NH Outside: Winter Archives

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

The other day I headed to an orchard in town to hike with my two dogs. They motivate me to get outside, even in questionable weather. It was raining, gray and muddy. The parking area was barely dry enough for me to pull in.

I carefully avoided the deep, soft wheel ruts from nature enthusiasts who couldn't wait a few extra weeks for the ground to dry out, causing them to become mired in the oozing mud. I'd been one of those unlucky ones two years before who'd become entrenched in mud there, escaping only with the aid of a tow truck.

I headed out into the orchard on a familiar path and soon came upon deep, impassable mud. Bypassing the worst, I headed down along the northernmost edge of apple trees up to the main paths. Tiptoeing around huge, foot-deep mud puddles and hopping from one clump of grass to another, I squished and squashed painstakingly, hoping my golden retrievers wouldn't decide to run and roll in the worst of it. Head down, focusing on not sinking deeper than the tops of my boots or toppling over with one false jump, I inched along.

In the midst of my struggle with the mud and worry about the dogs, something caught my eye. To my right I saw a silver shimmer, water droplets hanging from the tree branches, a magical glimmer dotting the bare limbs. As I stared, the sun came out and shot through the droplets, creating a yellow-white halo and splitting the light to launch rainbows into the mist.

The droplets hung on what looked like buds, not just branches. Could these be the first pussy willows of the season in an unexpected place, a place I'd walked many times over the years? Thrilled, I gasped and yelled to my dogs, "You have to be kidding! Those are all pussy-willow trees." How had a pussy-willow nursery established itself so secretly?

I detoured off my route, pushing through prickers and climbing over brush. How could I have missed these pussy willows over the years? Could the apple orchard have been so heavily pruned this past year that it now revealed this patch of young willows? Did another year of life bring new eyes and new appreciation, making me more open to the details of nature surrounding me?

There was always one swampy corner about 20 minutes further along the path that I'd come upon as a spring surprise. I knew if I came during the right few weeks of the spring that I'd find pussy willows. Amazingly, year after year, I was never ready for that turn of the corner and the aha! moment, that jump-for-joy proof of spring.

I love winter and hate giving up snow and snowshoeing. But each year when I see the return of the first pussy willows, I hoot and holler. I keep thinking that pussy-willow moments shouldn't keep causing me to stop in my tracks to breathe in the special sight, but they still do.

My faithful corner of swamp willows is aging. It produces fewer catkins each year; they grow so high in the trees I can no longer cut a few to take home to bring spring into the house. My discovery of the pussy-willow nursery gives me hope. The circle of life has brought young trees to the orchard as the old ones are losing their vitality.

My battle around and through mud brought a gift, a new site (sight) to visit each spring to pull me through my loss of winter. After my dogs and I got back from our hike, I hung up my gaiters to dry and welcomed the muddy paw and boot prints on the kitchen floor, because mud had brought the magic.

Photo credit: Meg Downey Hardy, Some rights reserved.

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Natural Resources Steward volunteer

As I sit in the warmth of what I call my media room listening to a Roger Williams tape of some long-forgotten tunes, my mind flows back over the time six years ago today. I was standing about 50 feet from where I am now sitting, looking at a raw rectangular gash in the ground.

Bill the builder and Bill the man in need of a new house were standing side by side. They had similar agendas. Bill the builder was anxious to get started with this new project, and Bill the man in need of a new home wanted to see swift progress toward completion, because in about 20 days his current residence would have to be handed over to its new owner.

Bill the builder got right to work and the other Bill got busy emptying out the collected detritus of 30-some years, one room at a time.

Everything went swimmingly, and on May 9, 2006, we settled into the home where I'd seen only a dirty gash in the snow less than two months before. Even before Bill the builder handed us the keys at the closing, I got busy in the yard. I took my first trip to the State Forest Nursery in Boscawen in early April.

I secured 25 seedlings, an assortment of bare-root items all looking somewhat alike. Lucky for me, they were in bunches and labeled. I had five each of Norway spruce, crab apple, bayberry, silky dogwood and rugosa rose. And so started a process that has continued to the present.

I didn't realize then that I'd started something that has filled my retired life with a focus that has continued to pull me into the future. I seem to have more vigor than most men my age, because I know what I need to do through the seasons. I have a yard that differs from those in the neighborhood.

Sure, I have a grill and a picnic table with a lawn in the front, but I have focused my attention making my place friendly to the natural inhabitants that I displaced when I moved in and took over this particular acre.

