs. Goose decided on motherhood, so enthusiastically that she crushed one of them. Another succumbed to her over-protective instincts—she was too big and her size overwhelmed them. The others were returned to a safer pen, and after a few weeks we tried again to integrate the little flock of water fowl. This time the Indian Runner drake proved such an ardent lover that the poor ducklings were tattered and thoroughly intimidated by his attentions. So they are back in a safe haven for now, and we shall have roast duck in the fall.

Such a responsibility we assume for our fellow creatures—even if we will eventually eat them! And the parent ducks, rescued from the pond, will survive another winter to produce eggs. The children at the Montessori school can again experience the miracle of tiny ducklings emerging from their shells. We’ll make egg salad of the rest.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Tree Steward

I joined an elite group this year: Roadies. Roadies with a cause. I trained with my local high school cycling team to meet the New Hampshire Firefighters Challenge of biking from the Canadian border to the Seacoast: 250 miles the last weekend in June. It’s a fundraiser for the Muscular Dystrophy Association and a personal challenge for the individuals who participate.
           
Traveling on the edge of New Hampshire roads by bicycle is a challenge all by itself, a challenge for neither the faint of heart nor weak of knee. First, there’s sharing the road with motorized vehicles; a major intimidation. Next, the condition of the roads. Riding on two thin wheels means paying close attention to the details. And finally, the geography. We Granite Staters are more likely to use the term “flat” to describe a paint texture than our terrain: “Would you like that Mountain Moss in semi-gloss or flat?” Elevation changes continuously and often significantly.
           
The need to keep a close watch on the road somewhat negates enjoying the scenery. Riding on the edge, I become acutely aware of the condition of our roads. Perhaps this year is even worse than usual because of all the rain. Dirt washed onto the road makes conditions slippery for bikers, and dirt washed away from shoulders leaves us no place to go. Everybody using the roadways notices uneven and broken pavement, but drivers are less likely to spot the cracks that run parallel to the edge and spell certain disaster for any cyclist who catches a tire in a narrow opening.

Aside from the physical conditions, there are plenty of other hazards along the road. I’ve seen things I probably wouldn’t have noticed from my car, but that forced me to move quickly to avoid them on my bike. Small rocks, broken glass, strips of metal, bolts, bent nails, and even tools can lead to flat tires if hit. Other debris includes trash, tree branches and road-kill. Sadly, one of the few rabbits I’ve seen in New Hampshire lay flattened on the edge of the road.

Speaking of dead animals, cycling is an olfactory experience. The smell of the air can’t be missed when you’re speeding through it. For the most part, it’s pleasant. Honeysuckle is one of my spring favorites, followed by lilacs and wild roses. Fresh-cut grass and fabric softener remind me of chores left back home, and the smell of back-yard barbecues helps me pedal faster toward supper. Then there are the olfactory assaults: freshly-fertilized farmland, recently battered skunks and burning cigarettes.

Those of us “sucking air” as we ascend steep terrain end up tasting some of the things we smell. The acrid taste of exhaust from rapidly accelerating vehicles is particularly unpleasant. Dust and dirt are probably the most common things we roadies ingest. We also take in our share of insects.

What do bugs taste like? I try to spit out the intruders or swallow them immediately if they’ve gone to the back of the throat. However, I attended a workshop recently where the instructor mentioned that he chomped down on a fly once and he thought it tasted like blueberries.

What with poor soil, automobile pollution and winter salt, only the heartiest plants can survive along the edge of the road. My favorites: violets, buttercups, Queen Anne’s lace, daisy, black-eyed Susan, daylily, forget-me-not, and chicory, to name a few. Their colors run the spectrum of the rainbow, decorating the otherwise drab corridor of pavement. As I pedaled through Sugar Hill during the MDA bike ride, I remembered the town’s reputation for lupines and, sure enough, I saw some lovely blue ones along the road.

