NH Outside: Winter Archives

Yesterday, the old wooden bench was still covered by snow from last week’s storm, its location found only by memory. Today, the entire top of the back is visible. Today also, the first stones of the vegetable garden’s raised bed have begun to peek out through the snow. I know that once the first stones are visible, they’ll absorb the sun’s warmth and the melting will accelerate. Soon, the entire south face will appear, as if by magic.

The metal roof of the three-season room resounds to the dripping of the melting snow off the back roof of the house. It sounds like rain and makes talking impossible. Each morning, the dogs wake a bit earlier, aroused by the sun leaking through the bedroom shades. In the evening, we leave the dining room windows uncovered while we eat. To watch the daylight as it lingers longer and longer is such a delight. We don’t need a calendar to know that spring is coming.

Last night, we left the wood stove empty. The day had been so warm we didn’t need to build a fire to heat the house. The room itself was empty as we all moved off to other rooms, no longer drawn by the heat and dancing flames. In the bitterest cold of winter, we seem to live in that one room. All the others feel cold by comparison. Last night, all were equally comfortable so we strayed to occupations in other areas.

The ski shop in town sends out emails starting with, “Spring skiing!” My friends and I find ourselves shedding coats as we glide along the groomed trails. Last week, we stopped for a while to watch a chipmunk on a tree. It seemed to revel in the warming sunshine and it too, noticing the different scent to the air. Spring.

The trees near the bird feeders are often now filled with flocks of finches. They sit there and chatter away. “Doesn’t that sun feel good? Shall we fly north tomorrow? I’m so glad she feeds us hulled sunflower seeds, aren’t you?”

Are they really saying all that? I don’t know, but it seems to me that their conversations must run along those lines. I know that soon I must bring the feeders in, well before the bears come out of their long hibernation.

On a snowshoe outing yesterday we saw rabbit tracks and deer tracks. The deer had come across the swamp and up into the woods behind the house. Suddenly the tracks changed dramatically from sedate, discrete hoof prints to widely spaced, deep marks, indicating that they had begun to leap through the snow, leaving long empty spaces between the tracks. I expect their white flag tails had flown up suddenly, alerting each other to danger. Had they spotted the bobcat, or had my wildly barking dogs frightened them?

The vernal ponds along both sides of the driveway are starting to melt. Down deep in the frozen mud, the frogs and salamanders are waiting to emerge and begin their mating rituals. The strengthening sun is warming down through the snow, melting the ice and unlocking the life hidden below.

The seed catalogs are all spread out on my desk, awaiting my belated, final decisions. Everything looks so good and tempting, but my garden space is limited; I must make hard decisions today and get the order out in tomorrow’s mail.

I wander to the back of the house to look out at the yard. Last fall, I stared to clear a new area and extend a stone wall around it. We talked about planting blueberries there, but there are several shrubs I’d like to buy as well. I know the birds will appreciate the blueberries as much as I will. Which of us will get the lion’s share? The partially finished wall called to me all late fall, but the frost had glued the stones to the ground so I couldn’t move them around as I wished. How soon will I be able to tackle that project? There’s no moving a wheelbarrow around in mud season!

As long as the snow holds out, I’ll snowshoe and cross-country ski. I’ll enjoy the winter for as long as possible. But I’ll also enjoy the warmer days and the strong sunlight. I’ll delight in wearing a lighter coat and thinner gloves. I’ll watch, as I go, for the first swelling of buds on trees and shrubs. I’ll note the behavior of the squirrels and birds and chipmunks. They know better than any meteorologist what’s happening and how spring is progressing.

Before long, the robin’s nest will once more be filled with chirping, gaping beaks. The nuthatches will come to the bag of dog hair I’ve hung out and pull out tufts for their nests. The frogs will fill the night air with throaty calls of love.

I’m not impatient for all that. I can wait. And I’ll enjoy the waiting and the watching for each sign of spring.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Groundhog Day represents something far more significant than a rodent predicting the weather: it's the half-way point between the vernal equinox and the winter solstice. No matter what that hapless critter does-goes back in or stays out-it still means winter is half over.

Every couple of days, I snowshoe out into my yard to feed the birds. Yes, snowshoe. That’s how deep the snow has been here in northern Grafton County. The suet has disappeared quickly, and I've replenished the supplies a couple of times.

I’ve even made my own suet "pies" to help fill the birds’ need for insulating quantities of fat by mixing the suet with black sunflower seeds. One reward for putting out hulled sunflower seeds has been the appearance of a brilliant red cardinal.

After several years’ absence, the bluejays have come back to my feeders in groups of five or six. They love the cracked corn and oyster-shell grit I put out for them. I started putting out the oyster shells after I discovered that the rat-a-tat-tat I heard coming from the front of our house wasn't a woodpecker looking for insects, but a bluejay trying to find calcium in paint.

Like all female birds, the lady jays need calcium to strengthen their eggshells, and, as it turns out, calcium is an ingredient in most house paints. I also put out eggshells from hard-boiled eggs and from raw eggs, boiling the discarded shells first in hot water to make sure they won't pass along any diseases.

In my travels around the house and garden, I've noticed tracks on top of and tunnels into and beneath the snow. These tunnels into the “subnivean” (under-the-snow) zone intrigued me. The insulating snow traps heat from the earth below, so the temperature at the interface of soil and snow remains stable, hovering just around 32 degrees, no matter how cold it is above. Often I see a little head pop up from beneath, grab some seeds and vanish back under the snow.

Mice, red squirrels, weasels, voles, moles and shrews remain active in the subnivean zone. The weasel is the predator from within, living among the creatures he will prey on. Owls and hawks watch from branches above hoping to make a meal. Patterns made by the tunnels emanate on top of the snow; try looking down to see them from a window or higher ground. Predators such as coyotes, foxes, and the owls and hawks can often sense motion under the snow and make their strikes before actually seeing the animal below.

Sometimes, I even see where tiny tracks lead across the snow surface and then just stop. Evidence of an animal airlifted by an owl or hawk and quickly eaten. No trail of blood and feathers left to tell a gruesome story, just air and snow.

Another creature that benefits from the insulating qualities of snow: the Ruffed Grouse, Bonasa umbellus. Grouse often burrow into deep snow to spend the night. When fresh snowfall hides the entry hole, an unsuspecting snowshoer may get the surprise of her trip as the grouse suddenly bursts from the unmarked snow beneath her feet.