In the front, I have a few decorative plants such as lilac, forsythia, flocks and hostas, but they have to share the space with the likes of bayberry, hawthorn and mountain ash. In the back is where the contrast to other places is most evident. There I've established crab apple, dogwood, elderberry, shadbush, elderberry and many other lesser-known species of native and critter- friendly plants.

I've created a water feature in the form of a waterfall-and-pond combination. Close to the house, I've sited my raised beds for home-grown vegetables and flowers for cutting and decorative beauty. When I need some inspiration, I visit with some other like-minded gardening friends to see what they have been up to since I visited the last time.

I must admit, there are days when I don't have as much vigor as I had at the age of 70 but as I approach 75 this April, I figure I can keep it up for at least another ten years. My new five-year plan will focus on converting more lawn to woody perennials and wildflowers. The final plan will have a 50 ft. x 100 ft. lawn in the front and just enough lawn in the sides and back to maneuver my little tractor and trailer. More raised beds and native species will cover all but my wildflower area over the leach field.

From my back deck I will be able to look over the tops of my little grove of dogwoods and other natives into the woods beyond. In this difficult season before spring arrives I have to content myself with the signs of it coming.

In early March, dressed to the nines in lined bib overalls, arctic boots, ski hat and a pair of snowshoes, I ventured forth with my pruning equipment. This is the best time of the year to get to the higher limbs. Later, I will get to those parts now covered by snow.

I gave all the limbs crossing over each other no choice; one of them had to go and I was the decision-maker as to which of them was cut. I agonized over my grape vines for more than an hour, and I still wasn't satisfied with the results. I am sure those passing by must have wondered what that old coot was doing walking around in circles, but it was the real me doing what I enjoy, and it was refreshing.

Before I went back inside, I found some daffodil shoots on the south side of the house. Spring is definitely on the way!

Photo credit: Bill Dawson (That's Bill pruning shrubs in his yard.)

by Judy Elliott, UNH Cooperative Extension volunteer writer

It's been a splendid winter for snow accumulations everywhere in New Hampshire. While city dwellers groan about the big, ugly piles of frozen brown crystals, out here in the country our landscape is blanketed with several feet of white wonder.

Today my path is hard-packed and noisy as I head out for a quick snowshoe jaunt after lunch to get some fresh air and escape from household duties. Crunch, crunch, crunch is the only sound I hear on an otherwise quiet walk.

Crunching along, I recall that the trail provided more quiet solitude on past adventures because the snow was soft and deep. The only sound I'd hear would be my own breathing when I reached the end of a steady incline.

It's a crisp 20-degree winter day with a real-feel of about 10 degrees due to the wind. The sky is a brilliant shade of periwinkle blue and the sun is making a strong showing.

Lengths of royal-blue grosgrain ribbon hang discreetly from a tree trunk here and a low bush there. I placed them strategically so they'd blend in but also remain visible enough to keep me from venturing off the beaten path.

That roll of ribbon came down through the generations from a woman's clothing store and millinery in Franklin in the early 20th century. Though other family members had wanted to throw out the various materials left over from the hat-making operation, a lot of it was still in good shape, so I kept it, including the roll of grosgrain I rescued and recycled to create my "Blue Ribbon Trail".

I created the trail many years ago because it was close to home and offered easy-to- moderate exercise. Its narrow path winds up hills through densely growing conifers, around mighty oaks and stands of beech trees, and over frozen wetlands. Old boulders from centuries-old stone walls peek through the white terrain, reminding me that the landscape used to be open farmland.

In the past I've invited my husband along to help me identify animal tracks. We'd pass over the imprints of deer, moose, coyote, fox, and squirrels. He often wondered why I was so anxious to have him lead the way, but this blue-ribbon trail guardian knows a great bushwhacker and trailbreaker when she sees one, especially in knee-deep snow.

But frigid temperatures and gale-force winds of the past few weeks have turned my blue-ribbon trail into a hard pathway that rises a few feet above the ground in the woods. The trail is strewn with small branches, pinecones, and a variety of forest debris.

I take advantage of the peace and quiet when I stop to take a break. I lean against a tall granite boundary marker that may have indicated the entrance to a homestead or was a convenient stone post to tie up the family horse.

From my vantage point I marvel at how bright the daylight becomes when the sun reflects on rolling open fields of snow in the distance. The same solar energy warms my face as I enjoy the absence of sound. I treasure these moments as mini-meditations that allow me to connect with the essence of Mother Nature and all that she offers, no matter what the season.