The plant I notice most while riding, perhaps because it causes me the greatest anxiety, is poison ivy. I have seen vast tracts of lush, green, healthy plants, growing in full sun and dense shade. The leaves may be quite large or rather small; some are shiny, others dull. Poison ivy grows close to the road, up trees and along fences. I’ve seen an enormous plant arched across a guardrail so close to the road that an unknowing pedestrian or cyclist trying to stay clear of traffic is likely to have brushed by or pushed the poison ivy out of the way.                                                                              
Insects cause a few problems for cyclists beyond the inhalation and ingestion factors. Like any sweaty, warm-blooded pedestrian, when we stop, we become magnets for black flies and mosquitoes. Unlike the other biting insects, deer flies are exceptional drafters and sprinters, tough to outpace. I can’t resist the urge to swat and have nearly tumbled off my bike on many occasions trying to whack a deer fly. The only times I’ve succeeded in nailing one is when it’s already bitten through my pants.

As a Master Gardener, I need to volunteer at least 15 hours a year to maintain my active membership status. I fantasize that the volunteer coordinators will accept my swatting, rolling over, inhaling and swallowing these insect pests when I bike as service to the community.
                                               

By Jackie Bower, Master Gardener, UNH Cooperative Extension

07/26/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Natural resources play a huge, often unrecognized role in our communities. Many people living or working in cities believe that natural resources lie outside of the city, and that they have to go to into rural areas to experience the natural world.

In my work, I help people understand the importance of the natural resources in their own backyards, along their downtown streets, in neighborhood parks and cemeteries, and in small patches of forestland. These street trees, landscapes, community gardens, and pocket parks can change people’s lives.

Research backs up our experience that natural resources such as trees, shrubs and flowers in our communities can:
 

• reduce crime in neighborhoods
• increase property values
• save energy
• improve air quality
• and even improve human health by reducing stress, lowering blood pressure, and speeding up the healing process

So if trees and other plants really can improve quality of life, how do you get people who are worried about school budgets, parking problems, or high taxes, to care about them?

One way to get people caring about natural resources is by building partnerships. For example, because of my membership on the Board of Intown Manchester, a group mostly made up of influential developers, I connected with the president of Families in Transition, which provides temporary housing for homeless families, and we’ve begun working on several different landscaping projects with the residents.

Another contact, a local developer, approached me a couple weeks ago at Intown Manchester’s annual meeting. He’d heard that I was the person to talk with about putting plants on his roof. Installing a “greenroof” in Manchester is a goal I have been working on for the past four years!

I’ve found it’s important to involve as many people as possible from the beginning of the project. A great example of this is seen at the townhouses on Cedar Street. Back in 1995, I began working with Manchester Neighborhood Housing Services, which provides housing for low-income families. Working with the residents of new townhouses we helped develop a landscape plan, then plant and maintain the landscaping.

If you drive by today, 11 years later, you’ll still see the pride these residents have in their landscapes, because they created them and continue to watch over them.

As a result of the neighborhood pride that developed, the Manchester Police reported that the number of calls in the Cedar Street neighborhood dropped in one year from more 800 to just 64, a fact featured on ABC National News highlighting how trees benefit people by helping reduce crime.

Another example: the Pine Street Community Garden, which grew literally out of the rubble of an old garage foundation. Working together with community members and AmeriCorps volunteers, we developed the plans, gathered the materials, and built the Center City’s first community garden, which now serves several multicultural families.

Extension educator Julia Steed Mawson now oversees the garden. Julia brought in the 4-H Green Thumb Team, whose members grow food for the Salvation Army’s Kid’s Café, which serves hot meals daily to many children who would otherwise go without. The Green Thumb Team also grows food for the N.H. Food Bank. Through many partnerships, the garden has grown over the years and has become a keystone in the Center City.

A vacant lot on Cedar Street was a former crack house site. Residents of Cedar Street remember how afraid they were. According to resident Cathy Howland, “[The crack house] was only about six feet from our apartment. Its windows were aligned with ours, so we could see the drug dealers and they could see us. We couldn’t let the kids outside without an adult being right there.”

