NH Outside: Spring Archives

I was quite young, perhaps 10, when I found the head.

 I had by that point seen a few gruesome horror films on the sly, but my imagination couldn’t grasp an explanation for the sight of the severed head of a goldfinch impaled on the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the field. It must have been spring; the goldfinch was in his bright courtship attire. I must have looked anxiously over my shoulder.

 A decade or so later I read about shrikes, and another decade or two passed before I saw one. This winter again I’ve heard a northern shrike singing in the field across the road. Its scientific name Lanius excubitor translates to “butcher watchman.” Carolus Linnaeus, the famed father of modern taxonomy, gave this bird its name of “watchman.”

 Linnaeus was praised for developing a logical, double-name system for describing the relationships among plants based on similarities in their reproductive structures. He was apparently more patient in observing the minutiae of flora than fauna because he concluded that the shrike was taking its sentinel stance at the tops of bushes, poles, and trees to forewarn little birds of the approach of a hawk.

 Shrikes may indeed be watching for hawks in their own self-interest, but they also have a culinary interest in the songbirds. This revelation has been utterly horrifying to some bird lovers. A close look at a shrike reveals an unusual head-size-to-body ratio and a distinct raptor hook to the bill. Sweet little birds sometimes overlook this anatomical feature. It is said that the shrike will even lurk in the underbrush beckoning curious birds with pleading murmurs.

 It was an unfamiliar voice that drew my attention to the shrike, a series of not-quite-melodic phrases that go nowhere and seem not to repeat. “If perseverance deserved success, the shrike would take high marks as a singer,” wrote Frank Chapman in the 1895 Handbook of Eastern North America. It is written that both sexes will sing and, come to think of it, I wonder why this bird would be singing at all, given that its breeding home—Alaska and central Canada—is so far north?

 This wolf in sheep’s clothing has the delicate feet of any perching bird. The element of surprise and a swift knock on the back of the head secures a meal for the shrike. The word “shrike” has the same Anglo Saxon root as “shriek,” though whether the shriek comes from the shrike, the victim, or the horrified bird-fancier is not clear.

 “One has to have something of the savage in him to enjoy thoroughly the study of the shrike,” wrote Edward Brayton Clark in 1901. “As a matter of fact, the close daily observance of the bird involves some little sacrifice for the person whose nature is tempered with mercy. The shrike is essentially cruel. It is a butcher pure and simple and a butcher that knows no merciful methods in plying its trade. More than this, the shrike is the most arrant hypocrite in the whole bird calendar. Its appearance as it sits apparently sunning itself, but in reality keeping sharp lookout for prey, is the perfect counterfeit of innocence.”

 The older nature books are full of such accusations directed at this hunter. However, the shrike gives chase solely for the purpose of culling the not-so-fleet to secure food. These writers choose to forget that a human hunter often kills for mere sport or trophy.

 It isn’t every year one can find a shrike in a New England pasture. “Like the bold Norse robber barons of old, these birds come down from their Northern wilds to prey on Southern wealth,” wrote Ora Willis Knight in 1908. Ornithologists report that it is mostly the immature shrikes with faint barring of the breast that wander south in the fall and depart in the spring. In times of cyclical rodent crash in Canada, even more birds will visit and these may travel even further south into the U.S. At this time of year, this northern shrike is sating him or herself mostly with rodents.

 In its summer breeding grounds, the shrike is also known as grasshopper hawk, cricket hawk, or mouse hawk, acknowledging the main staples of its diet. Shrikes can also take a few snakes and frogs. Like a storefront butcher, a male shrike may hang a flamboyant display of fresh kill in a thorn bush or shrub to impress a prospective mate with his powers of providence. Food may be similarly cached against lean times, and this is probably the circumstance I witnessed so many years ago.

 If you should be lucky enough to glimpse one of these gray visitors, wish him or her well on the passage north come spring. Certainly we have mice to spare here this winter.

Note: A version of this article was first published in the Bradford Bridge, a community newsletter

By Ann Eldridge, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

While I love gardening and swimming in the summer, watching the foliage change in the fall, and skiing and snowshoeing in the winter, there's nothing that makes me feel alive quite like the first warm days of spring. A scent calls to me, and I simply must get outside to enjoy the unique aromas of the season.

