NH Outside: Land use Archives

Here we are again at the turn of another season. For me this a major point of the year; the harvests are in and the corn fields are stubble, haunted by mice and their kin.

Now I prize the rare days of October’s bright blue weather, a gift worth sapphires. More accurately, they are days of rubies and topaz, citrines and garnets strewn across the hills. I revel in the days of golden sun and towering white clouds soaring over New Hampshire’s mountains are the days brimming with life, and their brevity is a reminder to enjoy it while we can. Wring out the gusto!

It’s true that every lake and pond has a frame of reds, oranges and gold to bronze. Quiet summer days are gone. Blustery days bring whitecaps riding on the larger lakes, but there are those few still mornings when the colors are doubled at the water’s edge. Paddling quietly, moving on the water’s surface, I can cross reflections that disappear as I come to them, beckoning me on like a mirage in the desert.

But the mountains are where autumn’s treasure is on full display. Miles of roads and trails wind through our White Mountains to give unparalleled views over thousands of acres of color and an incredible variety of textures and topographies. I love to move through the deciduous forests from the bright softness of comparatively lush growth to the more austere, rocky slopes.

In these mountains every trail is cut by streams, clear water running from the rocks, seeping or leaping as it obeys gravity and finds its way down the slopes. The sounds of water offer a counterpoint to the rustle of leaves.

As I gain height the evergreens become more prevalent. The breeze has a more whispered voice. Shade holds a chill, but in the sunshine warmth melts through my jacket, sinking into my body. On such a sunny, slightly damp day, I climb higher still, where the balsams fur the rocky slopes, to enjoy the incomparable scent of balsam riding on the cool breeze.

I turn and look out to the northwest to the huge U-shaped valleys where once glaciers hung above like solid clouds and rivers of glacial silt scoured the land. I try to imagine it. I close my eyes and feel the cold wind, chill from the mile-high ice blowing past me. I open them again and it is our own bright and bold October in the mountains.

The views out over some of the glacier-carved valleys give a tempting idea of what the hawks and eagles see as they ride the thermals up the mountainsides. A huge bowl of brilliance, hemmed in by the old worn mountains of New Hampshire’s ranges.

I see how the colors follow ridges and valleys and notice the flaring scarlet of the swamp maples clustering where their roots trail into the dampest soils. Following the jewel-box of deciduous colors trailing up into the dark, spiky evergreens, I see how the evergreens infiltrate the gray of bedrock and talus slopes. I long for wings.

Previews of November’s bleak days come at the very tops of windward slopes where October’s gales have already scoured away the leaves on the few dwarfed hardwoods. Even the hardy evergreens are bent and stunted, edging rock outcrops worn as smooth as pavement.

Still, even in the grey of old rock, I sometimes find an echo of autumn’s colors, a hint of deep red, where actual garnets lie in the stone. I retreat quickly back to the next lower level patting the balsam needles as I pass, hoping to keep their fragrance lingering with me at least until I get home.

These October days of gold and garnet will be my treasure box in winter; one that I will open when the grey and cold gets oppressive. They will see me through until the next turning of the year.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Some of my best ideas have come to me as I relax in my hammock, recovering from prying up rocks, digging holes and spreading heavy mulch. This particular brainstorm came as I contemplated an enormous apple tree under full sail of pink and white blossoms.

Underneath the tree, hellebores prospered near the trunk, and the drip line was hemmed with lamium. Very nice. But it lacked something. It lacked strength. It lacked purple, that’s what it lacked. Very good. Problem identified, now a solution. What would fill the intermediate space, provide the color, and be low maintenance. “Yes, please, low maintenance.”

Well, crocuses, of course.

Like most really good ideas, fulfillment came at a cost. I diligently saved my pennies, trimmed here and there, and by the end of July placed my order for 1000 purple and purple-and-white-striped crocus. Every time I looked at that apple tree I had to smile. It was going to be great.

I waited, waited, and waited some more. My corms were due the second week of September. I gave them an extra two weeks, then called the vendor.

The bulbs had been sent on schedule. Was I sure I hadn’t received them? Okay, I’ll never win prizes for my powers of observation, but I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed a thousand crocus bulbs on my front steps.

Another week later the package was located in upper New York state. I received constant notification of its inchworm-like progress from New York to Michigan. (Michigan?) From there to Connecticut and thence to Massachusetts.

Good grief! When the poor cardboard carton arrived another five days later, it looked as if it had been the focal point of a buffalo stampede. Somehow the corms hadn’t been smashed, and there were still exactly 1000 of them.

I placed them, one by one, in the soft, prepared earth, viewed the arrangement from all sides, did some rearranging, and began to plant. The sun set and still I planted. My back protested vigorously. My knees sang counterpoint. Still I planted.

The more frost-proof mosquitoes sang in my ears. I really thought about quitting, but I just couldn’t leave my carefully arranged crocus. I planted until every last corm had been lovingly tucked into its appointed spot.

Then I discovered that I really, truly, couldn’t get up. Nothing was working. Communicating, yes. Loudly. But I couldn’t force my back and knees to get me off the ground. What to do?

Yelling for help was out. I’d collect frost first. I rolled and crawled to the spading fork and used it to lever myself up. I then lurched the interminable distance between my garden and the house­a superlative imitation of Quasimodo, if I do say so myself. The next morning, I was unable to get out of bed.

The reminder of that evening in the garden stayed with me through the winter. Ah, but so did my mental images of the apple tree billowing over its carpet of purple crocus and hellebores. Ibuprofen and my imagination were my soul’s support throughout that long and snowy winter. I imagined my crocus, safe under the snow, putting out roots. Then as the snow melted and the soil warmed I made a dozen trips a day looking for new shoots.

The apple buds swelled. The hellebores bloomed. The only activity where the crocus had been planted was the appearance of dozens of dark, round, little holes. Holes where vole families, vole clans and entire tribes had wintered on my crocus.

My friend in the Air National Guard thought I was perhaps overreacting when I asked if he could arrange a practice air strike on my apple tree. Hah! Norse mythology had a serpent gnawing at the root of the tree that supported the world. I have news. The mythologists had it wrong. It was a vole.

I tried everything. Voles blew bubbles with gum dropped into their holes and made nests of human hair gleaned from the hairdresser’s floor. Rototilling merely meant redecorating to the voles.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Yes, the landlady just rearranged the roof and walls.”

I also rearranged things. I moved. I have never planted another crocus, I have no apple tree. I encourage the feared fisher cats to come and prowl my flower beds. My only tangible memory of that hammock-induced vision is the twinge I get in my back any time I pick up a shovel.

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Rain, rain, and more rain. How well I remember the dry summers of years gone by. You won’t hear me complain.

There is something about moisture from the sky that no watering by hand or hose can replicate. Throw in a bit of lightning and thunder, and the world is suddenly a greener place. That something is the nitrogen-called “poor man’s fertilizer” by some-that results from the wonderful chemistry of our atmosphere.

Another result from all the rain has been a full-to-the-brim wet area in our backyard. My husband and his tractor created it when I complained that he had filled in an area where the cedar waxwings were coming for mud to make nests. Not far from that spot he dug out another bowl-like area about 10 inches deep at the base of a natural spring.

The original builders of our house must have thought the natural springs on this property a sign of good farming land. According to the history of our town, the original householder to live here had water for his cattle because of at least one of those springs, even in dry times.

This water has always drained into a culvert and further on down into the Rocky Branch of the Asquamchumauke (Baker) River. It still does, but now it stays for a time in a small, six-foot-in-diameter pond, a rain-garden by definition, design and default.

We did this in late fall. Winter followed and we waited. The little pond froze over, and snow fell on it and buried it. Then spring arrived, and time reversed itself: first the snow left, then the ice melted.

Then the frogs arrived. First, the peepers and their repetitive medley of hope, followed by birds swooping for water and mud for nest building: tree swallows, goldfinches, bluebirds, robins. Grasses with arching stems grew about and flowered over the pond. Then, the green frogs and their profound harrumphing chorus. The calendar of nature’s sounds.

Over April vacation, the grandkids and I experimented: Could a dozen goldfish survive the summer and eat mosquito larvae? There was some discussion and the pessimists among us hypothesized the fish weren’t long for the pond; the optimists prevailed.

So far, five stalwart survivors remain. Every day I check, and every day they rise to the surface around one in the afternoon, swirling and swooping, swimming in choreographed motion and military-like maneuvers. When the grandkids come over, they shake some feed into the water, but mostly the fish fend quite nicely for themselves. Later on, the fish return to the shade close under the bank and wait, perhaps for another optimal time to surface, to rest, to meditate.