Not only mammals, but also insects and arthropods live below our line of vision under the snow. The Snow Fly, Chionea valga, and the Elongated Crab Spider, Tibellus oblongus, not only live in subnivean airspaces, but also mate and raise their young there, often providing nutrition for other creatures under the snow. Their sources for food are often the Springtails, Hypogastrura nivicola, which New Englanders refer to as snowfleas.

Harmless to humans, these tiny members of the order Collembola exist all over the world, but here in New Hampshire they remain subnivean most of the winter and come up into the daylight, scientists speculate, to mate. They usually appear on top of the snow only when the air starts to warm a bit in late February, and then resemble black pepper sprinkled over the snow.

Winter animals don't grumble about the snow and ice, they persevere or die. The myriad ways they’ve adapted to life beneath and above the snow testify to the web of life as simultaneously wonderful, awful and surreal.

Recent research in the Antarctic has revealed prolific life existing even beneath icebergs. When icebergs “calve” from glaciers, they carry with them minerals and nutrients from the soil encased within the glacier from whence it came. This enriches the waters below the ice, providing sustenance for microscopic and larger life forms, which in turn provide food for animals in a wide radius.

Some research evolving from this source of life may help solve problems caused by global warming. There are theories that the deep oceans of our polar areas may actually serve as carbon repositories.

Whether spring returns in six weeks or less, all that life below and out of our sight may prove to be more important than we realized.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

The “world’s worst weather” isn’t found in the Arctic or Antarctic, but here in New Hampshire on Mount Washington. I hiked this mighty mount one summer. It was thrilling to reach the summit then, and I longed to go there again in winter.

When I got an email from the Mount Washington Observatory (MWO) about winter day trips to this 6,288-foot peak, I immediately sent my money for one of the 12 trips.

Later, I leashed my enthusiasm when I read the “average mid-winter day on Mount Washington has a temperature of about 5 degrees Fahrenheit and a wind near 50 miles per hour...typical 'wind chill equivalent' approaching 25 below! Temperatures of minus 20 degrees can occur even in April! Never underestimate the severity of summit weather conditions!”

More than 100 people have died in the White Mountains, and nearly two dozen of those froze while summiting Mt. Washington. This was no spree, but an extreme experience that could lead to death if we didn’t take care. The MWO issues a 17-item list of clothes and gear needed. Cotton is a no-no, because it absorbs and holds moisture, whether from fog, snow or perspiration. Wool or synthetic wear is best.

I considered renting equipment and called Charlie Townsend, Eastern Mountain Sports climbing school director, in North Conway. “I have one of those baklavas,” I said, mispronouncing balaclava, the facial hood with eye and mouth holes. “Well, you don’t want to wear a Greek dessert on your head,” he joked. Townsend, who leads winter and summer hikes in the White Mountains, told me MWO wanted people to comprehend these hazardous conditions, and if an emergency arose, all that equipment was lifesaving.

A few days before my scheduled expedition, the Northeast was steeped in single-digit temperatures and stormy weather. I thought the trip would be cancelled, but the day dawned clear. The mountaintop temperature was 9 degrees F (minus 10 degrees wind chill), and winds were 15 to 30 mph with a three-mile visibility.

Besides high-tech underwear, I wore four layers under a heavy fur-trimmed parka, and two pairs of insulated pants. I felt bulky and moved like a turtle. There were seven of us in the snow tractor-a machine with huge, rolling blades that deeply grips the snow and ice along the road, while its front plow smoothes the eight-mile road’s snowdrifts. It’s a three-hour round trip, with several stops to view the prominent peaks and valleys in the White Mountains.

Dr. Peter Crane, director of programs, who oversees MWO’s educational efforts, told us about the history of the peak, located in the 52-acre Mt. Washington State Park. A non-profit scientific and educational institution, MWO is funded by private and corporate donations, grants and other sources. Not part of the National Weather Service (NWS), as people think, MWO is private but has contracts with NWS to provide weather data.

The highest recorded surface winds gusted at 231 mph on April 12, 1934, and the official low was minus 47 degrees. “The wild weather on the mountain,” Crane said, “is due to its location at the juncture of three major storm tracks, plus the enhancing effect of altitude.”

When we arrived at the spectacular summit, we went inside MWO’s headquarters, which it shares with the state park. After hot drinks, snacks and talk with a half dozen personnel, we suited up and climbed the observatory’s tower. I had difficulty breathing, and thought: Must be getting old. Crane and young people working there later explained most people need time to acclimate to the altitude.

Leaving the tower, we took more than an hour’s walk to the official summit top and around its historic buildings. During that time, I saw two teams of four climbers crest the mountain.

I was awed by the vast whiteness, where wind artistically sculpts rime ice (frozen fog) into sharp, horizontal points on tower wires, and snow into fanciful swirls on the landscape. Beautiful, I thought, but deadly.

I was struck, too, by the swift change from clear to cloudy skies, and back again. I would start to take a photo, and seconds later clouds obscured the view. Most days, it’s cloudy 60 percent of the time. When it’s clearest, you can see New York, 130 miles west, and the Atlantic Ocean, 60 miles east. Visible also are mountains in the Presidential Range: Madison, Adams, Jefferson and others.

Back inside after lunch-soup, sandwiches, and beans-we toured the station’s meteorological area, with Crane explaining various functions. All too soon, it was time to board the tractor for the world below.

Back on ground level, I looked up from where we had come, but clouds hid the view. Native Americans named Mt. Washington Agiocochook, meaning place of Great Spirit. In my memory this spirited mountain will never be shrouded.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

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

Remember those soft little snowflakes falling from the sky, attaching to your eyelashes, mittens, and tongue during those snowy days when you were growing up? Oh, how my friends and I loved to get up and out when the announcement came, SNOW DAY. NO SCHOOL!

Remember sitting outside by yourself and listening to the snow fall, how quiet and secure it made you feel?

Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I never really understood why snowflakes were so wonderful or why the water they’re made from is so powerful. How could the substance in those delicate little flakes from my childhood float on the top of a pond, move mountains, and kill living plant tissue?

I never really made the connection between liquid water and ice until I was studying to teach Advanced Placement biology. I had a wonderful instructor whose job it was to bring all of us pre-1963 high school science teachers up to date.

