NH Outside: Land use Archives

by Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: djprybyl. Some rights reserved

The last plant to bloom this season in my yard opened its flowers in early October. It was not a rose, but rather a Rose of Sharon (aka Althaea) that had lain dormant for many years.

I didn’t expect much when I planted this member of the Hibiscus family recommended for Zones 5-8, for I live in Zone 3. I covered it with mulch each fall and looked for signs of life each spring. Hope turned into frustration that it hadn’t taken hold, and I was prepared to yank it from the soil this year.

I’d given up on it when I noticed, stunned, it was finally beginning to leaf out. Ecstatic, I ran to my desk where I file plant tags, since I had forgotten what color it was, it had been so long. So these new stunning white blossoms with red centers and striking stamens marked a personal achievement, indeed.

I planted the Rose of Sharon when I first arrived in the mountains of Northern New Hampshire six years ago. It had been one of my favorite shrubs grown by a childhood neighbor in Connecticut. Like the Althaea, I didn’t expect it to take root in this remote area, let alone blossom.

Fresh from divorce and heartbreak, I thought of the north woods as a lovely rest stop, where I might lick my wounds for a bit before returning to the city. This wasn’t the proper zone for a newly single and savvy woman like me. Like the last two lines of Thomas Moore’s poem, “The Last Rose of Summer”: Oh! who would inhabit, This bleak world alone?

But the beauty of the place overrode my pragmatism and I established myself here, much to the chagrin of friends and family. “How will you survive up there?” they wondered. While I have certainly learned a good many things to sustain myself in the North Country, one of the most fortuitous has been learning to live by nature’s clock, rather than my own.

And at this time of the year that means putting the gardens to rest and preparing for winter. It involves cutting back perennials, pruning shrubs, covering the compost pile, putting away the tractor and changing the oil in the snow blower, stacking seasoned wood, fertilizing the lawn one last time, and putting snow tires on the car.

Rose of Sharon is often referred to as Rosasharn, the name of a character in John Steinbeck’s novel, The Grapes of Wrath. Rosasharn is impractical and fragile, a pregnant young woman as she begins her journey to California. It takes her several hundred pages to mature, not unlike my fragile Zone 5 Rose of Sharon that required so many years to take hold in this precarious Zone 3 climate. Also not unlike myself as well, a woman who took several years to take hold and mature in this precarious place.

By Casey Pike, Master Gardener

Henry Ford never cut wood with me.

It was Ford who said, “Chop your own wood, and it will warm you twice,” meaning the woodcutter enjoys both the warmth of the burning firewood and the heat generated by the physical work of cutting it.

Now I don’t know exactly how Ford cut firewood in his time, but I know my own personal “warmings” are several times more than his.

The first warming begins when I pull the starter cord on my balky chainsaw to begin the process. My “Easy-Start” model never lives up to its name. Repeated pulls never fail to generate body heat, and the saw rarely kicks over in fewer than 20 attempts.

Then, with the saw puttering perfectly, I fell the tree. That’s the easy part. Now begins the log cutting. Again, only mildly thermic. After all, it is a power saw (not like the two-man crosscut Henry may have used).

Now comes the second warming. I take each 16-inch section and set it upright in the snow no easy task, especially with big oak and beech logs. By the time I’ve finished this job, my first layer of outer clothing has come off.

Taking up my maul, I begin to split the upright pieces. Depending on whether the tree is straight red oak or twisted swamp maple, this can either cause a faint flush on my brow or an all-out blast-furnace effect that has the steam rising from my now bare head.

At some point I stack all the slash and tops in a burn pile for disposal the following winter. Hauling the slash to the pile is a fairly energetic process, so I tally that as another warming. (I will not, however, count the near-baking that takes place when the pile is finally touched off, as that’s clearly a claim outside of Ford’s premise.)