One day, I observed a crow who perhaps thought the goldfish looked like a protein-rich meal for her noisy brood hopping about in our side yard. She flew over and landed on the far side of the pond. Instantly, the fish hid from view. She crooked her head to get a better view, but vanished they had. The crow paced about for a bit and left in what seemed like a huff.

A weekend ago, as two of my grandkids helped me work on creating a woodland garden, we discovered what else might be attracted by water: dragonflies. The first one I saw was a super-sized beauty with a lovely blue tail. I have not spotted that one again, but many others of varied hues and sizes zoomed back and forth as we worked.

Eleven-year-old Liam seemed the natural candidate to help spread wood chips. His idea to drag over a child-size garden bench made the area seem even more defined. His sister, Julia, 8, her creative juices flowing, designed a sign proclaiming “Nana’s Garden” with an arrow, in case anyone couldn’t find it on their own. She added colorful bees and butterflies just in case the real ones buzzing and flitting about needed encouragement.

A note of caution: I never leave my younger grandchildren unsupervised around this area. Water is tantalizing to children. Watching frogs, yes! Doing it alone, no!

Work remains to be done. I’d like to make some cement stepping stones with the kids. Six should do it.

Every day I wonder, are the fish and frogs still there? One day, I penned this haiku.

frog looks up at me
from his watery puddle
plop! Green legs pump fast

By Helen Downing, UNHCE Master Gardener

I don’t know what I expected, but I was a slightly disappointed when I got my first glimpse of the Alpine Garden near Mt. Washington’s summit. I didn’t expect to see Maria von Trapp whirling around a lush mountaintop of plateau-filled flowers, but I did expect to see more than the low-lying green patches around rocks and boulders.

On closer inspection, I saw a microcosmic plant world blooming in this inhabitable place. I’m awed so many of these plants, animals, birds and insects survive in this area’s most brutal weather. Some plants on this mighty mount have lived 100 years or more, and some are endangered.

I’d heard so much about this site, so when I read about a hike there in mid-June, I signed up. Rain poured the entire morning of the nearly three-hour trip to the meeting place. But, like magic, the rain disappeared as the 28 of us caravanned up the Mt. Washington Auto Road.

Our plan was to stop at two transition zones 2,000 and 4,000 feet before trekking down the trail to the Alpine Garden. The idea was to view different mountain environments at various elevations and observe the changes in the landscape as we climbed.

The lower elevation was mostly hardwood forests, thick with sugar and red maples, gray barked American beeches, paper birches and red oaks, all of which turn brilliant colors in fall and bring leaf-loving tourists. We saw yellow birches with peeling bark that glistened like metal. There was wild sarsaparilla, used as drink by colonists and American Indians. Sarsaparilla is sometimes confused with poison ivy, we were told, but the former has five leaflets with fine teeth running along is edges, while the poisonous latter has three leaflets with smooth edges.

As we climbed to the 4,000 foot zone, the hardwoods began to vanish and spruce and fir trees began to take over. Along the way, waterfalls sprouted along the roadside. The forest floor became rockier and the terrain was dotted with mosses, small pines and ferns.

The krummholz, meaning “crooked wood,” marks the 4,000 foot region. The balsam firs and black spruces here are dwarfed and look like broomstick freaks on the scenery. The black spruce, more of a blue-green color, is amazingly adaptable. In this zone, these trees lay flat along the ground and its branches root. This is a necessary adaptation in the alpine area, for if the trunk dies, the roots start new life.

Just down from the summit, our group caught the nearly one-mile trail to the Alpine Garden. This boulder-strewn trail, marked by five- to six-foot high cairns, was wet in spots and not easily traversable. About 40 minutes later, the trail flattened out, and before us was a swath of green among the lichen-embossed stones and boulders. We were warned not to step on anything green. It is important not to destroy these plants so future generations could enjoy them as well.

Among the blooms was the genuine arctic plant diapensia, whose white blossoms grow in tufts and which grows symbiotically with pink Lapland rosebay. There were alpine azaleas and rhodora, both of which are the same types as the larger shrubs budding below. The rhodora and Lapland rosebay are from the rhododendron family, and the flowers are thumb sized. There were little fingertip-sized alpine bluets white in the alpine garden, not blue colored as their relatives elsewhere. We also found skunk currant, whose red berries are edible, but whose fruit and leaves smell like skunk.

What impressed the group was that all this variety of plants could survive in this harshest of worlds, enduring excessive wind and extreme cold while we were there, swaths of snow still showed in some depressions. Their adaptability is key to their survival.

Coming down the mountain, we saw a bear and two cubs gamboling across a barren valley. We stopped a few times to photograph and admire the white-flower tipped hobblebush shrubs, painted trillium, and pink lady slippers orchid family members. What amazed me, a lady slipper lover, was seeing three white lady slippers.

I knew there were yellow lady slippers, and some colored both pink and white, but I never realized there were white lady slipper colonies. I guessed the whites were an aberration, but our guide Dana Sansom, a UNH associate professor, said she has seen vast colonies of white lady slippers in Jackson, N.H. She said they are a variety of the pink lady slipper, or Cypripedium acaule. After a 45-year absence, I moved back to New Hampshire three years ago. I questioned if this small state held any marvels for me. The discoveries of the white lady slippers and Alpine Garden were answers enough.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

I don't mind picking berries alone.

When my children were young, we’d take an annual field trip to the local strawberry patch. They started off crawling on the matted straw between the rows. I quickly picked berries while their attention focused at their handfuls of straw. When they crawled towards the strawberry plants, I watched them explore, making sure they didn’t eat any leaves or moldy berries. The few berries they picked left red juice dripping through their chubby fingers.

As they got older, berry picking became an adventure. We'd wait for the hay wagon to take us to our pick-your-own row of strawberries. When the wagon arrived, passengers holding their brimming baskets of berries took a big step down from the wooden cart. I looked enviously at them and thought, "Did they get all the good ones? Were there any left for us?” My children were more interested in being the first ones on the wagon.

Once everyone was seated, the tractor bucked into gear and slowly pulled us towards the picking area. We lurched back and forth as the wheels dipped into the pot-holed, dirt road. We passed several rows with people picking, but didn’t stop until we reached a strawberry sign with the number 5 on it. The kids bounced up and down anxiously waiting to get off the wagon. We jumped down from the wagon and were directed to our designated row. The treasure hunt had begun.

I usually walked down the row about half way before starting to pick. I wanted to be immersed in the patch rather than sticking to the edges. As she found her first berry, my Kelly would boast, “Look at how big this one is!” My son, Casey, would retort, “I found the biggest, bestest one of all!”

Sometimes the berries were right on the edge of the row and easy to find. But the best ones often hid in the center of the plant under the leaves.

I loved gently brushing the leaves and stems aside to see what treasures were hidden. When I found the perfect berry, I cupped it in my hand with the stem between my fingers and gently pulled. The berry snapped off the stem and made a crisp, pop sound. Perfect berries had a squeaky, red shine and were evenly speckled with seeds. The caps provided handles to hold onto as you bit into the garnet delight. The warm red juices burst into your mouth and left your fingertips stained with precious memories.

I knew the treasure hunt was over by my children’s pinkened lips and face, filled baskets, and whines of “I’m hot!” As I slowly stood up, my back also creaked it was time to go. So, we started walking back to the farm stand in our red-blotched sneakers.

As we walked down the row, I inevitably spotted another strawberry that I had to pick. So I stopped and picked it. Even though my tray was full, I thought, “Just one more.” The strawberry fields bedazzled me, and I was addicted. That was it-the last one. But then it happened again. I had to pick another strawberry. I averted my eyes, looking toward the farm stand, trying not to look down. I quickened my pace and finally exited, leaving thousands of unclaimed jewels behind.

Now my children are older, so I go picking alone.

Occasionally, I eavesdrop on child-parent conversations. “Look Mom! It’s two strawberries stuck together.” I continue to listen as the mother gives instructions on which ones to pick. “Now Zachary, make sure you pick the nice red ones. The green ones aren’t ripe and the black ones are rotten.” As the children emerge from picking, they remind me of my children with red-stained lips and red smudges on their white tee shirts. I remember that I usually had Kelly and Casey wear red tee shirts when we went picking.