Many frightening incidents occurred as people came and went at all hours of the day and night. Beyond the fear of living next to drug dealers, residents had to live with the huge neighborhood eyesore of the house and yard, with trash everywhere and the house itself beyond repair. It was a wonderful day in the neighborhood when Manchester Neighborhood Housing Services purchased the property and took the crack house down.

The community came together to plan and build a new park. The residents helped create the landscape plan, and, in two days, more than 40 people including N.H. Community Tree Stewards transformed the vacant lot into a beautiful green space. Neighborhood children dug holes, planted shrubs, and spread mulch. Finding the remains of the old foundation while digging, one of the kids shouted, “This used to be part of the crack house. Let’s get it out of here!”

By Mary Tebo, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Forestry Educator

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

In a snowless winter, when the cross-country skis languish unused, I walk in the woods. Spruce, hemlock and pine, and sometimes a dusting of snow, sharpen the grays and browns of bare trees and stone walls. The open forest provides glimpses of past and present inhabitants, human and otherwise.

Ancient and not-so-ancient roads and trails wind through wooded areas of New Hampshire. They provide entrance to the forests and to the history of a place, at least since European settlers arrived in the 17th and 18th centuries. Ridges and narrow valleys directing drainage to larger streams and ponds, outcroppings of ledge, large boulders, depressions that will hold vernal pools in spring—these speak of a longer history, thousands of years of geological alteration.

Old town maps and even some more modern atlases show roads that no longer exist, or are not maintained as roads. They are usually easy to identify on the ground. Stone walls 50 feet apart commonly attest to the existence of a three-rod road. (A rod is usually 162 feet, although I have recently learned of a town where the rod measured 18 feet.) Hikers, skiers, snowmobilers and hunters all delight in trekking along old roads.

When deciduous trees are bare and snow cover is sparse, winter reveals clues to the past: remnants of old home and barn foundations offer evidence of once-upon-a-time homesteads. A few weathered stones mark an old family burial site, perhaps with its own stone-walled enclosure. A narrow-walled pathway leads from a long-absent barn to a pasture now grown to forest. A pile of broken dishes and rusted farm machinery marks an old farmstead dump site.

High-bush blueberry bushes, too shaded to bear fruit, mark the site where cattle or sheep pastured, perhaps 70 or 100 years ago; a gnarled remnant of an apple tree marks the site of an orchard.

Walls take off at angles to the road, marking ancient fields and pastures. Some are boundary walls, dividing one farm from another. Boundary trees, left standing along the wall and in the gaps, sometimes bear Ablazes@ still visible despite years of growth.

Old logging trails may be harder to follow. They contribute to an understanding of the history and character of the land. Many simply stop where the last big tree was cut, but some provide thoroughfares through a tract. Keep your compass handy if you follow one of these.

People are not the only creatures who take advantage of old roads and logging trails. Fresh snow reveals tracks—always deer, occasionally a moose, coyotes, perhaps a bobcat, and smaller creatures: squirrels, grouse, turkeys, and creatures like us who don=t have the sense or capability to hunker down for the winter.

Deer follow the man-made trails for a while and then veer off to create their own paths through the forest. It=s risky to follow them into unfamiliar territory. The deer know where they are going, but you may not want to go there!

Traditionally in New Hampshire large tracts of woodlands have been open to hunters and hikers—low-impact pedestrian recreational users. More recently though, I’ve come across trails where all-terrain vehicles and 4X4 trucks have inflicted severe damage, creating deep ruts and disrupting fragile wetland ecosystems. As a result, some snowmobile clubs have gated trails and landowners have closed off access to discontinued roads.

If the long tradition of keeping private lands open to our use is to survive, we=ll need to persuade the makers and drivers of such vehicles to join us in respecting the hospitality of the landowner. All users of wild places need to understand the importance of preserving the ecosystem that sustains the plants and animals that lure us there.