As I cut my wood way out behind my house, I now begin the transportation process. I have a heavy black plastic sled that I can load with exactly 22 pieces of split wood. I pull each load anywhere from 50 yards (if I’m lucky) to nearly 200 yards across a stretch of wetland, and the slog is mostly all uphill. (I am at times reminded of Colonel Knox and his colonial militia sledging cannons from Ticonderoga to Boston.)

Needless to say, I am more than warm at the end of each trip. But for purposes of this account, I will only count it as one instance of warming.

Now begins the stacking. I stack each piece one by one in face rows for maximum drying. Bend over, pick up a piece, place it next to its tree mate, then repeat until warm.

Months pass as the wood grays and cracks in the sun until at last, sometime in late October, the process begins again. Since my woodpile is far from the front porch, where the winter’s supply is stacked a week’s worth at a time, I begin the transfer process. Whether by wheelbarrow or trusty black sled, the transfer warms me, 22 pieces at a time and largely uphill (again!). Then, I restack it.

My personal relationship with each piece of wood finally ends with its entry into my soapstone stove, where, yes, it finally warms me in full with its intended purpose.

For those of you keeping score at home, that amounts to being “warmed” eight times give or take a stray restacking or two due to receding frost heaves or my poor wood pile architecture.

My personal relationship with each stick of wood is nearly ended at this point, except for disposing of the ashes. (How does a ton of wood turn into a five-pound bucket of ash?)

I usually spread cold ashes on top of the snow, so they will sink into the early spring ground. After smudging the snow with a broadcast of ashes, I hustle back into the house to park my rear end a foot from the blazing stove to be, yes, warmed one more time.

By Greg Lowell, Coverts Cooperator

Artist: Maria Levandowski, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

In September I harvested sweet potatoes for the first time ever. Last December I’d noticed sprouts (“slips”) peeking from the top of a brown paper bag left beside the refrigerator at work. Instruction provided by our Cooperative Extension fruit and vegetable specialist steered me in the right direction, and I was off on a new gardening adventure.

The Yukon Gold potatoes were small, the harvest sparse, and the tubers have Black Scurf, a disease caused by a fungus called Rhizoctonia solani. This disease is in the soil, and there is no remedy. It may not be a concern for my next year’s garden, because I might not be here.

My house is for sale, which means my gardens are also for sale. It’s unsettling, not knowing the fate of the gardens I’ve nurtured for eight years. Will it be me planting the seeds next year, or a stranger? Will it even be planted?

Volunteer tomatillos are scattered around the garden, lanky plants whose small, green fruits are covered by papery husks. New Hampshire is a bit cold to mature this southern crop successfully, but I can’t bring myself to weed the seedlings when they appear. This is the third generation I have let take up precious space. The originals sprouted from a year-old bag of tomatillos I discovered in my freezer and tossed into the garden on a whim.

My strawberry bed has two bright red berries ready to pick. Why these June-bearers have fruited again in September is beyond me.

Asparagus ferns lean gently over the basil. The first row is five years old, the fronds longer and fuller than those sprouting from the new roots I planted in June. Three years until the first harvest is the rule of thumb I follow. Will the new owners know this? Will they recognize the stout shoots peeking through the leaf mulch in May? So much time and energy invested in this area.

And so much history entwined in garden plants: the French tarragon from a high school friend, the rhubarb from my dad’s backyard garden at my childhood home, the bee balm from my mom’s garden. The hummingbirds come to it as soon as the spiky red flowers start to bloom.

The emotional investment is larger than I realized. When I turned this grassy area over, I believed it would be my forever garden. I spent eight years establishing herbs, blueberry bushes, brambles and fruit trees, nourishing the soil with compost, wood ash, and fish fertilizer. This past spring I built nine raised beds for the vegetables. The previous summer’s rains had eroded the free-standing beds, rivers of rainwater flowing in the low lying spaces.


Can I walk away and start anew? Will my history here be lost? Will the lemon balm regain its stranglehold on the northeast side? Will the relentless crabgrass take over without my obsessive nightly weeding in the early season? I don’t have answers.