One June day in the strawberry patch, I wasn’t quite alone. I walked to the end of the row, close to the edge of the woods. I’d never seen a snake while picking berries, but this day I heard a rustling under the strawberry plants. Scared of snakes, I feared the worst and quickly hopped back from the row. I watched and waited for my nemesis to slither out from beneath the plant and onto the straw.

The leaves rustled again. I prepared to run. Then out popped the furry, striped face of a chipmunk with a huge strawberry in its mouth.

It looked side to side as if checking to make sure all was clear. As it hopped off into the woods, I compared his booty to the strawberry I’d just picked. He picked a good one, but I smiled and thought, Mine was the biggest, bestest ever!

By Alice Mullen, Family & Consumer Resources Educator

At the age of 40, I thought my childhood dream of having my own pony had finally come true.

The truth is, I'd had horses in my life before, but they were never mine.

Before I was born, my parents left New York City and bought a 55-acre farm in Vermont where I spent my first five years. It was an ideal setting in my child’s mind; fields to roam, a pond for skating parties and swimming, and lots of animals for playmates.

I loved the horses best, but as the youngest I wasn’t allowed to ride them unless it was with someone older. That’s why I wanted a pony all my own. Forward 35 years.

On a cool summer morning I stood by a row of windows in my second-floor bedroom and looked out onto the back lawn toward the woods that led to a golf course. With coffee in hand I luxuriated in the feeling that comes when a soft dawn breeze, pungent with sweet pine, wafts through the screens and promises another beautiful day. The mist on the grass was thigh-high and rising. The only sounds were the birds chirping their morning calls.

As I turned to head downstairs, something by the edge of the lawn caught my eye. Having the eyesight of a mole I never trust my un-spectacled eyes, so I raced frantically to the bedside table, jammed on my glasses and checked the spot again.

A pony! A lovely brown filly, grazing on the tall grass no more than 60 feet away. All logic left my brain. It seemed my dream had come true; my prayers had finally been answered.

Not wanting to frighten the pony, I flew silently down the stairs to enlist my husband’s help in corralling her. Looking like a player in a game of charades I began gesturing madly and mouthing “There’s a pony out there.”

“WHAT?” he replied in full voice.

“Shhhhhhh. A pony! A pony! Over by the woods. Help me get hold of her.”

We stepped outside and simultaneously assumed a stealthy crouch­­as if that would work. The pony nonchalantly lifted her head, continuing her munching as we moved slowly toward her. Making no attempt to run, she allowed my husband to clip our dog leash to her bridle.

For one brief moment I allowed time to slip away. I was a kid again and it felt like Christmas. While I held the lead, Jay called the police to see if anyone had reported a missing pony. No one had.

“Can we keep her?” I asked, half joking, half serious.

“Ya, right,” came the reply. “Let’s think about this for minute,” he said assuming his scholarly voice. “If we can retrace her hoof prints we can probably figure out where she came from.”

Although the prints led to a small stream and disappeared, that was enough evidence to give Jay the brilliant idea that she must have come from the estate on the other side of the golf course. So sure was he of this that after letting me play a while with the pony, he set off to return her to her rightful owner.

Down the cart path they went, the pony making no objections until they came to the barn. She wasn’t the least bit interested in going inside, but the horses in the stalls seemed delighted to have her back. It took some doing, but eventually with persuasive pushing, pulling and cajoling she was safely “installed.”

Since Amy, the woman who took care of the property, wasn’t home, Jay left with a satisfied feeling that he’d done his good deed for the day. I hung back, a bit sad at having to give “my” pony back.

A week later Jay ran into Amy in town and told her about returning the pony.

“Oh my gosh!” Amy laughed. “I wondered who had put her in the barn - I came in after work and almost died when I saw her there. She belongs to the Gordons on the other side of town.”

“Really?” Jay said, “But the other horses seemed so happy to see her.”

“That’s because she’s in season and they’re all stallions!”

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

Vegetable gardening is back in fashion. The desire for locally grown produce, combined with economic pressures, has inspired homeowners to dig up their yards. Already, seed companies are reporting shortages of popular seed varieties. Fortunately I bought seeds in February, and my plants are growing nicely under lights in the basement.

All this enthusiasm about gardening reminds of the huge garden behind our house when I was growing up in New York State. We owned the 50-foot-wide lot behind our suburban house, and it was devoted entirely to food production. Although the family Victory Garden seemed to be in decline by the time I came along, I remember the apple and cherry trees, the asparagus and strawberry beds, the path down the middle with the rows of vegetable beds on either side, and an old chicken coop.

My father was a county extension agent in New York State, so he knew what he was doing. I suppose he was under lots of pressure to “teach by doing” and felt he had to have a showcase Victory Garden. Lucky for us-lots of fruits and vegetables. My older brothers were more involved in the work. I especially remember my father’s fantastic tomatoes that he raised from seed. I have tried to carry on his legacy, but with dismal results compared with his shoulder-high jungle of tomato bushes loaded with beautiful fruit.

The need for food during both World Wars I and II inspired the idea of backyard vegetable gardens. Home gardening also provided a way for everyone to help the war effort. My sister-in-law, who grew up in Virginia, told me that her dad borrowed a horse and plow to till up their yard for a garden. Although he was a civil engineer, who knew nothing about gardening, she remembers they grew lots of vegetables.

I’ve read that USDA estimated that during World War II, Americans planted 20 million garden plots that produced as much as 10 million pounds of fruit and vegetables a year - more than 40 percent the fresh vegetables cosumed in the United States at that time. In 1943, American families bought 315,000 pressure cookers for canning vegetables.

Round III of the victory garden movement came just after the oil embargo in the mid 1970s. The TV show Crockett’s Victory Garden aired in 1974 at WGBH, Boston’s public television station. The 75’ x 75’ garden was dug just outside the studio in ground that was like concrete - a former flood plain full of construction rubble and most recently a parking lot. Crews removed rocks and brought in tons of topsoil, built raised beds built and erected a greenhouse. Jim Crockett’s gardens were incredible. A garden writer, Jim proved to be a natural on TV, and the show was an instant hit. He probably taught more people how to garden and grow their own food than anyone since.

Victory Garden round IV is poised to happen this summer, responding to economic pressures, a desire for greater local self-reliance, and concerns about food safety. The White House lawn now sports a vegetable garden. Unlike Mr. Crockett’s parking-lot garden, the White House lawn probably has excellent, well-drained soil that will be tested and corrected for any problems: texture, organic material, pH, nutrient deficiencies. There is plenty of sun at the site, access to plenty of water, and no shortage of labor for weeding, watering, and monitoring for pests.

New gardeners, take heart! There’s a real element of beginner’s luck in gardening. New gardens are the naturally the “first rotation” of crops. Insects may not find the new site, and diseases have not contaminated the soil with spores that move on to the next season. Deer may take a couple of years to zero in on a new garden, and the woodchucks may be slow to locate the new food source.

If you are among the seven million Americans predicted to start their first vegetable gardens this season, take it from an old hand: Start small and build on your success.

Begin with the easy crops: green beans, lettuce, broccoli, summer squash /zucchini, a few herbs, and of course, a few tomatoes. Look to experienced gardeners for help preparing your ground, selecting varieties to grow, and dealing with garden-maintenance questions you can’t answer.

You can always call the toll-free UNH Cooperative Extension Family, Home & Garden Center Info Line, Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Trained volunteer staff, many of them gardeners themselves, will help you find answers to even your thorniest questions.
Happy gardening!

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward

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

Recent fluctuating temperatures make venturing out onto the swamp a somewhat dicey activity. To be on the safe side, I decided instead to snowshoe around, rather than onto, the swamp and investigate an area I’d not explored before. It rises up behind the swamp to the north and had long been calling to me.

I headed down the path and out the gate, continuing into the woods. In no time the old stone wall that still marks the boundary between our stewardship and the next was standing before me. I found it easy enough to clamber over the wall, even with snowshoes on. The deer I was tracking had found it equally easy. These tracks were on the small side, so perhaps it was a young animal and it clearly came alone. I looked for evidence of browse but didn’t see any. Did nothing appeal to it?

Soon a lovely pine grove enveloped me. The trees were tall and the snow depth light. I saw pine cones and the little tracks of squirrels moving from tree to tree. A peaceful quiet hung there, with just a gentle murmur from the mild movement of the trees. I was reminded of a Robert Frost poem “The Sound of Trees,” in which he comments that the voice of trees is the one sound we “wish to bear” near our homes. The trees call to him, talking of going. I know they often call me to come and explore. They are most persuasive.