This class brought me one of those “aha” moments when things suddenly come together and begin to make sense. My moment of enlightenment came when our instructor explained water and all its properties.

We began with the structure of the simple H2O molecule everyone knows by its chemical formula: two hydrogen atoms (H) and one oxygen atom (O). The way in which the hydrogen and oxygen atoms bond and by which the molecules attach to each other causes liquid water molecules to attach and break apart constantly, giving water its familiar fluid appearance. But what about ice? How does water become ice and float?

The unique bonding properties of the water molecule also account for ice. As liquid water begins to lose its heat and freeze, the molecules attach to one another in such a way as to keep each molecule at arm’s length from its neighbors, creating the rigid lattice structure we know as ice. This ice lattice creates space between the molecules, making ice less dense than water and causing it to expand and float.

Also due to this shape, when liquid water flows between rocks and down into cracks in rocks and freezes, the ice lattice expands to nine percent more than the water’s liquid shape and exerts a tremendous force on the surrounding rock. This expansion causes fractures along the rocks’ natural weak points. Adding gravity explains why the Old Man in the Mountain was doomed to fall in spite of the valiant attempts to hold it in place.

Now as fall fades and the woods turn white with snow, what caused those maple leaves to shrivel and fall and your geraniums to turn to brown mush and begin to rot, but doesn’t damage evergreen shrubs and trees? It seems water and freezing temperatures again are the culprits. Leaves on deciduous trees die as part of a plan.

As sunlight and temperatures decrease, photosynthesis slows and the tree begins to use more energy than its leaves produce. These are the clues for the tree to reduce its energy budget and remove all those things causing a negative draw on its energy stores. Trees drop their leaves and take a long winter’s nap.

But many of our cold-tolerant evergreen trees and shrubs have adapted to freezing temperatures by moving water out of their cells to spaces between the cells, allowing the cells to survive by lowering their freezing points. When the temperature rises, melting occurs, water moves back into the cells, and the plant resumes its growth activities, though there may be some cell damage. But not all trees survive, as the drying winds so common here in winter can kill a tree by drying out the water between its cells.

That explains how trees may (or may not) survive, but what about geraniums? Geraniums and other summer-flowering annuals, due to their genetics, don't transport water out of their cells, so ice forms in their cells and kills the plants.

So, as daylight decreases and gardens are put to sleep, I look out my window at the frozen pond, the surrounding trees and shrubs, and the deflated, brown vegetation of the flower garden, and I think: I now understand why ice floats, snowflakes form, leaves die, and The Old Man in the Mountain fell. It’s all because of the simple structure of ice-crystal lattices created as liquid water freezes.

And, as winter advances, snowflakes fly, and the woods look dead, I know that even in winter, plant cells in my trees and shrubs are performing tiny miracles, preparing for spring.

By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener,Community Tree Steward

I found it! For years, I've been searching every woodpecker hole in every dead or live tree I could reach. All the books say that many birds use woodpecker holes for nesting sites, but I'd never found a nest in a hole.

I've seen many nests built in crotches of trees, including one I noticed only because a brilliant male scarlet tanager flew right in front of me and up into the nest to feed his young. I've seen nests in bird houses I've put out and robins' nests on the jut-out of the dining-room bay window under the shelter of the porch roof.

The phoebes also like the tops of our outside spotlights and frequently nest there. Once I found the nest of a northern Baltimore oriole out in the middle of the swamp. But a nest in a tree hollow carved out by woodpeckers? No, never. Until yesterday.

We've had wonderful snow for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing this winter, but the surplus of white stuff has meant hours of clearing. By the time I've shoveled the paths to the woodpile and bird feeders, cleared the decks and porch, created paths for my little dogs, pulled snow off the porch roof, I'm too tired to get out there and enjoy the snow.

Yesterday, however, I stole some time. I'd donned snowshoes to get behind the woodpile to clear it off from the back. While working, I noticed that the snow had covered the top of the fence in one area, so when I finished, I headed out into the woods. They were so lovely still, peaceful, the snow clinging to many branches. I could walk everywhere since the fallen trees, small boulders, stone walls, and low shrubs were covered in snow.

I followed a path made by a deer, trekking over to a large, dead tree to check it out. This tree must have been a monster in life. It had at least four trunks, one which showed signs of someone attempting to cut it with a saw 10 feet above the ground. One of the trunks lay buried under the snow. The bark was gone, and I could see many tunnels made by grubs and holes made by woodpeckers. I searched carefully, but no sign of a nest.

Out onto the swamp I went. On my last visit, I'd noticed an odd hole, with dirty footprints all around it but none leading to or away from it. Some creature must have come up from under the snow, looked around, and headed back inside. After the most recent 10-inch snowfall, however, there was only a small opening under a dead tree to see.

Up above, the five heron nests, piled high with snow. stood out starkly from their tree supports. I hope that somewhere down south the heron pairs and their 14 young are feeding well and enjoying the warmth and sunshine. Next month, the first arrivals should be here, scouting out the territory and choosing the best nest site. I'm glad these nests are all still intact. A few additional branches to refurbish, and they'll be all set for a new crop of squabbling youngsters.

A hairy woodpecker flew nearby and began working on a tree. Bits of bark and wood flew out and fell onto the snow below. The dead evergreens seemed almost alive again with green moss hanging from each branch. I love to look at the dead trunks. Stripped now of bark, they reveal the twists and turns each tree made as it reached for the sun, shifted slightly to one side to grow around another, repaired the damage from a broken limb. One tree in particular was covered with knobs formed when the tree grew out over a stub. Little insect holes filled the trunk as well as one or two larger ones made by the birds.

I moved to a new area and noticed a broad snag about eight feet tall. The lower portion was nearly hollow and above, at eye level, was a large hole clearly bored by a woodpecker. I peeked inside and there it was,a beautiful bird's nest.

Snow had filled the nest's cavity so I carefully removed it to see the construction of the nest itself. Dried mud and grasses formed a perfect circle. The inside was as smooth as a carefully sanded, turned wooden bowl. The nest was large, at least as large as the ones the robins build above our window. The birds had carefully selected an opening which faced east, avoiding both the heat of the summer sun and the winds of the north and west. Perfect.