A slight breeze stirs the air; acorns rain down from the large oak near me. I hope I don’t get bonked. I never considered cutting down the tree to let in more sunlight. It stands tall, regal, and straight, and possesses many board feet of good lumber. It survived the fencing that ran along the property before I lived here. The scars of rusty wire poke out the backside. The oak has survived my garden’s need for sun. Will it survive new owners?

I planted the Ginkgo tree on the edge of the garden as a temporary home when my parents moved. This is its second summer. It has thrived, surviving the relocation, and will come with me. I’ve noted in the home disclosure that it will not remain on the property. The family ties are too strong to leave behind.

I sit back on my heels, wiping the dirt from my hands. Who knows, I may still be here next spring. I’m learning that moving is a lot like gardening. There are unknowns, things that are out of my control. When is it safe to plant sweet potatoes? Will someone make an offer? Will the first frost come early? Will the Ginkgo tree survive another move? Will someone make a higher offer on the house I’ve decided I want to call home?

I may not have answers, but I do sense that connections to place are important. They give a feeling of belonging, of family history. I will leave the soil here, but I can take memories of sweet potatoes and tomatillos with me.

The next person who digs in this garden will create her­or his­own ties here, as I will create new ties. Maybe the green tomato hornworms won’t follow me to my new garden.

By Suzanne Hebert, Volunteer

It’s tempting to gather colorful wildflowers growing robustly along New Hampshire roadsides, especially pretty purple loosestrife, with its long-lasting flowers. This Eurasian plant escaped from perennial and herb gardens and now thrives in roadside ditches and wetlands.

Later in the fall, the bright orange bittersweet berries accented by contrasting yellow husks, burst open in pretty clusters along vigorous vines. These tough vines wrap around tree trunks, eventually strangling them. Common along roadsides, the berries lure those looking for attractive fall decorations.

But don’t pick these invasive plants! It’s illegal to transport viable plant parts of these and other decorative but invasive plants in New Hampshire, because picking spreads their seeds. Horror stories abound.

One bittersweet door wreath became a jungle of bittersweet vines that took hold under a deck as the berries fell from the wreath and rolled under the deck. They sprouted and created a nasty eradication problem because it was difficult to crawl to the plant.

Loosestrife is pretty because of the millions of flowers on each stalk, on its many branched, sturdy stems, but they develop as many as two-and-a-half million seeds per plant each year.

The non-native plants on the state’s prohibited invasive species list have all been carefully evaluated for their nuisance potential; they possess certain traits that give them an advantage over most native species. In their new habitat, these invasives have escaped the natural predators and biological controls that keep them in check in their native lands. Their abundant seed production, aggressive roots, lack of insect predators and other traits give them a competitive advantage over our native plants.

Burning bush, for example, comes into its glory in the fall because of the flaming red color of its leaves. But as this robust Asian plant matures, each branch drips with hundreds of orange berries.

Rose hips, the round seed pods from multiflora rose, have caught the eye of crafters who make lovely wreaths from the thorny-stemmed hips. This Japanese native was first introduced in 1886 as a rootstock for cultivated roses. Later, the U.S. Soil Conservation Service promoted it for soil erosion control, and nurseries even promoted it as a “living fence” for livestock. Now it is a plague on old farms.

Birds eat and spread all these berries: bittersweet, rose hips and burning bush. At one time they were promoted as sources for food for birds in winter! These seeds germinate easily, and they sprout up at the edges of fields where birds rest in the hedgerows, near birdbaths and under shrubs where they nest.

Japanese knotweed, colloquially known as “bamboo,” flourishes along roadsides and flowers in the late summer to early fall. The six-foot-tall, hollow, arching branches produce clusters of white flowers along the stem. With the first frost, the entire plant dies back to the ground. This non-native plant, imported as an ornamental shrub, spreads by a dense mat of underground roots, totally overtaking other plants in its way. Any node that finds soil will root and form a new plant.