But today I was exploring tracks, and there in the grove were the unmistakable marks of a turkey. This was a treat. I love those ugly, gawky-looking birds. After moving into this house, I waited six years to see a turkey before looking out one afternoon a couple years ago and finding 42 in front of the house! They pecked along the driveway and into the front yard, while I ran from window to window, counting, taking pictures, and enjoying. Since then, we’ve had occasional sightings, and now, here I was following where one had gone not long before.

Up an incline it went (did it pant as I was doing?) and across a flowing stream. The rushing water confirmed my fears for walking on the swamp. Better to be here on a knoll, following a turkey’s path. Thanks to the snowshoes, crossing on the large snow-covered stones in the stream bed was no trouble at all. Soon I had moved into another grove of big pine trees, their edged bark dark against the snow.

It’s easy to understand why prehistoric peoples considered groves to be sacred places. Their height blocks out everything outside them. Every sound uttered within takes on a deeper meaning. Surely here spirits can communicate with us mere mortals. Is that chickadee really calling out to another of its flock or is it speaking to me? And what is its message? If I concentrate, can I decipher it?

Eventually, I leave the grove and turkey trail and wander down to the edge of the swamp. How often I’ve looked up at this area while pushing through the wind on the swamp’s snow-covered surface. Here, the trees break the wind and I can easily explore the stumps the beavers have left behind. There are few hardwoods here, just a couple of stumps of young trees a few inches in diameter. The cuts are old and gray. The beavers have moved to other areas around the swamp. From here, I can see all the heron nests from last summer. The older ones, big and solid looking, sit firmly on the dead pines. They look like they will be there forever. The newest ones appear to barely cling to the branches. If they aren’t refurbished in spring, they will be gone by July.

As I continue my journey, I cross the stream again farther up. I’ve lost the turkey tracks, but have found some even more interesting to me: two small paw prints, one slightly ahead of the other; and ahead of both, two larger prints side by side. Later at home, a check in a book on animal tracks confirms my suspicions. Earlier in the day, a rabbit had hopped through the upper edge of the pine forest. If you’ve ever watched a rabbit jump, you know the rear feet come forward ahead of the front feet. Thus its direction was clear­up the hill, into the sunnier area of young hardwood saplings and brush.

I would have enjoyed following it a while longer, but, unfortunately, my time grew short. I turned and headed back towards the house. Sharing time with the wild beings that live in this land is a privilege. I had seen the tracks of three fellow creatures and heard the calls of a few more, but my senses are imperfect. How many other creatures had been watching me, while I, all unawares, blundered around in the snow? Quite a few, I hope.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

When I want to get away from traffic and noise, I take a long walk on the Winnipesaukee Trail.

My walk begins in a parking lot near the library in Northfield and follows the river from which it gets its name until it ends in downtown Franklin. The nearly four miles of trail makes a great retreat from busy town life. Bicycles and horses are welcome and joggers and dog walkers abound.

As I begin, I can look across the river and see a lovely park created on the Tilton side of the river. Turning toward the trail, I see a favorite place for the young people, a skateboard park. Passing the skateboard park I see a small dam used to generate power and impound water for those who like to fish from the piers provided on the Tilton park side.

The trail follows an old railroad bed out of town past the town transfer station. The transition to the wild side begins after I pass over a bridge spanning a small brook that gurgles into the river just out of sight from the trail. Birds and furry creatures teem as I pass a meadow on one side and a bend in the river on the other. In the summer, I can notice a drop in the temperature as the cool breeze rises from the river. The river flows lazily at this point and the trail is level or nearly so.

As the river makes a turn away from the trail, a large wetland appears on both sides of the trail. Birds and butterflies abound. Frogs and salamanders often crawl out of the bog and take some sun on the margin of the trail. Beyond the bog, a dense grove of evergreen trees provides a cooling interlude and a large rock provides a place to rest a bit before moving on.

When next we meet the river, it is starting to fall and create noise as it rushes among the rocks in its bed. A few observation spots have been carved in from the trail to the river bank so a visitor can observe or photograph the watercourse. Moving on down the trail through a large pasture on both sides of the trail, I encounter another bridge over yet another small stream. Just beyond the bridge, you return briefly to the more-hurried world as you cross a road, called Cross Mill Road. It comes by its name honestly because it was formerly the access to a number of mills that used the rushing water of the Winnipesaukee to power their processes. As I continue toward Franklin, I see the crumbling remains of several mill races.

For those interested in the past, a historical marker gives some of the uses made of the river in the late 19th and early 20th century. Although the Winnipesaukee is now a haven for kayakers and fishermen, it was once a thriving manufacturing center. Linen mills and leather plants dotted the course of the river with dams and mill races for power. A few of the dams remain but the manufacturing and the attendant pollution are gone.

Beyond the marker, a unique railroad bridge crosses the river. Although it is no longer in use, it once provided a rail crossing, and under it there was a pedestrian crossing for the mill workers coming from Franklin. It was once touted as the only upside-down covered bridge. About 20 years ago, it caught fire and burned away the wood portion that hung under the rails overhead, but the metal roof still remains and is visible through the rails.

Between the rail bridge and Franklin, the trail becomes steep and the river races madly on one side and on the other side the bank rises almost vertically. The bluff is almost 200 feet high in places.

Finally I reach the end, cross Central Street in Franklin, and enter a small city park along the river. The four-mile segment of the trail I’ve traveled from Tilton to Franklin is but a small segment of the trail system planned to use old rail beds parallel to the river for hiking.

Some of us who like river walks take River Street south out of Franklin some two miles and return. When we get back to Franklin, we can cross the bridge and head south on the old rail bed heading toward Boscawen. We tire long before the rail trail ends.

I like to think large, and when I do, I see trails on all the old rail beds throughout New Hampshire. Hiking such trails is such a pleasure. If you meet someone, a friendly hello is the only requirement. You don’t even have to do that if you encounter wildlife.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

The swamp is quiet now. The great nests high atop the dead trees stand empty and silent. The 18 young great blue herons and their parents have all left. Quiet reigns where once there were raucous cries.

The red-winged blackbirds and grackles have also left, as well as the tree swallows with their iridescent blue wings. The very air seems empty, bereft of their brilliant colors and acrobatic swoops. The deep-throated croaks of the bullfrogs have disappeared. Once the night was filled with their symphonic calls. I look in vain for the four young mallards that swam along so comically behind their mother. She and they have left. Where are they now? Have they joined a group on a larger body of water or have they already begun the great trek south to warmer weather?

The crickets still grind out their evening songs, but slower now, as the cooler nights lessen their enthusiasm. Sometimes a blue jay will squawk about something as it flies over, but mostly, there’s a sense of waiting, a pause in time between the noise and exuberance of summer and the slumber of winter. It’s like the time in the evening when you lie in bed, waiting for sleep, and you listen hard for sounds. Each seems magnified against the empty background.

After clear skies for much of the summer, we’ve had thick gray clouds and heavy precipitation. The rain has brought a new sound, one missing for most of the summer: water running over and through the beavers’ dam. I expect the beavers hear it too and are working to shore up their construction before the winter ice appears. I like the sound of the running water. It’s a soft sound, a background sound, a soothing cadence to the soft rustle of dried grasses.

A swamp maple is already showing off its new garment, the first of many to add a final burst of color before the bare starkness of early winter comes. Soon the sound of wind in the trees will change from a whisper of moving foliage to a rustling of desiccated brown leaves.

Up in the evergreens, the squirrels are busy and not as quiet. With self-important chirps, they dash from limb to limb, out to the very end, knocking off seeds and pine cones, then quickly scurry down the trunk to the ground to gather up all they can. Last fall they must have buried some sunflower seeds in the area behind our shed, for now tall sunflowers nod their heavy heads there like small giants asleep on their feet. How many other plants have begun life thanks to the squirrels’ need to stash food away for colder days?

Suddenly, the winterberry has erupted in brilliant red. One day the berries were a subtle green and the next, scarlet pearls shone out from the leaves. How did it happen so quickly? Nearby, the goldenrod is flaunting sunny hues to light up the shortening days, while the asters add soft shades of purple to the final hours of summer. The elderberries too, are rich in color now, the deep purple looking luscious enough to eat. A small cluster of black-capped chickadees flits from branch to branch, calling as they go, while searching the bark for insects. They let me stand close by, still and silent, and eavesdrop on their conversation.