I add speed to my mostly downhill return journey, invigorating my workout with a bit of interval training. The crunching of my steps becomes louder and faster. I watch for distinct landmarks and the discrete blue ribbons that lead me safely to my backyard.

Photo credit: kirybabe. Some rights reserved.

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

Today I witnessed a five-second sight of two boys at the top of a hill in their yard ready to launch down the hill using their scooters as sleds. Their inventiveness, purity, power, and childhood bliss caused an eruption of emotions and memories for me.

First, my mind filtered back to my own three children and the sledding adventures we had as a family. I thought of the dangers our kids had faced, just like the two boys on scooters with no helmets.

Then I was pulled to older memories that came from my young self. Memories of the good winters filled with snow, when no January thaw eroded our fun, our sled courses, and our wondrous outdoor universe.

My family lived on one acre in a neighborhood. Our yard had a hill, the best yard in the neighborhood when winter arrived. We wanted lots of snow, cold, and days off from school.

On that snowy hill, we were engineers, race-car drivers, and daredevils, independent of our parents, in our own world for as many hours as we could eke out of each winter day. We hoped for the rare nights when our parents would allow us to stay out to sled in the dark with just spotlights to illuminate our special world.

We created games and challenges endlessly, many which I don't remember. We purposely created "courses," pouring water on them to make them slick and fast. We tested each other. Who could make it to the end? Who could go even farther and launch over the snowbank into the road?

When we became bored with that adventure, we made other courses. One went straight towards trees, negotiating a swerving curve just before hitting the tree. If you couldn't steer, you had to bail out and give up on being one of the successful ones.

Sometimes for a change, we went over to Joan's hill across the street. But that one was boring, just long and straight and gradual.

I remember the endless wait to get the best sleds. Our flying saucers were duds; they went nowhere slowly. The wooden toboggan was only fun when everyone jumped on one by one in sequence, with the last person responsible for the final push and a running leap to fit onto that last spot in the back. The newest addition, those rolled-up rectangles of plastic, were a struggle and could only be steered by the hands or feet, like the saucers, but worse because you slipped off them so easily.

The classic wooden sleds, Flexible Flyers, were the best. We didn't want to seem too eager to take the old-fashioned sleds. Each family only had one. The oldest ones, the sleds our parents had used, were the best.

Peer justice was at work. Everyone took turns with the slow, spinning pieces of plastic that couldn't make it down the sleek courses we built. No one dared to take two runs in a row on the best sleds. Those had to be shared and everyone knew it.

On the Flexible Flyers we had to choose between sitting up and steering with our feet or running with the sled in our hands, throwing it down, and jumping on stomach-down, hands on the steering wood, feet useless to help once they were on the sled. My husband still talks about launching sleds on his stomach. I still think of how much I preferred sitting up. Something about going head first, face next to the snow as I sped along, made me choose the slightly slower technique.

Sometimes we'd try fitting two to a sled, either both sitting up or (sometimes) both lying down, one on top of the other, knowing that the journey would be short and filled with laughter, as we gained little speed and almost no distance.

As a shy little girl in a family of boisterous sisters, these outdoor adventures affected me the most. The camaraderie of kids against the elements in that self-organized universe of peer justice, childhood power, and autonomy created a magic that still persists.

My sisters don't share my idyllic winter memories and are surprised at my continued enthusiasm for snow and cold. But I feel lucky. Living in New Hampshire I got to sled, my children got to sled, and my grandchildren will get to sled. Memories of my childhood winters dissolve the drudgery of bundling up, plowing the driveway, shoveling the walks, and braving brutal temperatures as I head for the hill.

Photo by kjarrett. Some rights reserved.

By Anne Krantz, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

What a wonderful winter for cross-country skiing! And what a wonderful way to enjoy nature during its rest season, when plants are dormant and animals hibernating.

When it's not too cold, I enjoy dashing outside first thing in the morning to make my "wake-up" loops in the gently undulating back field where I have maintained a nice ski trail.

If it's clear, I can welcome the sun as it begins to peek between the trees. Instantly, its warmth hugs me. As I float over the clouds of snow, sometimes I see a diary of animal tracks left during the night.

The other morning I discovered a line of tracks in the snow that ended at a freshly dug hole that descended down to the frozen ground, a foot below. Obviously, a carnivorous animal had picked up the scent of an underground creature, and dug furiously to catch it. No blood, so I assume the intended victim escaped.