The milkweed-like pods of black swallow-wort are a curiosity in the fall when they burst open and release white fluff attached to a seed. Breezes and wind blow this fluff all over, spreading this nasty perennial vine far and wide. It has tenacious white roots that look like spaghetti when dug up. These root clumps get tangled up with shrub and flower roots and can quickly ruin a garden. They are especially annoying when entangled with lilacs because the swallow-wort leaves resemble lilac leaves.

As the trees begin to turn their vibrant fall colors, the ugliness of the Crimson King Norway maple becomes conspicuous. While all the native trees put on an exciting fall color show, this tree’s foliage turns black­a good time to make the case for cutting the Crimson Kings down. Many of these trees are now mature enough to produce seed, worsening their invasive impact.

The N.H. Department of Agriculture, Markets & Food took decisive action to prohibit certain invasive plants because these aggressive and prolific aliens crowd out native plants, reduce natural biodiversity, create overgrown jungles in our forests, old pastures and orchards, and block scenic views. The purple loosestrife that ruins wetlands is regulated as an aquatic invasive by the N.H. Department of Environmental Services.

For more information

Complete list of 26 New Hampshire legally prohibited invasive plants, photos of each, and tips for controlling them: http://bit.ly/invasives
 
Disposing of invasive plant materials: http://bit.ly/invasivesdisposal

Alternatives to Invasive Landscape Plants http://bit.ly/invasivealternatives
 
Doug Cygan, Invasive Species Coordinator for the Division of Plant Industry, works with community groups can advise and assist with specific problem situations: 271-3488, dcygan@agr.state.nh.us

Anne Krantz is also a member of the UNH Cooperative Extension Invasive Plant Outreach Group

Photo caption and credit: Purple loosestrife blooms along a highway. Photo by Anne Krantz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By: Carol “Cat” White, Master Gardener

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

I've run 27 marathons and biked thousands of miles over the years. I'm not a super athlete, but I can do physical stuff for hours. “For hours” is the part I love. Good thing, because I have yet to break four hours for a marathon.

For those of you unfamiliar with marathon times, the winners run the 26.2 miles in just over two hours. To qualify for the Boston Marathon, I'd have to run the distance in four hours and five minutes. My best time ever: four hours and six minutes. There's hope for me, but just barely.

With all that exercise, it's easy to start feeling invincible. (Secretly, invincibility was my goal. It was a little ego charge to know that running 10 miles was no big deal.) The day our friends Bob and Julie told my husband Ron and me we had to hike Kearsarge North, it sounded intriguing but sort of wimpy. Hiking? A long walk? Well, maybe we’d try it after one of those vigorous 12 mile runs we liked to take.

We'd visited the Mount Washington Valley for years, always enjoying a ride across the Kancamagus Highway or up to Pinkham Notch. We spent our time taking scenic drives, running on the valley roads, and shopping at the outlet malls. Occasionally someone would tell us about a spectacular waterfall or scenic vista (Ellis and Sabbaday Falls come to mind), and we would take the short walk.

Real hiking was something else. I didn't fit my picture of a hiker the I buy all my outfits at a sports shop type of hiker. Nonetheless, I was intrigued. Our friends went on about how the hike was tougher than it looked and you had to be prepared for it.

These friends greatly admired our running stamina, as many of our friends did, and at that point I think it had gone to our heads a bit. Our friends said to plan about six hours for the hike. If these weekend warriors did it in six, we would surely finish in four hours, if not three.

The morning of our big adventure, I put on my discount-store hiking boots, my one concession to the hike. I pulled on street jeans (fashionable rather than comfortable) and several layers of tops. I rejected the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Bob had told us were mandatory for energy, although I did make some homemade trail mix as Julie recommended. Ron packed his PB&J sandwich and off we went our first real hiking experience.