Evening slips in earlier now. The air is different­crisper, sharper. The sun, already lower in the sky, begins to sink down behind the tall pines long before I’ve finished my twilight walks. I watch the bats dart about overhead. Flit, flit­and gone, lost against the darkening trunks. Only when they fly above the treetops can I see them silhouetted against the sky. Feast now, I tell them, winter is coming.

Everything is in abeyance, waiting, waiting. Standing here, I feel as if Mother Nature is holding her breath, stretching out the last, lingering days of summer while she gathers her energies for the great burst of autumn and its riotous exuberance of reds, oranges, and yellows. And then, at last, the deep rest and deeper quiet of winter.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Dancing with the weeds,
Swaying in time to nature,
Try a step, you’ll see.

"Why aren’t you out dancing with the weeds?” asked my husband.

Still embracing sleep, I lay in bed and took a few seconds before mumbling, “Too early. Later. Did you make coffee?”

It had been a few days since I'd begun weeding with a passion, and this day in particular, I had planned an early trip to the garden to really muck about. Weeding in cool fall weather is so much better that in the heat of summer.

And so, a few hours later than was my plan, there I was, involved in a sultry tango, with all those invaders of my perennial beds. As I pulled and clipped, my mind debated the relative virtues of the lively common vetch, the not-so-obedient plant, and the volunteer brown-eyed Susans. How were they different from the wild goldenrod I had saved from the lawnmower a few days before, the ox-eye daisies my husband always insists on avoiding as he mows, and the lush purple clover I just couldn’t find the heart to pull out from my beds early in June when they framed the volunteer Gloriosa daisies so perfectly? These weeds are all beautiful even though they don’t have the fancy breeding and pages in a plant catalog to laud their many good qualities. This year especially, fields and meadows have overflowed with goldenrod. Whether due to all the rain we had this summer or to some other unknown variable, they’ve been lovely and abundant. Considering that goldenrod is an under-appreciated native wildflower many regard as a weed, it’s no surprise that we still don’t see it in many gardens. This may be due to the old belief that goldenrod causes autumn hay fever, when in fact the culprit is usually the ragweed blooming at the same time.

But our native goldenrod (solidago) has been taken abroad and cultivated as a garden flower in Europe for many years; a few of those relatively new cultivars have come back to America. ‘Fireworks’ and ‘Golden Fleece’ are two varieties of cultivated goldenrod that pair up especially nicely with blue or purple asters. The former grows to four feet tall and the latter is a dwarf variety of 18-24 inches. There’s even a white form of goldenrod called silver rod, which blooms in August, though not as prolifically as its golden relative. These cultivated varieties have been bred to stay within the confines of our garden beds.

Speaking of asters, these native wildflower/weeds were cultivated in Europe before becoming popular in gardens and nurseries here. Close relatives, goldenrod and asters can also hybridize; varieties of these hybrid “Solidasters” have been around since the early 1900s. You may have seen them in florists’ bouquets and not even realized their true identity.

Another weed/wildflower of European heritage, common chicory (Cichorium intybus), deserves a place in our gardens. I happened to notice its clear blue flowers alongside a country road one fall. That cerulean color continued to dance in my mind’s eye until I knew I had to grow it. Chicory grows to three or four feet tall and blossoms from spring through fall. You can purchase seed from wildflower catalogs, or just go out and find some in bloom and save the seed. It's easy to germinate and never tries to spread itself about.

Finally, who can dance with the weeds in their garden without joining hands with common milkweed as it sends up its stems with sturdy green leaves? I certainly can’t, and so allow them to dance and sway in the wilder parts of my garden, where the taller, woody perennials grow.

Later in fall, I do-si-do from plant to plant looking for tattered, munched-upon leaves where I might find a Monarch butterfly caterpillar or two to put in a bottle. I'll feed the tiny creatures milkweed leaves until they burst out of their striped yellow, black, and white skins for the last time and move on to the next stage in their metamorphosis, forming green-and-gold chrysalises.

I give these precious packages of life to the children in our family, or neighbors who work with children, so others can witness this small miracle. I recently brought one to my 90-year old mother who doted on it and shared the experience with others in her assisted-living facility.

To watch the chrysalis open and a monarch butterfly emerge is gratifying, to watch it propel itself from its self-made container and glide confidently south to the mountains of Mexico gives me goosebumps. I have danced with weeds, and now we have come full circle.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

Half a century ago, my father took me walking in the woods. Not a huge wood by New England standards, but from a six-year-old’s viewpoint, three feet above ground, it seemed to go on forever.

We worked our way along a deer path, through laurel and spindly undergrowth until we came to where the ground grew green again, all the brighter for our having last passed beneath a covert of hemlocks, where dirt, dry leaves, and shade mixed with dappled sun to make a deep, yet bright and shimmering brown. It hypnotized and held me captive until my father, calling my name, broke the spell.

Here the woods surrounded and kept secret another world. The long, splayed roots of fallen trees stood tall, forming castles and villages for (I hoped) gnomes and fairies. Pedestals of mud and grass rose among them, and thin bands of water ran between them. Atop the pedestals grew sculptured vases of mottled purple and green (which would later become recognizable as ordinary skunk cabbage). Wood ferns, preened and plumed, formed circles­graceful green dancers, holding hands, backs arched, waiting for the music to begin, their dainty toes hidden in the earth-tone carpet of the forest floor.

“Now sit and be still.” Dad squatted down and led me by example looking from ground to treetop, side to side, moving only his eyes. “If we don’t move or make noise, we might see something!”

I chose a nearby patch of moss growing close enough to the shell of an old oak to lean my back against. Dad stood and started to move away.

“Where are you going?” I whispered.

“There.” He indicated a direction with his chin. “Right behind you. I’ll pretend to be a rock, you pretend to be a stump.” I thought this was a fine idea. Maybe we’d see elves.

The memories of that six-year-old child are now encased in a 56-year-old body. Where I now sit is many miles and a lifetime away from that place, but much the same: a rivulet, just outside the shade of hemlocks, a stone's throw from a magic village made of plant and earth and fallen trees. I come here often, but now instead of sitting cross-legged, I hug my knees, thereby reassuring them that I have neither forgotten nor taken them for granted.

Here I always feel my father’s presence sitting quietly behind me. This place centers me. I come here knowing I will return home wet and muddy and bug-bitten, because the closer I can get to the earth, the more grounded and alive I feel.

A Blanding’s turtle joined me here once. I was sitting as still as possible considering the sign over my head, written in mosquitoese: “Free Food Here.” For whatever reasons, the turtle considered me harmless, settled in, and we sat in companionable silence. Too soon, sufficiently rested, he rose and strode forward until his front legs stood in the gently running water. He submerged his head and drank for so long I thought he’d drown. Once sated, he lifted his head from the water stretching his neck towards the sun, his beautiful golden-orange throat seeming to glow. He appeared to be considering the world around him, and smiling.

We both enjoyed the scenery for a while, neither of us in a rush. The pale white spots on his shell became clearer to me the longer I looked at him. It struck me that perhaps this was a descendant of the turtle in the Iroquois creation myth that once carried the earth upon his back, his carapace­high, rounded and elongated like the milky way­a map of the heavens, its throat the color of a sunrise or sunset. Perhaps he is still holding up the earth, keeping it in place as long as he is on it. Lose him, and we’ll all be lost.

The turtle made an almost imperceptible movement, and I knew he was ready to travel on. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to see him go. The temptation to follow would have been too great.

By Lynn Quinlan, Volunteer

A Chinese philosopher developed the concept of “cup gardens.” The idea is similar to that of haiku: Using just a few words to capture an image or emotion, the poet leads the reader to a wider understanding of the universal aspect presented by the lines of the poem.

The purpose of a cup garden is the same. By placing a particular group of plants in a particular place, the landscaper or gardener seeks to arrest the viewer’s attention at this moment and spot. By focusing on just this one small garden, one begins to comprehend the larger world of nature.

Of course, the originator of the cup garden concept is Mother Nature herself. Take a walk in the woods or along a stream or near the wild shore of a pond or swampy area, and you’ll find a host of cup gardens, each one capturing in microcosm the universal truths of nature.

Over here, there’s a large, long exposed stone, green with vibrant moss. Look closely and you’ll see the moss has layers and variations of color. Run your hand over the top of the moss and feel the soft tickle of its elements.