This corner of New Hampshire was buried under nearly 150 inches of snow this past winter, a record for us. Now, each day I count how many stones in the garden wall are newly visible, which trees are starting to bud out, and how much more brown earth is visible near the dirty piles of snow. Those piles are still high, but they are melting and spring is definitely here.

In one patch of earth, I notice a small flock of juncos feeding. Since they weren't here during the long winter months, I assume they've journeyed from somewhere south of us. They bustle about, finding a few stray seeds scattered by the blue jays, which roil the feeders by suddenly taking off. A robin hops along, searching for something tasty in the ground.

On my walk, I'm serenaded along the way by the red-winged blackbirds. First comes a little bell-like sound and then the wings open, flashing the distinctive red patch, and the head bends down and forward for the big "scree." Three males are dueling furiously. First one sings out and the moment he's finished, a second starts up, followed immediately by a third. Their perches are only a few feet apart. Will they really nest so closely or will one remain victorious while the others leave for new territories?

The common grackles have returned, too. Their brilliant yellow eyes stand out from their lustrous blue-black coats, shining iridescently in the sunlight. Clustering together on a tall tree, they have long and raucous discussions about what? Their recent flights north? The quality of the sunflower seeds at my feeders (duly brought in each night now that the bears are astir)? The depth of snow on the still-frozen swamp? Perhaps they, like me, are simply delighting in the warm spring air.

Nearby, great blue heron couples are choosing their nesting sites. Two of last year's nests are already taken. Refurbished a bit, they're now ready and a heron stands guard over each while the mates are off doing some fishing. Perhaps the first eggs have already been laid. A third nest is being looked over by a pair in mating plumage. They stand on the nest and peer down at it, appearing to ask: What do you think? Will this one do? I call that nest "faraway" because it's off by itself, a short distance from the remaining nests used last summer.

In another tree, two birds stand near a small pile of sticks. I watch while one flies off to a pine and pulls some foliage to spruce up their new home. When it returns, the mate calls out to him before taking the bough and carefully trying it here and then there until just the perfect spot is found. Slowly, the nest takes shape.

Although two more of last year's nests stand empty, the heron activity is far from over. A fifth pair has also chosen a new site for their nest. They've placed few shortish branches in a crotch where two limbs meet the trunk of a long-dead pine. The herons stand one above the other and peer out in different directions over the swamp. I love their looks: plumage flying off the back of the heads, bold orange bills contrasting with the blue-gray feathers.

Nearby I spot yet another pair. They stand side by side in a tree to the south of the others, looking off over the swamp. Last year's five mating couples produced fourteen young; I can hardly wait to see how many six pairs will produce this season.

Meanwhile, one small area of the swamp has freed itself of ice and snow. The opening starts at the beavers' spillway and runs out for perhaps 20 feet. I scan it for ducks, but see none. I know some have returned to the larger lakes and ponds in the surrounding areas. Perhaps soon the swamp will have enough open water to tempt a mallard pair or a beautiful hooded merganser and his mate to fly in for a rest. Or maybe a wood duck couple will discover the nesting box high in the tree on the west side of the swamp.

It's spring. They'll be here soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

UNH Cooperative Extension

As layers froze over and more fluffy snow arrived, it came to the point that we'd walk a few steps on the snow and then break through and sink to our keesters,occasionally tipping over in the snow. I remember as a child walking to catch a school bus in this fashion. As an adult, I didn't find it nearly so much fun.

Coming nose to nose, so to speak, with the snow forced me to notice I had company: little specks of dirt that actually moved in the clean, fresh snow. This led to further investigation. My online sources told me that instead of minor hallucinations, these tiny, active flecks are one of nature's small miracles: snow fleas. Hardly larger than a grain of pepper, these creatures can survive subzero temperatures, can jump 20 times as high as their body length, and have flourished on this earth since long before the dinosaurs appeared.

I've mentioned these interesting facts to several friends, acquaintances and family members. They had never heard of or seen snow fleas and looked at me strangely as I described the phenomenon I witnessed in the snow. This goes to show, you don't always know what you've got, even when it lives right under your nose.