But the sight reminded me that there's no sleeping or hibernating for New Hampshire's two most common underground friends: moles and voles. Amazingly, they stay active all winter.
Moles (the M stands for Meat-eaters) survive by expanding their tunnel network to find grubs and worms. As their food sources dig deeper and deeper into the soil ahead of the descending frost line, so do the moles. Thus they stay below the frost line and avoid digging their own graves.

Voles satisfy their voracious winter appetites by chewing on Vegetable matter. Many gardeners have made the discouraging spring discovery that voles happily dined on favorite tulip and crocus bulbs during the winter. Voles scamper about in runs they make in the insulated space between the snow and soil. When the snow melts, these concave depressions in the grass are a telltale sign of a busy winter.

The don't feast only on underground roots and tubers, either. Voles also can do a lot of damage to newly planted fruit and ornamental trees, by stripping the bark from their lower trunks, buried in a deep blanket of snow.

Thornton Burgess, who wrote charming animal stories for children in the early 1900's, provides the perfect explanation of why a creature, specifically Mr. Miner, would want to live underground. He begins his 1915 Mother West Wind "Why" Stories -- Why Miner the Mole Lives Underground, this way:

Thornton Burgess, who wrote charming animal stories for children in the early 1900's, provides the perfect explanation of why a creature, specifically Mr. Miner, would want to live under ground. He begins Why Miner the Mole Lives Underground (1915) this way: "Striped chipmunk sat staring at a little ridge where the grass was raised up....He knew they were made by Miner the Mole." To learn why Mr. Mole lives this way, he and his friends ask wise old Frog who explains. To escape Mr. Fox and others, Mr. Mole cleverly digs a hole and hides. There it occurs to him that hiding in a smaller side tunnel would provide even better protection. He then discovers that the underground life suits him and he is "perfectly happy and satisfied there, and what is there in life better than to be happy and satisfied?"

These happy and satisfied creatures can drive human creatures crazy, as they are nearly impossible to trap or deter. None of the ridiculous potions and remedies for eliminating moles, from chewing gum (they don't have chewing teeth) to castor oil, work. As this Extension fact sheet bluntly states:

Desperate homeowners and gardeners have tried placing various irritating materials in the runways such as broken glass, razor blades, rose branches, bleach, moth balls, lye, and even human hair. Some have hooked up their car's exhaust system to mole tunnels; others have pumped hundreds of gallons of water into the tunnels. Frightening devices such as mole wheels (spinning daises), vibrating windmills, and whistling bottles have also been tried. Aside from relieving frustrations, home remedy approaches have little value in controlling moles.

Voles (sometimes called "meadow mice") are also tough to control, because their burrows shelter them from both the weather and from predators. But most daunting is their reproductive potential: five litters per year ranging in size from one to 11 young. Females are ready to reproduce in 40 days, with a gestation period of only 21 days. This condensed reproduction cycle makes for exponentially staggering birth rates, because they also reproduce year-round.

All vole species are subject to large population fluctuations; populations generally peak every two to five years, but these cycles aren't predictable. These population shifts may result in densities ranging from a few to several hundred voles per acre.

The serene pleasure of winter is that these annoying critters are truly out of sight and out of mind under winter's beautiful blanket of snow. For a few months we can rest form the never-ending gardener's dilemma; the love/hate relationship with Mother Nature. Some of us actually hate to see winter end!

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

"Nice job, Helen," whispered my husband. I had raised my coffee cup and inadvertently startled three crows we were observing out a kitchen window. As they flew off, I watched carefully and noticed the crow I called Hopalong. Pointing this out to my spouse, he too acknowledged noticing this particular individual as he worked in the yard a week or so before.

Hopalong hopped on one strong foot to find food in our alternately wet, snowy, icy, muddy backyard, and kept his other foot close to his body. Spring was coming in lurches and stutter- steps, and the hopping crow continued to return daily.

A few days later, I watched again as Hopalong and two other crows found much to eat in the combined snow, ice, and mud below one of our birdfeeders. Suddenly, one took off as if to fly away, but instead flew at Hopalong, and they did a split-second barrel roll before the aggressor flew off with Hopalong in pursuit.

What was that about, I wondered? Later, I learned that crows often show their interest in raising a family together in just this manner. Could Hopalong be a Herpalong?