The moss is the undergrowth of a miniature forest living in a cup garden atop this stone. Next are blue bead lilies. In spring, the wide, tapering leaves erupt from the moss, forming a circle around the stem, which holds small, bobbing yellow flowers. Later in the summer, through the miracle of fertilization, the flowers have become stunning blue beads of seed, reflecting the sky down here just above the forest floor.

Only a foot and a half high, a young hemlock towers above the moss and lilies, a giant compared to the life beneath it. Its branches sway in the gentle breezes and cast a moving shadow on the plants below. A dragonfly rests briefly on the top branch, its wings held open and ready for resumed flight, blue body brilliant against the clear, cellophane wings. Below, smaller insects scurry over the moss, searching for food, mates, or shelter.

Here on this one hard stone, the entire universe of nature throbs, its vastness compressed into one small cup garden.

Further on, there’s a small rise partially open to the sky. Moss and partridgeberry provide a colorful and textured surface, the round partridgeberry leaves contrasting with the upright stature of the moss. Growing through the ground cover are bunchberries, those miniature dogwoods. Only four leaves and a stem, their tiny flowers of spring have turned to brilliant red berries, giving Christmas coloration to a late July afternoon.

Several evergreens have begun the long, slow growth to become the “murmuring pines and hemlocks” of Longfellow’s famous poem Evangeline. You can’t simply pass this cup garden. Your senses are captured by the colors and sensuousness of the greens and red. You must stop and contemplate the whole of nature in this one small area.

A cup garden can also be temporary. Walk along the edge of a stream in the fall. The water is flowing now with autumn rains, gurgling over rocks and fallen branches. Trailing moss streams out with the moving water. Here in a quiet pool, a single red maple leaf floats. Nature has gently dropped it down for you to examine. A close look at the leaf reveals the color variations. What at first appeared to be simply red is really one color gently blending into a darker hue on this edge, while at the other end of the leaf, the shade is more orange. The brilliance is like a shaft of sunlight on the dark stream. Flowing water, rocks, leaf ­ all life encapsulated in one scene.

Even in winter, you can find cup gardens to delight and educate. Walk onto a frozen pond, and there you’ll find, standing all alone and surrounded by ice, a little island, a clump of last summer’s grass gently swaying with each soft breeze. It grows out of a hollow tree stump.

The edges of the stump are uneven, with hills and valleys, ragged evidence of years of decay. The sides of the stump still retain some bark, much of it covered with lichen, gray-blue and rough to the touch. It’s clear where insects have bored into the wood and left perfectly round tunnels behind.

Life and death, coinciding in the same substance, a lesson from one of nature’s cup gardens. Step outside and look around. You’ll find beauty and understandings to last a lifetime.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

The barn burned down a long time ago. The original stone well in front of the barn, right at our doorstep, provided water for over 200 years. During a long drought, it was replaced with a drilled well and filled in, leaving a large mounded scar right next to the house entrance.

For several years I have been digging in front of the barn foundation, removing the old well hump. Gradually I unearthed the north wall of the barn foundation. The large granite slabs are beautiful, with steaks of pink, gold and silver running like little rivers all through the wall. There are several gorgeous boulders with bits and pieces of glacial grandeur molded into them.

My plan was to plant a small welcome garden with old-fashioned herbs and flowers to greet those who came to my door. At first I set aside a small area to sit on­the pinkest, flattest stone. The mountains on the other side of the valley look lovely when seen though a mass of dark-red bee balm dancing with bees.

However, the more of the granite foundation I exposed, the larger the project became. I spent evenings and weekends on my hands and knees with a bucket and hand trowel, picking through the earth like an archeologist. During the years of digging, weeding and planting, I discovered lovely marbles, whole and broken bottles, forged garden tools, pieces of livestock tack and kitchen plates, crocks, and more. Untold stories at my doorstep.

As a Master Gardener, I dutifully had the soil tested. I dreamed of home-brewed teas from my front yard­mmm. The results came back from the UNH Analytical Services Lab with the following: Lead, Mehlich 3… 159 ppm Medium. Contact your local health care professional and have children under the age of six checked for lead in their blood. Do not grow leafy vegetables or root crops….Because lead levels are usually highest in areas near buildings painted with lead-based paints prior to about 1970….it may be possible to re-locate your garden to a less contaminated site.

My hopes of tasting and sipping from the welcome garden dashed, I’ve concentrated on plants chosen for their beauty and aromas. Although I brought in some new plants I had to have, most of them are transplants that thrived elsewhere in the yard. I often divided crowded plants, transplanting the divisions to the edges of the garden and assigning them the work of holding back the ever-creeping lawn.

Now dozens of multi-sized bees, brightly colored butterflies, and iridescent hummingbirds feast on this huge garden full of mature perennials. Their squeaks and buzz bring the joy of sharing to this garden. It's become too wild to sit in, so crowded I can't even get in to weed or water. The entire front of the barn foundation is just the backdrop glimpsed behind stems and leaves. My husband refers to the living colors mirroring the hues of the stone foundation as my “garden palette.” The perfumed mix of Anise, lemon thyme, spearmint, phlox, coreopsis, yarrow, and geraniums encourage you to stop a moment and sniff.

This spring, in the back, right next to the barn foundation, where I started the garden so many years ago, a large pink digitalis appeared. Many-stalked, it grew tall and proud all through the early summer. Someone must have planted it long before I moved into this colonial cape. I felt connected with this previous gardener, part of a continuum of all those who came before me and appreciated this garden spot in front of the barn foundation.

By Stephania Pearce, Master Gardener

Drawing by: Pamela Doherty,UNH Cooperative Extension

My experience with rocks began quite suddenly when I moved into my new house in May of 2005. Inside everything was finished, but outside, alas, was a field of dirt and lots of rocks.

The builder had created a small lawn in the front. He'd applied topsoil and grass seed: some evidence of growth showed above the soil. His last instruction before he drove away was, "Add water." He gave no instructions for dealing with the rocks.

In all fairness, I must add he had created some nice rock retaining walls at strategic points around the foundation perimeter. But it soon became evident that I'd have to come up with a plan for the rest of the acre. I started with a drawing. I expanded the drawing.

In the expansion stage,I found myself caught between a rock and...many others. Questions began to arise. Which rocks to move first? Where to put the ones I'd move? Back to the drawing to study the situation further.

Then came the question of how to transport and place solid objects ranging in weight from a few ounces to 70 pounds. I took stock of my equipment: a long piece of one-inch pipe, which would help pry rocks to the surface, and an assortment of shovels.

So much for the levers, but what did I have to transport the weightier rocks once I'd pried them out of the soil? I considered my wheelbarrow. It would work well on the skull-sized and smaller stones, but what about the really big ones?

My search led me to the back of the basement. Hidden in the corner was a professional-sized hand truck belonging to one of my sons-in-law,just the ticket. It had remained there unused since he had brought some items in for temporary storage. The items are still there, but the hand truck is my favorite adopted tool until he remembers where he left it.

Observing the retaining walls, I envisioned a pattern of rocks next to the house. Starting with the walls next to the end of the house, I connected them on my paper plan with dots representing a row of medium-sized rocks. I later laid the rocks to create a raised bed sloped for drainage.

I piled additional rocks around and rising above some stumps, and back-filled over and around the stumps to create circular raised beds for annuals. I still had plenty of rocks, but winter overtook me and I quit for the season.

The following spring I found numerous places to create rock enclosures: round ones here, rectangular ones there and, just for fun, a pinwheel or two. They were a bit hard to mow around, but very decorative when planted with flowers. I took a break for the rest of the year to pursue trout fishing and other fun activities.

The next winter, I began reading about ponds and waterfalls. Visions of rocks started dancing in my head about the middle of February. I drew and redrew my plans and proceeded to lay out the biggest rock project of all.

As the snow melted in late March, I was out on the slope in back of the garage with string and stakes, laying out the watercourse of the waterfall. I acquired materials for the pool and the water system and the electrical power for the pump. Then I waited a month for the ground to thaw.

Following the directions of the experts I found in books, I started from the lowest point. I set a preformed pond in place and backfilled around its upper perimeter. I left the lower side open for a structure to contain the electrical supply. I laid the watercourse from the lowest point to the highest, created two points of release for the water, and joined them halfway to the pond. I put down larger rocks along the perimeter and placed small and medium-sized rocks in the watercourse to create a cascade effect.