12/20/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

The Lee Town Meeting in 2002 voted to place a conservation easement on most of the nearly 200 acres of wooded property the town owns, permanently protecting it from development.

But without an inventory of the plants and animals that lived there, how could we effectively protect them or detect long-term changes in their populations?

I decided to start by identifying the birds. I figured I could handle that. I had one memorable experience right away. In May of 2002, a Lawrence’s warbler - a rare hybrid - appeared on the property and sang for 10 days before departing. Wow! I’d never seen that species before, and had the good fortune to see and hear it several times over 10 days.

After making substantial progress on the birds, I decided to add herbaceous plants to my efforts. A UNH colleague, Janet Sullivan, helped me hone my rusty herbaceous plant identification skills. Chairman of Lee Conservation Commission (and retired UNH forestry professor) Dick Weyrick had already identified most of the trees and shrubs, so I worked on finishing that piece of the inventory as well. And, since I was familiar with wildlife, it was easy to look for animals while I was in the field looking for birds and plants.
           
I became a familiar figure to the people (and dogs) who regularly hike the trails. Usually I had books, lenses, binoculars, and note pads with me. In 2005 I often had insect nets, which aroused considerable curiosity.

I discovered two large American chestnut trees, the only mature ones I’d ever seen. This is rare; chestnuts were wiped out in the early 1900s by introduction of a fungus from Europe. We hope these two are resistant to the fungus.
           
One morning I sat quietly in a blind, my telephoto lens aimed at a gray fox den. After 90 minutes with no signs of the fox, it surprised me by coming from behind and suddenly barking, no more than eight feet away. I’ll bet my blood pressure spiked to 140 then.

Another time (a rainy early April night) I stood at the edge of one of the vernal pools and netted a spotted salamander almost nine inches long. I’ve caught and kept trout smaller than that!

One July day I slogged through the wooded swamp, and surprised a moose. Later that same day, a mother ruffed grouse pretended to have a broken wing, while her chicks scurried to safety. Further on, a beautiful milk snake sunned itself on a stump. It must have recently shed its skin, its colors were so bright.
           
Several bird-watching friends kept asking me about dragonflies and butterflies. “What? You’re an entomologist, but you’re not counting the dragonflies and butterflies?” I eventually relented and added them to my list. But some things defeated me. Fungi were one group I had no hope of including. Mosses (very difficult) were another. Bats were another group that would take some pricey equipment and time to cover.

I finished last fall. My lists show that we have a diverse group of plants and animals living in the town forest, including a couple of rare specimens. Fortunately, we have very few invasive plant species.

Why not pay a visit yourself? The property is criss-crossed with well marked trails, with several points of easy access. You could park your car at the Lee Town Library, the transfer station road, safety complex (police/fire) or on Rita Lane and begin walking on trails that depart close by.

You’ll find lots of interesting things to see and hear. There are picnic tables at Durgin Park (the piece along Wheelwright Pond). You could even launch your canoe or kayak there. The bog has an observation platform, so you could see pitcher plants without getting your feet wet. When there is fresh snow, you can find tracks of fisher, fox, deer and ruffed grouse.

If you do make a visit, make sure you check yourself for ticks at the end of the day (ticks are abundant in southeastern N.H.). Say hi to me when you’re on the trail. I’ll be out there somewhere.

And if your town owns some acreage worth protecting, why not volunteer to begin a bioinventory yourself. You don’t need special credentials. Ask others to join you. Who knows? Your town may harbor a forester, a few passionate bird-watchers, a couple of gardeners who really know their wild plants, a wildlife biologist—maybe even an entomologist like me.

By Alan Eaton, UNH Cooperative Extension entomologist and Lee Conservation Commission member

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

4/20/06

As many gardeners know, it is in late autumn that granite breeds. Its gestation period generally lasts through the winter, with the resulting offspring appearing by planting time. At leaf-drop we will notice again just how many rocks there are. Bradford, New Hampshire, where I live, has, by one reckoning, at least 250 miles of stone walls.