Unfortunately, that was the last I saw of the hopping crow. Summer arrived and crows dropped in fairly often to raid the corn we spread for our flock of chickens, to dig up the newly emerging corn seedlings in the garden rows, and to dig in the muddier spots for grubs to feed their young. Often we heard young crows and their odd yelping attempts to "crow" like their parents. I hoped one of those parents was Hopalong.

One fall evening, as I headed out to close up the chicken coop, dark clouds lowering and raindrops sprinkling from a retreating nor'easter, a murder of crows dropped from the cloud cover and proceeded to fly in tight, back-and-forth formations, in search of a place to roost. It was probably the largest gathering I had ever seen--¬40 to 50 would be no exaggeration.

Crows roost in numbers in the fall and winter. In cold, harsh winters they may migrate short distances south of their summer homes during daylight hours to find shelter and food.

As the crows settled into a nearby well-forested ravine, I noticed that they weren't the only birds arriving in my backyard: tiny red-breasted nuthatches and slate-gray juncos blended in with the grass of our backyard popped up suddenly, only to quickly fly away as daylight waned. If I had come out just a few minutes later, I would never have known how busy the migrant bird traffic had been!
Although my intentions were good, I didn't emerge early enough in the morning to see the crows leave. That must have been a raucous departure.


Not so many days after, I began filling a birdfeeder with black-oil sunflower seeds, a favorite choice of chickadees, nuthatches, and juncos, when I came face to face with another arrival from the north. The first hint I got was a song, musical and trilling, that reminded me of a purple finch, but not quite. I then looked more carefully into the lilac bush that holds the feeder: the chest had a pale pink blush, the beak long and thin, a dark streak through the eye, and finally, a bit of red on the head and tail. The hint of red in the head feathers gave this finch a name: Mr. Red Poll.

As winter has progressed with more and more inches of powdery, fluffy snow, the suet I added to supplement the sunflowers seeds placed in feeders earlier has been a big seller especially among the woodpeckers, downy and hairy. They chatter at me peevishly when their stores get low and wait nearby while I refill their wire suet holders.

Nearby the chickadees call and whistle to remind me to hurry and get out of their way. They want sunflower seeds. NOW! Patiently the goldfinches, nuthatches, white and red-breasted, and the red polls line up nearby to return as soon as I leave. Noisily, the blue jays move in and prowl the ground for dropped seeds and nuggets of suet. Once more, I have had to resort to snowshoes as the snowdrifts become too deep to wade.

As the February sun gets warmer and the evening darkness comes later, I am reminded of Hopalong Crow, and wonder how long it will be before, and if, she will return.

Photo credit:

  by  decodrama visual 

By Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

When I got home from snowshoeing today with my dogs (I'm a dog-care provider), I jotted down notes while the images were fresh on my mind. But, as I sat to type my reflections, I put my notes aside so I could just ooze my observations and insights.

I'd carried my FLIP video camera with me to take videos of my three canine hiking companions, but found myself drawn to images other than the dogs. Over and over again I tried to capture my snowshoe tracks in the foot-deep snow next to the established, packed-down trail I'd made over the last two days. I tried so hard to capture the sparkles in the snow. I need to ask a photographer with experience how an amateur can do that.

I remember that initially I resisted snowshoeing, thinking that it would be too slow and too boring, plodding along wearing awkward contraptions on my feet. I was a downhiller. I liked speed. I loved the views from the tops of mountains out over the countryside. How could plodding along ever compare?

I was wrong. Snowshoeing has become a passion. Last winter when I had just gotten home from major surgery, I put on my snowshoes and walked with ease on packed trails. My surgeon was aghast and forbade me to do any more snowshoeing until my next checkup. So I sat indoors viewing old movies in a recliner for two weeks, waiting anxious and depressed for the go-ahead to get out to my beautiful trails and snow.

Plodding along with no views from mountaintops and no speed grounds me. I find myself in a place of peace. When I step off the packed-down trails to virgin snow, I stop to breathe in the stillness and calm. No longer do I have to hear the scrape and clang of my snowshoes. The quiet enthralls me.

I pause and turn around to catch the sun's warmth and rays. I look up to the brilliant blue sky and pull out my FLIP video to capture its blueness against the evergreens, scanning towards the dead treetops that the herons have long abandoned and the swamp plants and dead tree trunks rising from the drifts of snow.