I noted the location of that tree. In the spring and summer, I won't be able to see the opening from the shore, but I'll be able to watch for adult birds flying in and out of the nest. I'm curious to know what species built the nest. Now that I've found it, I'm going to enjoy it.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener, UNH Cooperative Extension

The pewter gray late winter sky hung menacingly, blocking any glimmer from the midday sun. Snowflakes fell intermittently and a cold wind tossed the trees across the horizon. The gloomy surroundings matched my mood of despair, sadness and loneliness. For the third time in two years, we'd had to put down a beloved pet.

Unlike the other dogs, this one was still young; its death unanticipated and shocking. Although the vets had assured me that I could have done nothing to save him, the problem had likely been congenital, I felt such guilt. Shouldn't I have noticed something earlier? He had been my constant shadow, following me despite his trepidation onto the beaver dam in the fall, refusing to leave my side when others offered to take him for walks. He depended on me and I believed I had let him down.

I packed away his bowls,leashes and collar. I knew we'd get another dog in time so I wouldn't get rid of these things. But the open bag of dog food couldn't be kept, so one morning I decided to toss some kibble from it out for the squawking blue jays to eat. Perhaps they'd leave the sunflower feeders alone for a while with kibble so easily obtainable.

Later that day, I sat at the counter that overlooks the back yard. With my mate away for a few days and the dog gone, the house reverberated with emptiness. I settled down with a sandwich and a book and tried to block out the pain. At the end of a chapter, I looked up from the book and blinked twice. Quick! The binoculars!

There on the path were two gray foxes, calmly but rapidly eating the dog kibble. They were the first gray foxes I'd seen.The reddish coat below, the coat of grizzled gray above, the black tipped tail, and the white throat made identification easy. The abdomen of one was somewhat distended, very full and rounded. A later check of a wildlife book confirmed that gray foxes mate in February or March and give birth in March or April. I felt they must be a breeding pair, happy to have obtained a winter meal so easily.

In too short a time, they finished the few pieces and headed down the path towards the woods. I sat there for some time, just savoring the visit of these two wild foxes. I knew they were primarily nocturnal, but do sometimes forage by day. Probably the winter snow had made hunting difficult for them so they had ventured out in daylight.

Now I had a dilemma. I knew it was ill-advised to feed wild mammals. Doing so habituates them to humans, making them more likely to come closer to people and thus putting their lives at jeopardy. But it was winter. There was still snow on the ground. Their main winter food,cottontail rabbits and other small mammals and rodents,had to be hard to catch with this snow. Soon they would have kits to feed and I still had a partial bag of dog food to get rid of.

For the next few days, I scattered some kibble along the path. Throughout the day, I watched whenever I had the chance. Nearly every day they would return. My spirits lifted as I watched the pair feed. The house no longer seemed empty and my loneliness and grief receded.

One day, a solitary fox appeared. Was the other one surrounded by young in a hidden den? If so, he'd need to bring food back to her. I gave in and when my bag of food was empty, I bought another at the store. Over the next few days, I continued to put out the food and to enjoy the fox's brief visits. The snow was melting rapidly. I knew he'd soon be able to catch prey for his growing family. One day I waited in vain. The jays came and ate the kibble. I saw the foxes no more and when the bag was empty, I didn't replace it.

The visiting foxes came five years ago. I've never seen them again, but I still treasure the memory of that brief encounter. At the time my heart most needed easing, and the foxes appeared, helping me far more than I helped them. Of course it's fanciful to think that my beloved pet somehow sent his wild cousins to cheer me; but the Natives who once lived so close to nature would have understood and shared that belief. We are all one in nature, part of a large circle, our lives touching endlessly and seamlessly. My dog is gone, but the memory of this gift remains.

Although the temperature had gotten down to the teens last night, it didn’t seem really cold this morning. Still, the ice in the swamp spoke today. The Ice Monster’s children were playing and calling out to each other from different parts of the swamp.

First, one side of the swamp would give out a groan. Almost immediately, another side would respond with a crack. A brief spell of silence, then a new call from another area, followed shortly by a response from a different portion of the swamp. I’d never heard the ice call out this early in the season before, but it sure had a lot to say today.

A few weeks earlier I’d heard some different sounds from the ice, sounds made by a four-legged animal, probably a moose, walking through the partially frozen swamp. Creak, crack, creak, crack. With each step, the animal broke through the thin ice and sent a shiver of sound through the night air. The poor ice monsters had probably been entertaining the thought of sending their children out to play when the moose came along to disrupt their playing field.

Usually the ice speaks only deep at night when the temperature is below zero. We hear it then, on those nights known as “rafta snappas,” nights when the roof rafters groan and seem to snap suddenly. The ice, of course, does the same thing on those nights. The deep cold causes the ice to contract; suddenly, there’s a sharp SNAP and a crack appears through what had been a solid sheet of ice.

These cracks aren’t just surface deep, but extend all the way through the ice. During the day, the winter sun shining down at an angle warms the water through the ice and the water rises up into the cracks, only to freeze again overnight. In this way, the ice moves across the surface of the lake or pond. When the ice comes up against an island or the shore, it pushes up whatever is in its way-boulders, small stones, debris. Over time, these are moved higher up the shoreline, to sit well above the water of summer. While I know the scientific reason, I prefer to say that the new locations came about from the ice monster family playing their games on cold winter nights.

We don’t usually think about how many types of ice exist in nature or how the ice is formed, but we should. Most of us probably just think that cold temperatures equal ice and we head out to play. Unfortunately, it’s far more complicated than that.

While surface ice thickens as it migrates downward into the body of water, a snow cover will slow the heat loss to the atmosphere. If the ice isn’t thick enough before becoming snow covered, it will take more freezing nights to make that ice thick enough to hold our weight or that of our vehicles. Furthermore, turbulence in the water will mix the surface-cooled water with warmer water below, causing the formation of frazil ice. This form of ice is very fragile and not something we should be playing on.

The different types of ice make any on-ice winter activity one that calls for caution on our part. Knowing where the springs are in a lake, knowing where warmer water may have entered the lake in fall, understanding that not all ice is as solid as it appears, can keep us safer when we are on the ice, fishing, cross country skiing, snowmobiling, skating, and ice boating.