Members of the insect order Collembola, with more than 6,000 species scattered around the globe, springtails may be the most abundant insects on the planet. The name snow fleas is misleading, as it bears no relationship to fleas.

The springtail gets its name from the spring-like hook (called a furcula) attached to the underside of its abdomen. When these hooks release, the jumping begins. Strangely, however, it may not go anywhere except up and back down in the same position.

Since springtails tend to congregate in large masses and get trapped in crevices and low areas in the snow such as footsteps, watching these tiny guys hopping about can be a bit startling. They will also float in a group on puddles as the snow melts during the day. A non-porous coating on their exoskeletons prevents them from getting soaked.

Springtails don't necessarily appear every day. As this winter progressed, the snowbanks grew to monstrous proportions outside our living room window. It became impossible to ignore them. I began to wonder about a collection of black "dust" that would appear one day and not the next in one corner beneath our eaves. Run-off from our black shingles seemed a possible source, but why one day and not the next? As I was researching springtails it dawned on me that this "dust" didn't come from disintegrating shingles: these black specks were springtails.

Springtails actually have a function in life other than bewildering hapless ladies who have fallen in the snow. They feed on decomposing leaves, fungi, algae, dead worms, insects and other organic debris in the ground. Some sources actually call them most important decomposer organisms in the formation of the earth's soils.

Scientists have also found an unusual anti-freeze protein in springtails' bodies. This protein has been studied to see if it could help increase the longevity of human organs for medical transplants.

Harmless to humans, pets, and structures, snow fleas won't invade your stored food supplies or gnaw holes in your woolens. In most cases, springtails found in or about your house will soon disappear on their own,without the use of pesticides.

Springtails climb from below the snow to the surface as the winter temperatures begin to warm up. I like to think of them as a sign of spring, because they seem to show up when the sun gets stronger. It always pleases me to discover something that can live on and under the snow, defying cold, icy weather.

Somehow I suspect that if life as we know it disappeared from the earth, the tough little springtail would survive. So step outside and see for yourself: Life is where you find it.

UNH Cooperative Extension,Helen Downing, Master Gardener

It's spring and New Hampshire's black bears will soon be waking from a long winter nap. Their autumn goal was to eat five times their summer intake, trying for a five-inch layer of fat. As the weather cooled down, so did their appetites, and they sought winter lodging.

Biologists have learned that appetite in bears is controlled by leptin, a hormone secreted by fat cells. As bears fatten, leptin travels through the bloodstream, signaling the brain to suppress the appetite. As the weather warms, their hunger returns slowly. Bears in good condition still have some fat remaining in spring, and they feel no hungrier on arising than when they hunkered down. This arrangement with the hormone leptin is essential. It could prove fatal for a bear to spend a lot of energy in late fall and early spring searching for scarce food.

Bears aren't true hibernators; their metabolic rate slows only moderately and their body temperature drops only a few degrees. In his book Winter World, Bernd Heinrich describes winter bears as "the ultimate, enviable couch potato." For five inactive months they suffer no thirst, require no bathroom facilities, and show no change in muscle fiber and only negligible loss of muscle mass. Despite lack of exercise, they lose no bone density.

After burning fat for fuel, bears' cholesterol levels are double their summer readings and double those of humans, yet even an old bear has supple arteries and no gallstones. They don't get bed sores, and the sows continue napping after giving birth to their non-hibernating offspring. How bears accomplish all these metabolic feats is poorly understood.

Most of us think of bears simply as large, potentially hazardous beasts randomly roaming the deeper woods and occasionally galloping across the roads. Largely due to our comparatively weak senses of smell and hearing, we rarely imagine that them as having vibrant and complex social lives. Ben Kilham, who has been raising orphaned bears in the woods since 1992, describes bears' social play, their varied repertoire of vocalizations, and their advanced methods of teaching by demonstration.

Bears, Kilham notes, are also capable of remorse, empathy, and deception, qualities which indicate a highly developed sense of self-awareness and awareness of the minds of others. Kilham has recorded what appears to be altruistic behavior, suggesting that bears occupy the same level of intelligence as the larger primates.