We found the trailhead and felt a little thrill just saying “trailhead” like real hikers. The tiny parking lot was packed with cars, but no one was in sight. It was about 8 a.m. We set off on a nice stone and pine needle trail. I was breathing in the air and feeling on top of the world. In six short miles I really would be on top of the world! We'd heard that on a clear day you could see the ocean.

Soon the trail began to rise. Finally, some challenge to this leisurely walk. I hoped I'd have time for a run when we got back. The walk became a steady climb, sometimes a little steeper and sometimes flattening where the trail switched back to alleviate some of the steepness. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But at some point I began to look forward to those short, flatter sections.

Not much farther along, I noticed I was quite warm. Hot, in fact. Sweating. I stopped (secretly thankful for the break) to shed the layers down to my t-shirt. In way too short a time we were back on the trail heading upwards.

Ron finally (and thankfully) mentioned that this hike was tougher than it seemed. Behind him, I was drenched in sweat, my stiff, soggy jeans soaked through. I looked down at my watch. We'd been hiking for 20 minutes! How could that be possible? But giving up never crossed my mind.

Then we turned the corner of a switchback and the trail got even steeper. I offered my husband $50 for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He wouldn't bargain.

At some point I realized hiking is about the journey, not the destination (although the summit was every bit as beautiful as promised). With my goal-oriented outlook I expect I'll probably keep learning that lesson with every new adventure. I was completely humbled and hooked on hiking that day and have a couple of weekend-warrior friends to thank for it.

Next, I'll tell you the story of my experiences with yoga, another “sport” I once considered wimpy, but I'll leave that for another day.

By: Gini Cornila, Master Gardener

The bright, sunny morning after the February wind storm, I arrived at my office. Lugging armloads of work, I never even noticed that anything was amiss. But as I entered the building I saw an odd darkness in the usual sunniest space.

Looking in at me through the panes of two windows was a tree the beautiful, full, healthy, blue spruce I planted 30 years ago.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed out loud, even though I was the only one there. I ran outside and looked up. There it leaned, toppled over, all 40 feet in full glory, resting on my office roof.

I ran to its base. Half the root system was out of the ground. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed again.

I checked the status of the office roof and windows. Nothing seemed damaged. The tree itself wasn’t either. I’d always thought of it as a protector, shielding the back of the office building. It had also provided a shelter for years to a pair of mourning doves. I scanned for them no sign. What must they have gone through when this happened?

So there lay my beautiful tree. I wet a sheet and covered the exposed roots. Burlap and a tarp came next.

Googling “uprooted trees” brought me to a University of Florida Cooperative Extension article. There was hope it might be saved!

I immediately called UNH Cooperative Extension’s Info Line to see what they thought. They didn’t discourage me but suggested I contact an arborist.

I called Chris, the arborist who sprays my apple tree. After I explained the situation, making sure he knew how beautiful the tree was, he said quietly, “I love trees. I don’t like being a tree mortician. But she will never survive. She’s too big.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’ll come and look,” he said, “but I don’t think she can be saved.”

Twenty-four hours later he called. “I stopped by and looked at your tree. I’m afraid she needs to be removed.”

“All right,” I conceded. “When will you do it?”

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

The next day Chris, two other men, and a bucket truck towing a chipper arrived. Branch by branch Chris sawed away, throwing the limbs down to the men.

I watched as he cut each piece and as workers dragged the blue spruce boughs past me and fed them to the noisy chipper, turning the tree into wood bits.

The freshly cut spruce made it smell like Christmas. It was cold like Christmas; even tiny snowflakes blew around. But it surely wasn’t a happy time like Christmas.

I had already decided that though the tree had to come down, it needed to stay. I motioned to Chris to bring the bucket loader down so I could speak to him.

“I want all the chips. I’m going to put them in the mulched area in front of the office. I have a large space, so I can use them there.”

“The needles will take a long time to disintegrate,” he cautioned.