The ice monsters don’t have to worry about all that, though. The variations in ice just add to their vocabulary. As water freezes, it expands, and the ice monsters will call out with one voice. Later, during those deep cold spells, the contracting of the ice brings forth a different voice from these denizens of the winter swamps and ponds. “The ice monsters are back,” we say as we snuggle down under an extra comforter. “They sure are talkative tonight."

Eventually, the sun moves higher in the sky, and its rays strike the water from a different angle. Now comes a new change. The water lower down begins to heat up as the sun warms it through the ice. Air bubbles begin to form and work their way through the softening ice. The warmer water rises and rises, and suddenly the ice “turns turtle.” You can look out at the ice at 10 a.m., and it appears solid enough to walk on, but come back at 1 p.m., and you’ll see only water. No, the ice hasn’t melted; it has sunk below the warmer water that had risen from the deeper areas.

This is the time for the ice monsters to go back into hibernation. Many months will pass before we hear their groans and creaks again. Ah, but spring is still some weeks away. For now, the ice monsters play and we humans can join them.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

It was a perfect winter day. On the horizon, the clear blue sky was bordered by a narrow ruffle of puffy clouds. Eight inches of powdery snow covered the ground. The temperature was cool, but the warming sun pulled me outside. I dressed quickly, eager for whatever I might find in the fresh, crisp air.

I trudged out past the bird feeders and along the path which runs between the stone walls of the vegetable and daylily gardens, down the hill, and through the gate in the fence. I was headed, as always, for the swamp to see what I might find on this beautiful day. As I walked along the fence, I saw that I’d had company sometime before this morning’s light snowfall. There along the outside of the fence were the tracks of a bobcat. The new snow had partially filled them in, but the size and spacing convinced me that the big cat had been prowling along our fence once again. Whether it comes in the fine weather or not I don’t know. I suppose it might walk all around the swamp to get to this fence. I’ve no real way of knowing, but every winter, once the snow has fallen, I know by its tracks that it’s come across the ice to patrol here once again.

I followed the tracks down the hill and into the swamp, but a step or two quickly convinced me that the ice just wasn’t ready yet for my weight. As my eyes followed the cat’s tracks across the ice, I wished I’d thought to bring along the camera. The beavers’ lodge was so lovely with its cloak of snow. The orange-topped surveyor’s stake, which the beavers had appropriated to add to their home, was covered now with white and looked from here like just another branch.

I walked further along the swamp’s edge, and I suddenly startled a dozen doves. Off they flew with a call of alarm so unlike their normal mourning coo. Their explosion from the tree where they’d been resting masked a tap-tap-tapping sound which I’d not noticed before. Once the birds were gone, I followed the sound with my eyes until I found a hairy woodpecker on a tall, narrow tree.  

The woodpecker’s beautiful black and white coloration, as well as its large size, is always a marvel to me. This one, a female, lacked her mate’s brilliant red patch on the back of the head. Still, the wide white streak down the center of her back was perfectly balanced by the white and black stripes of her wings. Down the trunk she came, probing, listening, tapping here and there. After she worked her way down about five feet, she returned to her starting point and moved a few inches over to repeat the track. Down and up, tail pressed tightly against the smooth bark, head cocked to one side and then another before the strong bill drilled in to test the wood for succulent insects.

Where does she hide when the temperatures drop down into the low digits? I presume she has a favorite hole somewhere to snuggle down in. Today, in the brilliant sunshine making its way through the leafless trees, she stands out with clarity and beauty.

A few moments later, something startled the doves from their new resting place, and once more they burst forth with their danger call. A chickadee nearby picked up the alarm and warned others of my presence. “Chick–a-dee-dee-dee.” I read recently what scientists have learned: the number of “dees” a bird calls indicates the type of danger.

“Hey,” I called softly to it. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who fills the feeder with sunflower hearts!”

I love the chickadees. Not only are they such lovely small beings, but they are the politest of birds at the feeders, taking only one seed before flying away to consume it. This one left me after a moment or two and headed back to the feeder for another morsel.

With a sigh, I realized that I had to follow suit. Reluctantly I left the world of beauty, of nature, of outside and returned to the house. “I’ll be back,” I promised both myself and the woods. I know I will. I’ll be beckoned again, and I’ll answer.

 By: Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

For Christmas my grandsons (with some help from their Dad) made me a bird feeder. The design is simple: an open frame about a foot square with a screen on the bottom, suspended from the four corners by cords that attach to a loop about two feet above the frame.
           
We hung the feeder on a small branch of a young beech tree, high enough so we could just reach to fill it, high enough (we hoped) to be out of reach of the deer, and far enough from the trunk to discourage the cat from exploiting the situation. The south-facing windows both upstairs and down provide a front row seat for observers. We poured a couple of quarts of sunflower seeds onto the screen and awaited the verdict of the intended beneficiaries.

In no time a flock of finches arrived. They mobbed the feeder, and those who couldn’t get the first bite waited impatiently, an unruly crowd pushing and shoving, a flying dance among the branches. The tree, in midwinter, sprouted feathered leaves, flying off all at once for no apparent reason, only as far as the adjacent maple. Soon they were back, twittering and competing for a place at the banquet.

Chickadees and tufted titmice hang around, taking a turn when the finches depart for a spell. Occasionally a nuthatch visits, although he seems to prefer the fancier and less crowded feeder outside the kitchen window.
           
Watching the finches is endlessly fascinating. On my window is a small feeder, only large enough for two or at most three birds at a time. Sometimes one will decide he is king of the castle and aggressively defend his throne, even sacrificing opportunities to feed as he fends off interlopers. But eventually he also flies off, and another, and yet another take his place. The little feeder requires frequent replenishment.
           
Winter is a special time on our hill. When the leaves drop in October, the view changes markedly. Sunrise, masked in summer by the foliage, can be dramatic, and it comes late enough that 7:00 a.m. risers like me can enjoy it. The distant hills and small lakes become visible. The lakes, blue before they freeze over, later appear as white, open spaces.

We who love winter are thought a bit odd by those who complain endlessly of the cold, snow and ice. But the changing seasons are a source of constant wonder. No other season offers anything that compares with the brightness of a moonlit night on fresh snow. Shadows of the bare trees create a chiaroscuro on the open field. The structure of the landscape is visible from the road—stone walls, icy streams, boulders. The fields of 19th century farmers reveal themselves, although most are overgrown now, often with mature trees.
           