I continue on across the swamp, packing down a trail for the dogs and me to use. Which way next? Should I continue on around the swamp and head back? Should I cut to shore by the rusty car and head onto the snowmobile-packed trails? Why not climb up the hill and connect with a non-trail that will lead me over shrubs, logs and drifts to the established trail?

I used to trek that self-made trail a few years ago during a snowy, cold winter. Why not do it again? After all, wasn't I celebrating freedom, health and vigor? Wasn't I cherishing what New England offers?

So I ended up in a steep gully in 12 inches of fresh, unpacked snow. I had to work my way around, following instinct and memory of how I used to get through this area. I knew I had to climb over a few downed trees and stay to the right of a pool of water that never froze no matter how cold the winter.

The dogs were bewildered as I switched course a few times to get around or over obstacles. They looked to me for guidance in unfamiliar territory. I knew what I was doing. They didn't. As we approached a packed trail, all three galloped ahead with glee, glad they could prance and play without sinking.

My 10-year-old Golden limped along on three legs. I pulled ice off of her feet and spritzed her four paws with cooking spray to keep the snow and ice buildup from getting worse. She happily trotted away when I was done. I felt thankful that a little first aid solved the problem.

As I got to a trail junction that I hadn't been to in more than a year, I longed to get out onto the ice of a wonderful pond and enjoy the sun and packed snowmobile trails. But there's always a risk that a dog will fall through thin ice and need to be rescued. A rope might save a person, but a dog can't grab a rope to be pulled to safety. I ignored my urge to get down onto the ice.

I gave the dogs a rest from deep snow and stuck to the packed trail for a while. But we needed to get back home, and I preferred to stay off the trails for the trip back. So, I turned off the trodden trail and headed to the swamp area again. The dogs chose to trot alongside on the packed-down path, while I enjoyed my peaceful, quiet steps in new snow. I tried to film the beauty of prints in the snow, and again, to capture the magic of the snow sparkles.

Photo credit: Dogs running in snow, by Meg Downey Hardy

by Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: djprybyl. Some rights reserved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Judy Elliott, Writer

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.

Each fresh coat of snow for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing means 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, and 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 snow off the back. So when I finished, I headed out into the woods. They were so lovely still, and 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. The most recent snowfall, however, had left only a small opening under a dead tree.

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 turned and sanded 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 from 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

Drawing: Pamela Doherty, UNH Cooperative Extension

With the holiday season fast upon us, I am reminded that when I was a child my grandmother would tell me of the German custom of stealing one’s Christmas tree from someone’s property rather than buying one. She said the fun came not just from saving money but also from getting away with mischief.

In New Hampshire, I believe the equivalent of this sport is the hunting and cutting of winterberries. From the highways to the back roads you’ll see fanatic winterberry gatherers – their cars pulled to the side of the road, loppers in hand, chopping branch after branch for holiday decorating.

Before moving to our current property, which boasts a large spread of wild winterberry, I too set out every December to procure a cluster of the precious little beauties. I scouted out sources on town property waiting anxiously for the leaves to fall so I could harvest the season’s crop. I’d fill my holiday planters with a variety of evergreen branches, curly willow, red twig dogwood, and the crowning glory: winterberries.

The winterberry (Ilex verticillata) is a deciduous member of the holly family. It loves wet feet, which is why you’ll see so much of it in our swamps and marshy areas along roads. Native to North America, it grows as far north as Nova Scotia all the way down to Florida and west to Missouri. Despite its preference for moist, low spots, it will also grow in high, dry and even ordinary garden soil. In wetlands it suckers to form a dense spreading thicket, but in the garden it tends to stay compact. As a member of the holly family, its male and female plants cross-pollinate to produce the berries, so if you grow it in your garden you’ll need to plant one of each.

Despite my lust for winterberry (and grandmother’s delight in the German custom), I was always conscientious about not trespassing on private property to cut branches. But my scruples weren't shared by others, as I discovered one day as I pulled out of my driveway: There, by the side of the road was a woman hacking away at my winterberries and stuffing them into her open trunk.

My heart raced. Should I confront her or simply keep driving? Before I knew it I had rolled down my window and, in my sweetest voice, inquired “May I help you?” The woman froze, her back, which faced me, stiffened. She realized she was busted.

Slowly she turned, and I waited to hear her reaction. “Who are you?” she asked indignantly. I explained that I was the property owner. Clearly embarrassed, she stated that she had been cutting these very berries for 20 years. And here, all along I’d thought the birds had beaten me to them. Could winterberry harvesting be grandfathered, I wondered?