After reading Kilham's book Among the Bears, I came away with a vision of the forest as a dynamic place full of complex visual and olfactory animal messaging systems. Bears are repelled by and attracted to each other across the landscape. Although highly social, they rarely come into actual physical contact, because bears' large food requirements usually keep them widely spaced. When food sources are abundant, however, bears set up food allocation systems within their territories, allowing even non-related bears to benefit.

Which brings us to the seasonal drama of bears at bird feeders. At 160 calories per ounce, bird food is a powerful attraction. Although bears would prefer not to approach human artifacts, some do, and they appear to be able to map out routes for themselves and their friends. The bears that go to feeders are usually young males, hard-pressed between their mother's territory, from which they've been ousted, and the holdings of dominant male bears. They'll get by any way they can on the margins until they grow large enough to claim a place for themselves or emigrate.

People have a compulsion to lure wildlife nearer with food. Often we convince ourselves we're helping, or connecting with nature. It's certainly easier to see wildlife in your backyard than in the woods. People who intentionally feed wildlife have all the positive results of watching "their" deer, turkeys, and more, but claim none of the responsibility when things go awry.

The New Hampshire Fish and Game Department has been trying to educate people about the long-term ill-effects of winter feeding that Good Samaritans typically overlook. Some of the ill-effects they cite: increased predation, disease, and disruption of social and feeding patterns. Wild animals habituated to humans often break our rules by destroying gardens, breaking and entering for food, and rearranging backyards.

So, if you care about and want to support bears,remove bird feeders. In spring the birds don't need them. Frighten bears away if they appear in your yard. Many feeder-raiding bears end up being shot (not by Fish & Game officials, who generally try to relocate them, but by landowners).

And if you want to connect with bears, perhaps even see signs of bears and other wildlife, visit their native habitat. Spend more time in the woods.

Note: An earlier version of this essay appeared in the Bradford Bridge.

The ice formed late this year on Great and Little Bay. From my window overlooking the shores of the bay in Greenland, I watched as throughout February the ice spread out over the mudflats and the brackish water until only the deep channel of the Furber strait was visible.

All along the shelf of ice, gulls -- herring and black-back -- would perch and preen. A few brave ones would go into the water but soon join the others on the ice. Several times this winter a bald eagle passed over the gulls, causing much panic. Once in a while I caught sight of several small flocks of goldeneyes and black ducks out in the channel but their numbers were down from previous years. The ice-fishing bob houses lined the tidal rivers making small and colorful villages out on the ice.

All through February and into the first week or so of March the ice stayed firm and thick. Then suddenly one morning, great continents of ice were on the move. The ice closest to the channel went first and the channel widened as the tides carried in the water from the Piscataqua.

Soon ice from the Squamscott in Exeter and the Lamprey in Newmarket started appearing in the open water. Fast-moving chunks, some of them as big as rafts, floated down through the bay. Most fishermen moved their bob houses up on the shore, but one or two seemed to be caught in the melting ice and no one dared to go out to drag them off the slushy surface.

Then the ice along the mud flats, having been undermined by the tides, started to break off the shore. Some of it tipped up into large sheets on top of smaller pieces and ice sculptures formed all along the banks. Jagged shapes pushed onto one another with each high tide, poised with sharp points at every angle.

Within two days the points rounded out, the shapes softening as they melted down into each other. On the outer edge, geometric pieces of ice broke off and floated down with the tides, joining smaller chunks coming from the rivers. Still, like a lacy petticoat, fringes of ice lingered around the marsh, though in some places it was no longer dense and white, but clear like glass.

More and more open water became visible and I could see Canada geese in large flocks out in the middle. And then one morning in mid-March, I looked out the window and the ice was gone. Waves of water moved into the marsh and over the mudflats. The small tidal creeks started running again out to the bay. Redwing blackbirds could be seen and heard in last year's phragmites reeds. Although an invasive plant, this tallest of all the marsh plants retained its seedy plume that attracts the birds. The green stubble of salt marsh hay, cord and black grasses is now visible through the wrack line of last year's storms. On the edges of the little pools found throughout the marsh called salt pannes, instead of ice, I see mallards repairing a nest.