A true sign of spring, in mid-February, is activity in the sugar bush. A warm sunny day brings the sap up in the maple trees, and sugar makers get ready for the year’s first harvest. Deer trails course through the forest, reminding us of the constant life that inhabits what may seem a dead landscape.
           
The goldfinches, mobbing my feeders, begin to discard their drab winter plumage for their yellow garments, in preparation for spring rituals. The chickadee whistles his spring song, sometimes even on a warm day in January. The piliated woodpecker loudly declares his territory with a persistent drumbeat and occasional screech. Neighbors report flocks of robins, and even a bluebird is heard by the beginning of March.
           
Last year’s cold, snowy March brought January (and the mobs of finches) back in earnest. But it brought the sun, brighter and warmer, shining through the south facing windows, giving the furnace and wood stove a rest four several hours during the day.

I know the snow will melt, the skis will return to the basement, and the streams will awaken, roaring through the sugar bush. Making an expedition to check the sap lines becomes an adventure with a sometimes soggy interlude.

Spring birds will return in earnest, and the finches will find food in the forest, while newcomers, the red-breasted grosbeak and the oriole, will honor my offerings, joining the ever-present chickadees and nuthatches and the charming tufted-titmouse.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

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.

Date

They began arriving in the mail before Christmas—mail order seed catalogues with their lavish photographic displays. The catalogue writers use superlatives: “biggest,” “best,” “largest,” “sweetest,” to describe perennials, annuals, fruits, and vegetables. Every tomato has that “old-fashioned flavor.” Corn has “mouth-watering” sweetness. Potatoes grow “as big as your hand.” Which catalogue holds you spellbound and dreaming of a bountiful garden this year?

Every winter as I study these catalogues, I try to weed the misinformation from the catalogue descriptions. Despite these efforts, the catalogues lure me into trying new products and varieties.

Over the years, I’ve discovered heirloom tomato varieties—Brandywine, Zebra, Purple Cherokee. Their incredible flavor puts newer varieties to shame, even though most heirloom varieties have little disease resistance, and some produce oddly shaped fruits.

My curiosity also drew me to Sugar Snap peas when they had just come out. I’ve grown them ever since, as they require little effort to grow or pick, and they taste delicious. My inclination to try new vegetables also added sugar-enhanced corn varieties to our table and delicious, hardy Asian greens like mizuna and bok choy.

Here are some of the vegetables I’m dreaming of for 2006:

“Micro Greens”: Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of these, neither had I until just recently. Micros are the first delicate seedlings of vegetables and herbs: beets, cress, kohlrabi, celery, pea sprouts and spinach. In just a week or two after planting, you clip the young seedlings and use them as garnishes, as the main ingredients in a spring salad, or as a base for a roasted vegetable like grilled fennel or roasted beets. Obviously, this will require intensive succession plantings as with mesclun mixes. I may try creating my own blend from leftover seeds from last year, or look for specialty blends in catalogues.

Delfino cilantro: This herb earned recognition as an All America Selection for its flavor and fern-like appearance. Ready in just four to five weeks, this is another plant that deserves succession planting. People I’ve talked to seem to love it or hate it, but it could become a staple for salsa-holics. When cilantro goes to seed, it’s called coriander. I plan to harvest good crops of both leaves and seeds to use as seasonings.

Big Mama tomato: The supplier suggests “fire-roasting” this indeterminate paste tomato on the grill and using it to make bruschetta to spread on thick slices of fresh Italian bread. Yum!

Purple Haze carrot: This sounds like a great conversation veggie, purple on the outside, orange inside. The catalogue tells growers to serve Purple Haze raw to retain its color. The kids in my life are going to love me for this one!

Ruby Queen sweet corn: Can you imagine? Sweet corn that turns red as it ripens! Some catalogues recommend steaming to retain Ruby Queen’s color. I can hardly wait for this one.

In addition to new vegetables, I want to try more ornamental grasses in my perennial border and elsewhere. They are a great way to make sure the garden has something to please the eye after frost shrivels the heat-loving annuals, and snow begins to cover the perennials.

Miscanthus sinensis “Graziella” is an ornamental grass I’ve heard will spread, and I certainly hope it will in my garden. I planted a pot of this cultivar in a raised bed last summer, and it still looks great. Now in the middle of winter, it is a beautiful shade of golden beige against a background of snow. The tall feathery plumes, or culms, of Graziella are as graceful as its name.

Although I spend many pleasant hours curled up with my seed catalogues, come spring, I also like to visit some of the excellent nurseries in my area. My idea of a good trip is to drive off with a large plastic tub in my trunk in search of new and different plants I can add to my ever-increasing garden or put into patio containers.

My only caveat: Remember each plant or packet of seed you purchase is going to mean time on your hands and knees. Those tiny little transplants become big in no time, and often we have weather in New Hampshire that prohibits early planting. Finding space to hold these new plants while you wait for warm weather can become a problem especially as they grow larger. Often, a few new plants provide more than enough satisfaction in the long run, and less frustration in the present.

So, get those catalogues out, brew a pot of tea, pull a blanket over your knees, and dream and plan. After all, spring is just a few cold days and a whole mud season away.

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

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.

Date

As soon as the first few inches of snow falls, some New Hampshire landowners begin thinking about putting out food for the deer.

Don’t! You’ll do more harm than good, both to the deer and to their habitat. Research and experience have shown that the negative effects of winter feeding outweigh any benefit deer might get from being fed.

Two factors primarily determine deer survival during winter: the availability of high-quality food in the fall, and softwood (e.g., hemlock, spruce, fir) cover during winter.

Deer must store body fat for the winter. The amount of body fat a deer has when it enters the winter directly determines if it will survive until spring. Deer accumulate body fat by increasing the amount of food they eat in September and October, when high-quality foods, such as acorns and beech nuts, are abundant. By November, most deer have accumulated all the fat they will need to survive the winter.

During September and October feeding, fat accumulation in adult deer results in a 20 to 30 percent increase in body weight. Fawns, on the other hand, accumulate only about half as much fat, because they use most of the food they eat for growing muscles and bones.