“Help yourself, but leave some for me,” I said as I pulled away with a wave.

As the days pass I notice more and more people pulling over to cut the berries. Two women even brought a ladder with them to reach the high branches where the berries were thickest. These ladies are pros, I thought. I had to laugh, but stopped to tell them to be careful, as I was concerned about them falling. I could see the headline now: “Winterberry-Snatcher Sues After Toppling Off Ladder.”

For a gardener, there is no greater joy than getting a plant for free. As New Englanders, we thrive on saving money and bragging to friends about the bargains we find. No wonder we flourish on the thrill of snatching a little winterberry without paying the sometimes-outrageous price at the store.

It’s open season, and upon hearing the story of the berry thieves, a friend suggested I put up a sign, Winterberry for Sale. “That makes you a farmer,” she said, “Who’s going to steal your crop?”

She has a point, but for now I think I’ll share my bounty with the birds and the “hunters.”

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

About 7:30 this morning, I opened the thick, insulating window quilts and discovered a world outside my window filled with sweetness. Overnight, someone had dusted the dark gray roof of the garage with confectioner’s sugar.

The red-green leaves of the raspberry plants had been sprinkled with an icing of frost. And between the branches of the hibiscus shrub, thin strands of spider web were now coated with translucent sparkles. When the sun rose above the rim of eastern trees, it sent shimmers of rainbows to light up the scene.

Along with the sweetness, there was loveliness. Mix sunlight and water together, water in any form, and you have beauty: rays of the sunlight sparkling on a swift flowing stream, the blinding beams of our star reflecting off newly fallen snow, or on this November morning, a touch of sun on the frozen dew.

I know as the sunlight warms the air, the frost will melt, evaporate, and be gone. On the north side of the house, the grass in the building’s shadow will remain tinged with white for a few hours, but as the shadow shifts, the areas newly open to the sun will slowly lose their pale coloration and revert to green again. The frost melts and with it, the magic.

A good meteorological Web site can give us the factors that cause frost to form. Think of that interesting stone sculpture you have in your garden. As its surface cools overnight, it can become colder than the dewpoint of the air around it. (Dewpoint is the temperature at which the water vapor in the air will begin to return to a solid or liquid state.) If the surface temperature continues to drop below freezing, then vapor in the surrounding air condenses and forms frost on the colder surface. So: cold air, colder surface, moisture in the air, and you have the ingredients for frost.

Have you ever noticed the windshield of your car often is covered with frost but the nearby grass isn’t? Glass, metal and rocks lose their heat more quickly than vegetation does. So, your car’s windows will condense that moisture in the air first. This is also the reason some areas of the ground will frost up sooner than others. Sand, for instance, retains less heat than other types of soil, so frost will form first in sandy areas and only later in clay soils.

Long after the frost melted away today, I opened the big freezer in the basement to take out some blueberries for tomorrow’s breakfast. I noticed a layer of frost on the walls of the freezer and wondered why it had formed there. A little research gave me the answer.

The temperature in the freezer is kept at zero degrees, but the food I put into it is considerably warmer. The heat given off by the food combines with the cold air in the freezer to cause moisture to circulate. When that moisture touches the cold walls, it condenses and forms frost. Unfortunately, in my freezer, no morning sun comes along to melt that frost.

Some day when I’ve removed and eaten all the summer produce-the blueberries picked and cleaned, the beans cut and bagged, the tomatoes pureed and sauced-I’ll decide the few packages left will fit into a couple coolers and I’ll go to work to remove the frost. Until then, the frost will stay.

Meanwhile, on these cold fall mornings we wake to find that, overnight, nature has scattered emeralds on the grass and diamonds on the roof. The child in me dreams of winged fairies dancing madly in the cold night air, shedding sequins off their dresses to adorn the dangling brown leaves still clinging to the oaks. Everywhere the little creatures’ tiny feet touch, a drop of frost forms. They play hide and seek among the leaves of the raspberry canes and from their giggling breaths the frost emerges. My yard is their playground and the night is their time to come out of hiding to romp through the garden.

We need science to help us to understand the world around us, to explain how things work and why things are the way they are. Without science, we couldn’t create electricity, travel long distances, or understand the past.

Yet sometimes scientific explanations leave us cold. Surely my fanciful interpretation of why we have frost on cold fall mornings is much more satisfying than dewpoints and condensation. Don’t you agree?

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

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  

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"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