Spring seems to take so long to come. But on Great Bay, when the ice goes out, spring is here.

By Sheila Roberge, Volunteer Writer 4/11/07
Roberge works as the volunteer coordinator for the Great Bay Discovery Center, the conservation-education headquarters for the Great Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve in Greenland.

This time of the year I become impatient for that first bit of fresh green or bloom. Since I know I’ll have to wait another month or more for Mother Nature, I usually try to do something to push things along. Most years, in addition to forcing spring-flowering bulbs in my refrigerator, I help some branches come alive before their time. I like to try many different species.

My basic strategy involves hoodwinking the branches I’ve cut from nearby trees and shrubs into thinking spring has come, by providing the warmer temperatures and longer hours of light that trigger the flowering response in spring-flowering plants. Known as “forcing,” this process requires very little time and effort. At this time of year, almost any material can be forced to flower in three to four weeks. The closer to the actual outdoor blooming date, the shorter the time necessary for indoor forcing.

I’ve found a host of flowering shrubs and trees suitable for forcing. Horse chestnut, pussy willow, shadbush, redbud, Cornelian cherry, spicebush, flowering quince, forsythia, spring witch hazel, bridalwreath spirea and magnolia produce the most spectacular displays. Fruit trees such as apple, plum, cherry, pear, peach and apricot also make lovely bouquets. The branches of almost any shrub or tree, including oak, birch and maple, are interesting to watch as they develop leaves and flowers indoors.

I wait until outdoor temperatures rise into the mid-to high 40’s before collecting my branches. I choose branches full of plump buds and prune them on a slant, cutting lengths of up to three feet long. Formed last summer, these buds are ready to burst into bloom. Flower buds are often fatter, rounder and sometimes a different shape than leaf buds. Flower buds also tend to be more numerous on younger wood.

For easier arranging later on, I choose stems the thickness of my little finger, using sharp pruning shears for a clean, quick-healing cut. Although pruning branches in winter won’t harm the plant, I try to prune evenly to retain the plant’s balanced shape.

After a winter like this one, I may not get as many blossoms as I’d like. The balmy weather of December and early January will have stimulated the buds of some woody plants to break dormancy and lose some of their winter hardiness. The long and bitter cold snap that followed in February and March may have killed the flower buds on some species. Even if I don’t have flowers, I know I’ll at least get sprays of foliage for my efforts.

After I’ve collected the branches I want, I bring them indoors and immediately plunge the stems into a deep pail filled with water; sometimes I even put them in the bathtub with a few inches of tepid water. I leave them submerged for a few hours—even overnight—so the stems and bud scales can take up as much water as possible. This makes the process of bud unfolding much easier for the flower.

Next, I place the branches in a bucket of water, adding a flower preservative to help them last longer, and set the bucket branches in a relatively cool place (60-65 degrees F) to develop. Higher temperatures will cause the buds to develop rapidly, but size, color and quality may be sacrificed. To keep the water from smelling bad, I change it once a week. I occasionally mist the developing branches with water from a spray bottle.

Branches need light for forcing, but not direct sunlight. Heat from direct sun is too intense, and often drying. I try to keep in mind the springtime conditions that promote flowering. “Thinking spring” helps boost my spirits, too.


Witch hazel and forsythia can take as little as one week to bloom; flowering fruits such as apple and cherry can take up to four weeks, and lilacs can take five.
When the flower buds have developed enough to show color, I remove the branches, arrange them in vases and put them on display just as the flowers begin to open. Arranging the branches with other spring flowering plants, such as daffodils and tulips, or with green foliage, provides a stunning contrast. The flowers and leaves will last longer if you can move them to a cool location at night.

So, why not bring the first breath of spring into your home as you watch a few slender branches burst into leaf and flower while snow still covers the landscape. It will help replace those still-fresh memories of frozen water pipes, non-starting cars, and extra layers of clothing with the hope of certain spring.


By Margaret Hagen, UNH Cooperative Extension Educator, Hillsborough County

3/14/07