Beginning in November, deer in the Northeast voluntarily begin eating less. They continue to reduce the amount of food they eat each day until around late February, when they are eating about 50 percent less food per day than they did in September. Throughout the winter, deer compensate for their reduced food intake by relying on their stored fat for energy. An adult deer may get as much as 40 percent of its daily nutrition during winter from fat reserves.

However, to maintain this level of stored fat use, deer must conserve their energy by reducing their activity (e.g., by traveling less) and by spending most of their time in softwood cover, where it’s warmer and the snow isn’t as deep. These energy-conserving behaviors are especially important for fawns because of their lower fat reserves.

Although deer can eat to reduce the amount of fat they burn, natural foods only slow the rate of fat loss; they don’t stop it. This is where some people begin saying, “That’s why people need to put out grain for the deer!”

But research has discovered that even deer feeding on nothing but grain lose weight during the winter. Even captive deer that have access to as much high-quality food as they want still reduce the amount of food they eat beginning in November, and they continue to lose body fat through February.

That’s because deer have evolved a survival strategy that involves eating as much food as they can in autumn, to put on as much fat as possible before winter. Once winter comes, instinct tells deer to eat less, move around less, and seek the protection of winter cover.

Research also shows that large, dominant adult deer fill their bellies first at feeding sites, which means that smaller and weaker individuals, including the vulnerable fawns, will have wasted valuable energy traveling to the feeding site, where they may get little feed. Over time, feeding sites attract more and more deer competing for the same food supplies, leading to over-browsing and degradation of the natural habitat around a feeding site, as well as wreaking havoc on homeowners’ ornamental plantings.

Wildlife biologists also worry that deer feeding might help spread Chronic Wasting Disease (CWD), which affects deer and elk and is always fatal. To date, CWD has been found in 14 states, including New York, although it hasn’t been found in New Hampshire.

Although biologists don’t know exactly how this disease spreads, they believe its transmission requires close contact between animals. When humans put out food for deer, they create a situation where an unnaturally high number of deer become concentrated in a small area.

In fact, some states have banned winter feeding of deer to help stop the spread of CWD. Feeding deer because you just like to watch them is a selfish reason for placing our deer resource at so much risk.
 
So, what can you do if you want to help deer during the winter? You can work on your property and with your neighbors to create and maintain quality deer habitat. This includes working in stands of oak and beech to increase the amount of nuts available in autumn, working in softwood stands to maintain and create dense winter cover, and working in hardwood stands to increase the amount of woody browse available to deer. Together, landowners, hunters, and wildlife enthusiasts can ensure there will be enough habitats to sustain many generations of deer in New Hampshire.

By Matt Tarr, Educator, UNH Cooperative Extension Forest Resources

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.

When he was little, our oldest son, Kevin, loved birthday parties. It didn’t even have to be his birthday, he loved all birthday parties. For his own special day, he especially liked to be able to go up in his grandparents’ back woodlot and have a family weenie roast over an open fire. This was a challenge, since his birthday was in March.

His Nana would pack the frankfurters, rolls, condiments, beverages and chips in a picnic basket, since refrigeration wasn’t a problem in March, and off we’d go on our snowshoes to meet up with the fire builders, usually my husband, his dad and, when he was old enough, my son. After the sacrificial offering of two or three wieners into the fire, everyone perfected their technique and prepared their own fire-roasted hot dogs to eat slathered with mustard and relish. I usually spent most of my time watching over Kevin’s younger brother, Christopher, who was still a toddler and breathed a sigh of relief when we all arrived back at the house, unsinged and ready for cake and ice cream.

Since Kevin now has four children of his own, two of whom were also born in March, a few years ago we began re-enacting the family tradition. Now it was my job to pack the wieners, rolls, etc. and help make sure my toddler grandkids didn’t suffer from cold, hunger, or getting too close to the flames. In place of birthday cake, we substituted s’mores, that well-known delicacy made from layering molten marshmallows and milk chocolate bars between graham crackers—a recipe for the ages.

Thanks to my digital camera, there are now many pictures to relive this occasion, and every one shows someone stuffing a hot dog or “s’more” in their mouth.

This winter, history got a chance to repeat itself again Our younger son’s wife, Marcella, having heard of our birthday weenie roasts, suggested we have a mid-winter weenie roast. A subtle difference, to be sure, but we had to wait until mid-January this year for snow—what’s the point of trudging into the woods to have a winter cookout if there’s no snow?

When we finally had the prerequisite four to six inches of packed snow, plans were made. We decided to hold our cookout a bit closer to the house which proved to be a great idea, since I turned out to be quite forgetful as the cook-out planner; did we bring the mustard? The relish? Napkins? Being able to scamper down the hill and run 50 feet into the house was extremely convenient. Just as in the cookouts of yore, our two young grandsons, Oscar and John-Henry, four years and 10 months respectively, loved the event to a point and then demanded to be brought back indoors, cheeks red, tummies full, and nap-ready.

Having a weenie roast in the winter is a lot like what folks have come to know as barbecue, but it makes for better memories. My sons remember those birthday cookouts, I know I do, and hopefully my grandkids will someday, too.

Forgetting ingredients doesn’t really matter; if anything, that just adds to its memorability, as does mustard dribbled on your parka.
The best thing? No mosquitoes. Let the sun shine on your face and insulated body; smell the co-mingled aromas of smoke, pine trees and cooking food; listen to the breezes blowing through the pines, the red squirrels scolding, the jays calling to one another.

Call “pish-pi--r ” to the chickadees; look up and watch for them to come see who calls, and for the clouds going by in a sky that can only be that blue in winter. Observe the kids struggling to cook food that just might fall into the fire and char to a fine ash. Savor their smiles of pleasure as they sample the results of all this work. Suddenly, fast food seems far, far away, and pales in comparison.

2/21/2007

Thick and blue, tried and true
Thin and crispy, way too risky

My story involves ice—lake ice and ice skating. Back in the ‘80s, when winters were really cold, they sometimes delivered that unique sequence of weather conditions needed to form perfect ice on ponds and lakes, even here in southern New Hampshire. If the ice set during the long, cold December nights before the big snows, it became glass, which made for exhilarating ice skating.

I learned to skate on rinks made by flooding tennis courts, so I was excited the year a local shallow pond froze like glass early one December. I can remember skating around the edge on new ice that looked to be about three inches thick, safe for one person according to my son’s Boy Scout manual

The ice was so clear I could see all the leaves and debris on the bottom as I skated across—a weird sensation. It was also scary as the ice cracked under my skate blades, so I never skated more than an arm’s length from the edge. But great adventure!