“That’s OK,” I said. It was fine with me that this “mulch” was going to look different. It was different. It was my tree.

Once the deed was done and Chris had left, I examined the stump. It looked like an uneven star. I counted the rings. There were 35. The tree must have been five years old when I planted it.

Out front a massive pile of blue-spruce chips and needles had taken up residence alongside the road waiting to be transported to their final destination. The next weekend my landscape guy came and, wheelbarrow-load by wheelbarrow load, dispersed the remains of my tree across the 40-foot by 15-foot area I can see from my desk.

Now each morning as I start my work day, I look out at the chips. It makes me sad to realize that the towering presence of the tree is gone. Are the chips as beautiful as a 40 foot spruce? Hardly.

But, like the tree, I tell myself, the chips still provide protection to the property. And I can still look at my tree, just from a different angle.

By: Ann G. Haggart, Volunteer Writer

“You could have bought the peas for less time and effort,” my father said.

“But I like planting and harvesting,” I answered.

He frowned. “It makes no sense that you work in that field, when you could have a regular job and buy your food. I don’t like seeing my daughter as a subsistence farmer knee deep in animal manure.”

“You raised me to be self-supporting and hardworking. I love my farm. Besides, you’re my guest.”

He stomped off to the small, run-down farmhouse. Father would brag back at home about the wonderful meal and the animals and the fields. But he’d worked years to raise himself up from the farming grandparents, mill-working parents. He’d worked hard to educate his children, and it made him furious to see me doing manual labor.

I collected the rest of the peas and hustled into the house, where I began preparing lasagna from scratch. I’d actually started the meal months earlier. The baby shoats grew all summer to become round, fat pigs, later stuck and bled, cut, packaged and rendered into sausage. The ground had been tilled, hoed, raked, fertilized and sprinkled with seeds that grew into parsley, tomatoes, garlic, celery, onion and basil.

I made the noodles from artichoke flour traded at the whole-foods co-op for bookkeeping services. The eggs came from my own Rhode Island Reds and the milk from my beautiful goat herd. Only the olive oil and salt had been purchased from the store.

The main attraction at my farm was the 13 milking goats. They provided much love, as well as funding from sales of their milk, cheese and meat.

Mother asked, “Can I sit outside while you put the meal together? It is so hot with the wood stove going.”

“Sure Mom. Take a chair from the gazebo and put it out by the paddock and I’ll bring you some tea.”

I brought Mother some peppermint tea and left her to watch the farm. I rolled out the dough and cut the noodles. I simmered the onions, garlic and olive oil for a while before adding the scalded and peeled tomatoes, the basil and the parsley.

Then I browned the pork sausage. I always thought of the pigs living in the old Ford behind the pond when I cooked their parts. Pigs are nice animals, and many afternoons I’d sit by their sty, feed them apples, listen to their snorts and tell them all the disturbing things the other animals on the farm were up to.

I never named the animals I knew I would slaughter. But that didn’t keep me from knowing them.

The kitchen began to smell lovely. I had bread in the oven. My beige and lime-green wood cook stove had a high back with a shelf to raise the bread, curdle the milk and dry the herbs. It had four burners that lifted with a tool shaped like a bent fork. The oven was on one side with a big temperature gauge on the outside of the door, the fire box on the other side.

I’d learned to split the wood just right to lay it snug, so coals would form and keep the oven warm enough to cook but not too hot to burn. I’d gotten good at using this appliance­the only stove I had for eight years.

I finished layering the lasagna into a large glass baking dish I’d purchased at a discount store for this event. I took the bread out of the oven and put the lasagna in.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” I heard my mother scream.

I ran to the back door and out into the yard. My mother was sitting as I had left her, dressed in her best hat and gloves and nylons and heels. I think beige and pink was the theme that day.