It is now the spring of 2008. All my hard-rock work is done and my beds and other creations are calling out for attention and eventual planting as the last frost date approaches. I look out and see the bones of the beds emerging from the snow and I get itchy for action. I still see rocks I can use to enhance my landscape artwork.

Alas, there is a downside to this tale. I messed up my shoulder placing some of the larger rocks. But time heals all. While I'm healing, I can sit back, have a cup of Joe and smell the spring flowers.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

UNH Cooperative Extension

Digging carrots from the garden in 80 degree weather just doesn't seem natural for the end of September. There were a surprising lot of carrots, considering I never got out there to thin them for salad as I’d promised myself I’d do.

So I suffer now. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen processing the carrots for freezing. Now, the non gardeners among you will be thinking “How nice! People out there are still preserving food.”  But the real gardeners will think, “Why doesn't she just put them in the root cellar”?

Well, these carrots needed to be processed because chipmunks or some other critter started eating the carrots at the top and went as far into the ground as possible, leaving a concave depression with all these little tooth marks and making those carrots no good for root cellar storage.

On the other hand, I'm not overly fond of cooked carrots. Thank goodness for my mother's old Farm Journal Cookbooks, which contain recipes from generations of farm wives. They knew how to preserve food: Take 12 pounds of carrots, etc. I wound up with candied ginger carrots and orange glazed carrots. I’ll be very happy this winter to take them out of the freezer.

The beets also needed gathering. Something bigger than a chipmunk had enjoyed the beet greens, and the roots themselves weren't as time consuming to process. I just picked out the ones that were split or nibbled on and cooked them. I stashed the rest away in a cool place to be brought out much later.

As the sun was sinking, I went out to get a few (I thought) beans for dinner. Lugging the full basket back into the house, I set about preparing them. These aren’t just any bean, but scarlet runners. My friend from England introduced me to this heirloom variety. They not only produce the most beautiful red flowers all summer and fall, but the beans themselves taste better than ordinary green beans. They are so beautiful many people grow them just for the flowers and don't even know how good they taste. You have to pick the pods before the beans inside start to swell. If you have to “string” them, they’re too old, fit only for the compost. 

I got them all cut up and didn't have the heart to do any more freezing that day. As my husband walked through the kitchen he casually asked if I was freezing them. I told him, “No, we’re having some hot for dinner and I’ll make the rest into a bean salad that should last the rest of the month.”

While I’m on the subject of heirloom varieties, the Brandywine tomatoes are hitting their full stride. We got them into the ground very late. Most years at this time the plants would be hanging down in the cellar slowly ripening their fruit away from the frosty outside air. Brandywines are so good! No other tomato beats their taste. And big! A couple of years ago I remember picking with pride the first ripe Brandywine. I washed it and sliced three half inch slabs that completely covered the bread for that first tomato/mayo sandwich. This particular tomato was so large I put the rest of it in the fridge and we had it for a salad that evening. I haven't had one that big in awhile, but I did bring one to share with my hiking group today. Everyone tucked slices into their sandwiches except for the one with the peanut butter sandwich. She ate her share separately.

The winter squash are still out there. If nothing has been nibbling on them, they go right into the cold room. No hassle. Thumbing though my gardening magazine, I found a lovely article on horseradish. Something else I’ll need to harvest before too long.

Have you ever tried to process horseradish? Oh, the tears you shed! After my first experience, my mother told me she used to hold the root outside a mostly closed window and grate it out there. Good idea. I'll put my food processor on an extension cord and see how that works.

My mother gave up canning and freezing well before she was my age. She lived though the time when you had to do it to survive the winter. She stopped when they moved off the farm and thought supermarkets were just great. Well, they are, but home grown food tastes better, at least to me. Knowing what went into growing the produce, harvesting it and preserving it for the long winter gives a feeling of security not just because I can have something to eat, but because I still know how to do it. Will the next generation have these skills?

By Carolyn Enz Page, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

Have you ever wondered how fields were opened when you see the thick stands of trees growing around them? I always have.

Folklore and history books tell of the labor involved with digging and dragging away the many stones and boulders left behind by the glaciers to build walls and the foundations of barns and homes.

Except for the few old pictures of two men at either end of a large saw cutting away at a large tree, we don’t seem to have the whole story. In the last decade I have been privileged to watch the clearing of a field as it actually happened.

Loggers clear-cut a large tract of a neighboring field—more than ten acres—for timber and firewood. Only the stumps and some tops remained. I expected machinery to come and “stump” the land to prepare it for plowing and seeding. But come early spring, just the rocks and sprouting stumps were there. A spring-fed stream ran down along one side of the tract.

Shortly after, someone set out a pair of cattle there, as well as a few sheep and goats. It was a pretty sight as the animals traveled over various areas, eating as they went. Some stumps sprouted new growth, which the animals soon chewed down.

The goats and sheep seemed to prefer to play among the rocks and boulders. At times, the cattle would roam over the far side of the field; other times I’d see them near the fencing along the road.

Some grasses grew as the summer progressed, and the tree stumps sprouted anew. Every night the animals went to the barn for grain and hay. When winter came, they all got penned inside. The field lay quiet under the snow.

The next spring, the pattern of animal activity continued, but some stumps didn’t seem to have the growth of the first year. It certainly didn’t look like the cultivated fields I had seen where the soil was exposed, with mud puddles developing. The tree sprouts continued decreasing, until only one or two trees per acre remained, having escaped the foraging animals. As those trees grew, the grasses responded to the occasional shade, and some wild daisies and asters found a home.

This cyclic pattern of three seasons of animal grazing and winter rest continued over the next four to five years. The field continued to supply forage for the animals, the few trees gave some needed shade to the grazers, and the sporadic wild flowers added to the charm. It seemed to me an answer to my wonderment.

The tools used to cut trees—from axes, to saws, to power machinery, and whole-tree harvesting equipment—have evolved over time. The stories of strong men with horses and oxen and stone boats, rolling, tugging or lugging boulders and building walls are evidenced at every turn on our back-country roads.

Machinery can dig out stumps and push boulders into walls in a few days, but the new walls will lack that unique ‘man-made’ look. Many tracts of open land remain open because they are “improved.” But here I have watched a different style of land management: one where nature takes the major role.

The logging operation opened up the area and produced a crop for sale, giving the ground a new lease on life. The animals roamed freely on securely fenced acreage. Some trees continued to put up sprouts which nourished the animals. But the majority of the stumps were stripped enough and often enough that they were unable to continue growing new sprouts. The resulting field had the look of having been there since time began, as though no human hand had played any part at all.

Time changes all things. The animals are gone now. Without their activity, nature will again reign. The seeds of “pioneer” tree species, such as poplar and birch, will self-sow over the grasses and some will find conditions hospitable and begin to sprout. The pioneers will gradually give way to red maple, oak, and pine—the so-called “mid-succession” species. These, in turn, may eventually yield to what foresters call the “climax” species: sugar maple, hemlock, and beech.

Once again the forest will stand until man strips the land of its trees and the field appears again.

by Judith A. Kraemer, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

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.

Seldom can I sleep past sunrise but on a Saturday morning earlier this fall, I returned to a pleasant slumber. Around eight o’clock, the “beep, beep, beep” of a big vehicle backing up shook me awake. A school bus was trying to make the tight turn into a pasture across the road from my house. It signaled an event that has become annual in recent years.

I share a half-mile stretch of rural New Hampshire with three other houses and a horse farm. Our section of the road is dirt and dead-ends at a government-owned tract of woods. My husband and I were thrilled to find land more than a dozen years ago in a sparsely developed section of town. Our dream home was under construction when the “For Sale” sign appeared in the field opposite our property.

We heard rumors of a fifty-home development proposed for the vacant farmland. Sadly, albeit selfishly, I thought, “There goes the neighborhood.” But the farmer sold his property to a woman who planned to board horses. Our six-year-old daughter was thrilled, and so were we. By Easter the following spring, the first horse moved in.

The new owner built a picturesque barn and indoor riding arena a little ways down the road from my house. Acres of nearby fields were divided into pastures with great lengths of wire fencing, preventing the enormous snapping turtle that lived in the farm pond from crossing the road to dig in my vegetable garden. I was not disappointed with missing that spring ritual.

After a couple of years, the farm woman invited nearby property owners to a meeting. Simply boarding horses wasn’t paying the bills, but she had some ideas for supplementing her revenue stream and wanted to run them by her neighbors before approaching the town for permission. Her dream was to host equestrian events: horse shows, dressage competitions, riding lessons and clinics. This proposal would maintain the rural character of her property. The back-up plan, if she couldn’t get approvals, was to develop a portion of her two hundred acres.