Stones, however, were not always in such obvious abundance.

What is now central New Hampshire was once the northwestern coast of Africa, while most of Vermont is part of the original North American continent. This accounts for the differences in geology in general and the rocks in particular between the two states, but perhaps not for the differences in politics.

The stones in New Hampshire formed at the core of the Appalachian Mountain range created when Africa and North America collided 680 million years ago. A similar collision is taking place today, as India is slowly being pushed into the soft underbelly of Asia. The Himalayas are currently rising at a rate of about ½ inch per year.

New England didn’t become rocky until the appearance of the Laurentide Ice Sheet. The ancient soils were scoured down to bedrock. Stone slabs were heaved, broken, and scattered about. The lush temperate forests eventually began to return 10 thousand years ago, continuing the slow buildup of organic soils begun by the enterprising lichens and which would again bury a great many of the smaller stones.

The pervasive mythology of this region relates that heroic pioneers cleared a rocky wasteland to create farms. Though not without extensive exposed outcroppings, early hill farms were not heart-breakingly stony. According to historians, geologists, and historical records of the time) upland farms were largely fertile in the early 1700s, and remained so if treated with care.

In a crude oversimplification of complicated and profound events, one could say that the social and political changes in colonial agriculture from communal food production to self-sufficiency, the exploding population of Europeans and removal of native peoples, the deforestation of New England, and the culmination of the “Little Ice Age” by the early 1900s all contributed to the emergence of slumbering hordes of stonewall-sized rocks.

The first European coastal settlements were built on soils first cleared for cultivation by the Native Americans. These lands were sandy and largely devoid of rocks. Most stonewalls were built further inland in the first half of the 1800s, well after the American Revolution.

Although many walls were built to delineate ownership, most walls needed the addition of wood (and later, wire) to function as animal barriers. Disrespectful though it may sound, many stone walls were in fact only linear waste heaps for the surfacing surplus. Rocks were moved to the sides of pasture, hayfield, and cropland according to the preponderance of stone, availability of labor, and the turning radius of the given farm equipment. The average stone-walled field is between two and five acres for these reasons.

The heaving of rocks is a complicated and much-studied process. In heavily forested areas, normal winter snow, a heavy layer of leaves, and a modicum of topsoil prevents the ground from freezing more than a couple of inches deep. By contrast, a pasture or thinly wooded area may freeze to the depth of several feet.

Frost heaving begins when water in the surface soil freezes. Water expands as it turns to ice, thus soils expand during freezing. Water in liquid or vapor form is attracted toward soil that is already frozen and each speck of ice between grains of soil consolidates the particles into a single rigid mass. As the frost line deepens it reaches the tops of rocks.

When the “head” of the rock is frozen into the descending frost layer a small void is created beneath the base of the rock. Because spring thawing happens from below as well as from above (deep subsoil remains at about 55 degrees F.), soil adjacent to this void falls in while the stone itself is still frozen in place from above. The stone, once the thawing ground above releases it, is unable to return to its original niche and thus over time may eventually poke through the thawing and descending upper soil.

A distinct process called “frost push” can happen at shallower depths. Cold is conducted at a faster rate through stone than through the surrounding soil. This causes the bases of these rocks to freeze; the cradling soil then freezes and expands, pushing rocks up.

These forces of frost heave and frost push after the large-scale felling of the original forests were not the only processes luring stones up into the sunlight. Loss of topsoil and compaction caused by overgrazing, especially on slopes, were other significant factors.

What farmers, scientists, and even amateur naturalists such as Thoreau documented in the 1800s in North America (and much earlier in Northern Europe) was that the supply of stones, not too troublesome at first, appeared within a few decades after the trees came down.

The clearing of stones at the first half of the 19th century was an annual chore for several generations of farmers, though a picnic compared to the job of supplying 20 or more cords of wood to heat the average home. After that time the rate of rock “production” slowed.

Though not yet in my garden.

By J. Ann Eldridge, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

2/23/06