I let out a guffaw. There in my mother’s lap sat the pet goat Tag-a-Long I let roam the farm at will. Tag-a-Long wasn’t good enough to breed, so I made him a pet. He loved peppermint. He’d hopped right into my mother’s lap and stolen the tea bag off her saucer, depositing a small pile of droppings in her lap.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she kept screaming.

We got Tag-a-long off Mother’s lap, cleaned her skirt, and retired to the house for the meal. I set the table, poured the wine, cut the bread and cheeses, and placed the fresh-churned butter on the table with plates and napkins and silverware.

Then it was my time to scream, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

The baking dish I’d bought for the lasagna wasn’t ovenproof. The glass had cracked right down the middle. The 20 pounds of from-scratch lasagna was stuck to the bottom of the woodstove oven. I scooped it into a bucket and served it to the pigs.

We rounded up the animals for the evening, shut up the barn, closed the chicken coop, secured the paddock and went out to eat.

By Stephania Pearce, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Judy Elliott, Writer

Northfield, New Hampshire has been my home for 40 years. Five years ago I moved into a new home, but stayed in the same town.

Each move requires adjustment to new surroundings and a pulling away from the old. Pulling away from the old takes longer than adjusting to the new, because you usually have strong feelings invested there. The old place fit me like my skin after I’d lived there for 35 years. I felt I knew every blade of grass (most of it of the crabgrass variety), so I had mixed feelings about moving.

Although I've lived in urban or small-town environments, teaching and raising children for most of my adult life, I still have strong memories of other places I've lived. For example, the way I live now is heavily influenced by what I did as a youngster growing up on a farm in the Great Plains, where the principal activity was making things grow.

Our rural farm had 40 acres for growing things to sell and sustain ourselves. I learned to grow garden crops as well as orchard and vineyard products. We had a farm stand for the various vegetables and a pick-your-own arrangement for the orchard and grape vines. Planting, pruning, harvesting and general care of the livestock were skills I learned early on the farm. Like most boys, I didn't always enjoy what were, in retrospect, a lot of good life skills.

As I began my retirement, I made a conscious choice to go back to my rural roots. I wasn't inclined to return to the flatlands of Kansas. I wanted to stay in Northfield, so I began looking for land on which to build my dream house.

Neighbors were wondering if they had put me off somehow, but I assured them that now the children were grown, I wanted a place where I could apply some of the long-unused skills that were such a part of my early life. Simply stated, I wanted to play in the dirt and become more intimate with the seasonal changes.

I moved into my new place in the spring of 2005.The brand-new home was surrounded by a thin layer of topsoil in the front yard and some pretty rough stuff in the back and side yards. I must say that I worked harder those first two years than I ever did on the farm as a boy, because everything needed to done at once.

There was lawn to seed, wildlife-attracting shrubs to set in place, vegetable and flower gardens to plant, and piles of rocks to organize. I started saving table scraps and yard rakings and began to compost in earnest. With a strong back and planning, I brought order to the chaos. My wife worried that I'd have a heart attack, but I assured her that a broken finger was more likely. Actually, my muscle tone improved dramatically and I lost a few pounds of city fat. The amazing thing is that all those long-dormant skills developed in the fields of my youth came flooding back.

I took the UNH Cooperative Extension Community Tree Steward training, which helped me deal with the shrub planting I had in mind. I contacted the State Forest Nursery for a list of seedlings appropriate for my site and for sale at a reasonable price.

As soon as I let them know I was a Tree Steward, they asked me if I would like to volunteer when they sorted the plants in the spring, and I agreed. One side benefit of that ongoing relationship has been lots of expert advice and a pretty good selection of undersized but healthy plants for free.

As I prepare to launch into my fifth spring I’m beginning to feel a new sense of place, an attachment to this small space in the world and to what I have done here. When I pull into the driveway, I see a creation I have planned and shaped. As an encroacher on the woods around me, I 'm fulfilling a responsibility to make the land benefit not only me and my own aesthetic tastes, but the mammals, birds, snakes, amphibians, insects and other creatures who also have an attachment to this place.