A few more cold nights and I was able to venture farther out. Then it snowed and I traded skates for skis. But the memory lingered. I looked forward to more really cold Decembers with ice forming before the arrival of the snowstorms.

Another winter, all 222 acres of Baboosic Lake froze, first around the edges and then way out toward the middle, although I could see a spot of open water where the gulls kept the water stirred up. But the ice was well over a foot thick in many places, so I ventured out to find the smoothest patches. What a thrill to skate straight up and down the lake to the point of exhaustion. What a view I had, gliding alone in the middle of the frozen lake, looking off to the distant hills.
 
Early one winter the entire lake froze like a piece of thick plate glass. It was miraculous—not a ripple or blemish, clear blue ice, which hairline cracks showed to be well over a foot thick. We could skate straight across, up and down, around and around, inspecting all the summer cottages.

One beautiful March day I was lured to the ice by the sun. Alone, I set out on my route across the lake. It must have been after an Olympics; I tucked down and slid into my speed-skating zone. Suddenly I saw ripples of open water straight ahead. Wrenched from my zone, I made a screeching skater’s stop. I did a quick about-face, totally unnerved by the waves in my path, even though I realized almost immediately that the rippling water I’d encountered had just seeped across the thick ice from a nearby inlet. Nonetheless, I headed for safe ice at the other end of the lake.

I relaxed again and was enjoying the warm sun on my face and the beauty of nature in late winter when a gunshot jolted me from my reverie. Of course it wasn’t a gunshot, only the ice cracking in the warm sun, but logic didn’t prevail at that moment. Total terror overtook me; the deadly sound trumped the visual reality of the very thick ice. Although my heart stopped, my legs became motorized. Back in top speed-skating form, I tore across to the safety of the shady cove and the shoreline, the “gunshots” cracking all about.

I’ve never told anyone this story because I didn’t want to admit my folly: skating alone, far out on a large lake in late winter. Perhaps Baboosic will never freeze again like it did that winter, so others won’t be able to repeat my recklessness.

Despite the mounting evidence for global warming, we’ll probably have ice thick enough for winter sports this winter. If the season continues with little snowfall, we may even get some great skating. I hardly need to point out that skating alone is a dangerous idea, or that late-winter skating is especially risky because the ice changes quickly as the sun gets stronger and the ice thins out from underneath.

The N.H. Fish and Game Department already issued one warning earlier this season through its web site: “N.H. Ice Conditions Unpredictable—Check Before You Go Out on Ice.”

Winter has made its appearance in New Hampshire at last, but the warm weather and uneven temperatures that have prevailed in the state so far this season mean the condition of ice on New Hampshire's waterbodies is unpredictable at best and could be treacherous. New Hampshire Fish and Game officials urge outdoor enthusiasts to play it safe and check ice carefully before venturing onto ice-covered waters.

And, if you skate out far and long, don’t skate alone.

By Anne Krantz, Community Tree Steward & Master Gardener

2/7/07  

Call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Education Center 's Info-Line toll-free at 1-877-3984769 for
"Practical Solutions to Everyday Questions." Trained volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday from 9 am to 2 pm.

You may have noticed the advent of winter in more than just a change in ambient temperature. There are fewer leaves, fewer bugs, and fewer birds. The surfaces we tread upon outdoors change in texture and normally turn a lighter color. Indeed, most of us get paler, too, and heavier, encumbered with thicker trappings.

Many other animals also put on heavier coats. A few actually pale all the way to white. I regret we don’t live with arctic foxes, tundra hares or the willow ptarmigan. But we do cohabit with snowshoe hares, ermines and long-tailed weasels. These three also completely change their seasonal garb from shades of brown and gray to snow white and then back again in spring.

It doesn’t take much effort to imagine the advantages of this seasonal fashion change. Ermines, also called short-tailed weasels, and the somewhat larger long-tailed weasels hunt small animals over and under the snow cover. There is a huge benefit in being difficult for your targeted dinner to see you coming and take evasive action. Although mice, voles and shrews might have benefited from adopting similar strategies, their high reproductive rates are adequate for the continued survival of their species.

Another advantage to the weasels’ winter camouflage: weasels themselves are sought by owls, hawks, fishers, foxes, coyotes and bobcats.  Tips of the tails of both of our local weasels remain black both summer and winter. Biologists have a plausible explanation for this seeming paradox: predators are apt to fixate on the more expendable bobbing tail, a far safer target from the weasel’s point of view.

Mink, another smallish member of the Mustelide family, remain chestnut-colored year round. They hunt along and in dark waters for their meals, and a change to a lighter color would prove disastrous for them.

Weasel predators and the weasels themselves all hunt the snowshoe hare. Also known as the varying hare, the snowshoe hare is the only wild Lagamorph we are likely to see in the central and northern parts of New Hampshire. The best strategy for the hare is to remain motionless and hopefully unseen. Unlike the weasels, the snowshoe hare changes only the color of its guard hairs, the longest, coarsest hairs that make up its outer coat. In September or October these start to grow in pure white, obscuring the darker underfur.

Biologists suggest the color white exchanges less heat with the surrounding environment, meaning that although a white coat absorbs less heat from the sun, it also allows less body heat to escape.

For snowshoe hares, the autumn molt starts on the ears, feet, and legs, and ends on the back. In March, the spring molt starts on the forehead, muzzle, and body and finishes with the ears and feet. The mottled effect usually coincides with the mottled effect of patchy snowmelt. Weasels also have definite molt patterns, which follow approximately the same schedule as the hares.
Temperature change isn’t the major factor stimulating color change. Shedding is triggered by day length. The reduced intensity of light entering through an animal’s eyes as the days shorten signals the pituitary gland in the brain to start the fall molt. This gland also regulates the release of pigment to cells in the hair follicles, resulting in a color change. As the days lengthen again, the spring molt reverses the color scheme. Long-tailed weasels and snowshoe hares don’t change color in the snowless parts of their ranges.

Though some of us may yearn for early melts or even snow-free winters, some of the other residents prefer and may even require snowy winter seasons. I wonder how they are faring this year.

By J. Ann Eldridge, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

2/01/07