Much to my surprise, the neighbors told her to go ahead and build houses. What were they thinking? I’ll admit I was concerned about traffic, more so for the dust from the road that wafts down the hill to my house than anything else. Only one other homeowner and I are affected by traffic to and from the farm. Summer and winter we get plenty of dirt inside our homes, but we’ve accepted that as part of country living. The events-planner had factored in dust-control measures on the days of events. We weren’t going to get that with new-home construction.

In the months following, the planning board held public hearings to consider the request. I found the entertainment value of these hearings well worth the late nights. I was stunned by the arguments from my road-mates. In a nutshell, residents expressed concern about noise, traffic (specifically speeding traffic), and neighborhood protection.

Perhaps I should be more specific about the horses in question. For the most part, they are large, skittish and very expensive. It seemed unlikely their owners would behave recklessly while transporting the animals, and even less likely that these folks would be prowling nearby neighborhoods. Due to the nature of the beasts, it’s hard to imagine that anyone working with them would intentionally make loud noises. Any announcements made during an event would barely be heard beyond the field, let alone a half-mile down the road.

Ultimately the Planning Board approved the equestrian events, requiring only that the farm owner give the town sufficient notice before hosting large competitions and shows. Lessons and clinics were considered well within the guidelines for the farm’s current use.

It’s been nearly six years since those hearings and there have yet to be any large equestrian events. There have, however, been many competitions—among two-legged runners. The trails the owner cut across the farm for horses and riders are ideal for cross country races. Each fall the local high school hosts a meet that this year attracted a dozen schools. Once the snow flies, the Nordic ski team will practice on the trails. Hundreds of athletes have enjoyed the rural character of this property, and their activities fall entirely within acceptable farm use.

The woman who owns the property receives no financial compensation for allowing these teams to use her farm. However, before each event, a small army of volunteers moves in to pick rocks and clear brush. They rake and sweep, prepare and repair to make the trails safe for the athletes. It’s a fine example of “neighbors helping neighbors” in a figurative sense of the phrase. And I know the neighbor who owns this farm takes great pleasure in sharing her property with this audience

By Jackie Bower, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

It’s hard to imagine the field of spectacular yellow sunflowers that bloomed in a four-acre field at UNH’s Kingman farm will end up as fuel for Dorn Cox’s farm equipment and feed for his pigs, beef cattle, and chickens.

Cox, a family farmer from Lee, joined forces with UNH Cooperative Extension and the manager and crew of UNH’s Kingman Farm earlier this spring to conduct some applied research into the feasibility of using locally produced sunflowers to make biodiesel to help power the region’s farms.

Biodiesel, a fuel manufactured from vegetable oils, has attracted a lot of national attention as a domestically available fuel for engines that ordinarily run on petroleum-derived diesel.

 “I wanted to grow my own sunflowers, but we have a certified organic farm and I couldn’t get organic seed this year,” says Cox, who’s already using the biodiesel he processes from waste cooking oil collected from local restaurants to power some of his farm equipment. “I approached John McLean, manager of UNH’s Woodman and Kingman Farms, to see if he might have land available.”

Cox and McLean brought the idea to Becky Grube, UNH Cooperative Extension’s sustainable horticulture specialist. Becky also found the idea intriguing, and the three embarked on a pilot project to evaluate how sunflowers perform in this area and to test the feasibility of small-scale oil pressing.

“The project will measure the yield of oil, the feed value of the meal that remains after the oil has been pressed from the sunflower seeds, and the food quality of the oil,” says Cox, who has a degree from Cornell in international agriculture.

Grube took to the idea immediately. “Because they’re in a different plant family from most of our important cash crops, sunflowers might make a good rotation crop for many New England growers,” she says. “Plus, they can be planted with equipment that many farmers already have. Dorn used his two-row corn planter to plant the four acres at Kingman Farm. Also, sunflowers have multiple uses. The oil has excellent culinary properties and the meal that remains after pressing makes a nutritious feed for cattle and other livestock.

“Several questions remain, which we hope the pilot project will help to answer,” she says. “Will harvest and pressing for oil production be cost-effective and feasible on a fairly small scale? Will sunflower yields be sufficient to make them economically viable? Will the climate permit harvest of quality seeds without pest and disease problems?”

“The project is a model of farmer-driven research and teamwork,” Grube says. “Dorn proposed the idea and used his planting equipment and labor to sow the sunflowers. I contacted Land O’Lakes/Hytest seeds, who donated seeds of five hybrid varieties likely to be adapted to this area. John and the rest of the UNH Farm crew, including students, prepared the ground and have weeded and mowed around the plots. Seth Wilner, the Extension educator who manages the USDA Sustainable Agriculture Research and Education (SARE) grants program in New Hampshire came up with a small grant for the project.”

“The experiment got off to a slow start, with the heavy rains this spring delaying the first planting until mid-May,” says Grube. “The second planting was delayed to mid-June. Hopefully the harvest will go off without a hitch.” If the harvest is successful, Grube says the team hopes to broaden the project and evaluate the economics of sunflower oil production by other local growers.

Cox has ordered a small oil press from China that should arrive any day. He plans to harvest his crops in late October and press them in late fall. “We’re just waiting for the seeds to dry,” he says.

He’s also begun fabricating a mobile biodiesel processing unit that will turn out about 80 gallons per hour. With such a machine, Cox says, “A couple of weekends each summer would produce all the fuel our operation would use in a year.” He plans to exhibit the processor at fairs and other venues so people can learn more about biodiesel technology.

As for his experience working with the UNH farm crew and Cooperative Extension, Cox says, “They’ve been fantastic. Within a couple days of approaching John [McLean], we had a project up and running.”

By Peg Boyles, Writer/Editor, UNH Cooperative Extension

9/20/06

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.

There’s a field along my route in a town not far from where I live, a place where I’ve always watched the seasons change. First a snowy expanse, next a field with mud puddles, progressing to a newly planted cornfield, then a field of tall corn waiting for harvest, and in fall, a field left with a stubble of cornstalks.

 As that cornfield evolved through the summer, I would watch its progress from May through September. As the corn grew and the symmetry of its rows shimmered in the heat of the August sun, deer might be visible from the road as I passed, or turkeys gleaning insects and corn that had dropped to the ground during harvest. On clear nights, the moon, stars and northern lights provided the only illumination. As winter approached again, geese flew over in raucous V’s.

Then suddenly, all that changed. The owners of the field, who were not from here, sold it to be used as the site of a big box store. The sale meant the death of the field. Corn no longer grows there. I’m not sure who planted the silage corn, perhaps the family-operated dairy right across the way, victim of escalating land values, rising costs, and decreasing milk prices.

Now the field waits. It waits for planning boards and corporations; it waits for excavators and bulldozers; it waits for star-obscuring bright lights and security guards; it waits for pavers and for the shoppers who will inevitably arrive.

This field lies near a river. A river that at one time allowed silt to build up on an ancient floodplain. When Native Americans traveled on the river highways, they used this open space as a stop-off point to camp, hunt and fish. When European settlers came along, they cut the trees and pulled or burned the stumps to begin farming in the river valley. These intrusions on the land provided shelter and food to ensure their families’ survival. And the land gave.

Although corn no longer grows there, the field still provides a quiet, constantly changing beauty. In the spring, the field was green with grasses and sparkled with wildflowers. Now, in mid-summer, it stands poised to explode into the brilliant fireworks of goldenrod and purple New England asters. Deer still appear, turkeys roam, hawks soar and circle over a pastiche of emerald and constantly changing color, not far from a river just out of sight to humans, but known to the deer, turkeys and hawks. The river is their life force, providing them with water without which they couldn’t exist, close to the field in which they forage.

I will miss this field. The heat from blacktopped parking lots, neatly planted with trees that will never mature, and the bright lights that will block out the Aurora Borealis will never replace the spirit of that field.

As we humans travel through this valley, the natural beauty of the foothills of the White Mountains overwhelms us. The opportunity to watch a natural place through its changing seasons, a place where no one has built or paved or changed the topography, is increasingly rare. These types of spaces are endangered. They’re why I live here. They’re what give this valley its beauty and uniqueness. People travel from major cities to see them.

Such irrevocable changes in the nature of the land result from the decisions of a few. The ties we forge with our past are the ties that help us see the future. What do you want to see?

08/03/06

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.