By Bill Dawson, Community Tree Steward

Drawing by Mary West, UNH Cooperative Extension

Whenever my husband and I walk together in the woods, he is looking up and I am looking down. Up because he is thinking about his woodlands: which trees need thinning, which need to be allowed more light; down, because I am looking for anything that might grow on the forest floor: wildflowers, mosses, lichens, mushrooms, rocks.

Looking down keeps me from catching my toes on surface roots and fallen branches. (My husband is much more sure-footed than I.) But I have decided to look up more often. There’s so much to see­clouds, sky, the stars, bats and birds­that require leaning back and looking up.

In winter, cloud action has a different energy from that of summer; look up and you will see. The wind in the earth’s troposphere can be quite severe, and when it is, "lenticular" clouds appear more often. These clouds are lens-shaped, concave and smooth with curved tops like a lens. They occur more frequently over tall mountains and out west, but do happen here, just not as often.

One day a few weeks ago, I watched as three lenticular clouds became thinner and more stretched out over the course of 90 minutes. How long they had been there I didn’t know, but they are known to last quite awhile due to their location in the upper atmosphere and strong, circulating winds that swirl around mountain tops.

The smooth, rounded shapes may even pile neatly, one on top of another, making layered lentil-shaped clouds. Add a touch of color as occurs sometimes due to light and dust in the air, and…magic! Going back to my high school meteorology lessons, the more frequent denizens of the sky are delightful also, a sky full of mackerel cirrus or pink cumulus clouds make any day better. Look up.

Last September, in that too-brief time when summer-like conditions returned, I witnessed a spectacular sight that was seen all up and down the Asquamchumakee or Baker River Valley just south of the White Mountains.

Planting bulbs with my back to the sky and Carr Mountain, a light shower began just as the sun was setting in the west. I moved under an ancient apple tree waiting for the rain to pass. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but sunlight continued to spill over the low mountains to our west.

Suddenly, a rainbow began to appear in the northern sky, first faint and then full strength color arcing across the horizon. I dashed for my camera and got some great shots. At times it was a double rainbow and lasted much longer than usual. The combination of water droplets and sunlight at a low angle made for an amazingly bright and vivid rainbow.
The immediacy and rarity of such a sight left me feeling as though I alone had viewed it. Later, in speaking with others from up and down our valley, I was amazed to discover that many had shared my experience across at least three towns. Now, I was not alone but a member of a special club. Good thing I looked up, or I would’ve missed it all.

Looking up can also reap views of intrigue and adventure in the bird world. While looking up the other day I was fortunate enough to see a light-colored hawk being chased by several crows. The insouciance of the hawk with its mocking, leisurely glide and the raucousness of the harpy-like crows made me laugh out loud.

Later, studying some field guides to the birds, a northern goshawk seemed the likely upstart I would not have seen if I hadn’t looked...up.

Last winter, while filling a bird feeder I heard a slight noise from above, and when I looked up there sat a barred owl in broad daylight and in all of its feathery glory. I watched it for more than an hour from the relative warmth of my shed door as it waited patiently for mice and other prey. When it dove, it did so with a sureness and speed I wouldn’t have imagined. And, when it ascended to its perch, a tail dangled from its mouth. Breathtaking! Look up.

Sometimes, the reminder to look up comes from the source of wonder itself. While I was loading the birdfeeders again, a hairy woodpecker skimmed the top of my head as it dove from one tree to a nearby bush to feed on suet. I still remember with a shiver down my back the thrum of his wings, and the swoosh! of skimming feathers. Whether or not he meant to “buzz” my head, I felt as though he did mean his warning peek! for me and me alone! Translation: Look up!

Communing with nature resonates throughout our lives and enhances our days on this earth. That special connection to nature reminds us as humans we aren’t alone on our planet and in our natural environment. To reaffirm this, I’ll continue looking down but also occasionally remind myself to look up.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

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.