NH Outside: Trees Archives

I picked up some leaves on my morning walk through the woods. One is an oak leaf, its vein a brilliant red amid the curled and mottled green. Two others are a maple turned yellow-orange and a pale-lemon-colored, oval leaf with pointed edges.

The change of leaves from green to gold, crimson and bronze is a miraculous yearly happening. In New Hampshire, where the colorscape is renowned for its beauty and draws tourists from all over the world, “leaf peepers” bring money to our state. To me, though, the value of the leaves is in the looking and smelling and appreciating the wonder of it all.

I recently returned to New Hampshire, my native state, after four decades of living elsewhere. No matter where I lived, I always had moments in September or October where I thought about fall back home. People I’ve met in those elsewhere places, who remembered I was from “up there in New England,” would remark knowingly to me about the beauty of fall in Vermont. Yes, fall is pretty in Vermont, I’d say, but I’m from New Hampshire and our trees are just as good-looking as those next door.

There are times when I stop and take in the magnificence of a scene. The swath of rubies, goldenrods, coppers and mahoganies blending with pointy green firs and stands of white birches against a radiant cerulean sky sometimes looks too surreal to be true, but I know it is. I imprint the panorama, because within a week or so after peak season, a rain storm or big blow will scatter those jewels to the ground where they quickly turn brown.

I walk along paths strewn in places with pine needles as thick as sponges underfoot. I see spring ferns that popped up along the sides of the trail and have now turned lime or rusty brown. The heavy summer rains this year spawned many mushrooms, which add to the wide-ranging flora layering the forest floor. Tranquil ponds along the way mirror the kaleidoscope of color and sky. Boulders, their rough surfaces covered in patches of velvety green moss, stand like sentinels watching the land. There’s a pleasant, decaying, earthy smell in the air. Most glorious of all: the canopy of red, orange and yellow I hike beneath.

I’ve read that leaf-color changes begin as deciduous trees sense the shortening days and longer nights. They stop making carbohydrate to feed themselves, and the chlorophyll breaks down, revealing the yellow and orange pigments that were always present in the leaves, but masked by green during the growing season. Bright light and sugars trapped in the leaves produce other pigments that dominate the fall color in many tree species.

I don’t know the names of all the trees whose leaves I picked up, but a Web site declares there are 70 native trees found growing wild in our state, and a state forestry report estimated four billion trees larger than an inch in diameter statewide. So many types, some rare, it often takes a tree expert to identify some of the trees that live here.

There are as many leaf shapes as tree species. Leaves are defined as simple (leaves with one leaflet per stem), or compound (many leaflets per stem). Leaf shapes are given names such as ovate, lanceolate, heart-shaped, and cordate and names such as entire, lobed, serrate, and crenate, to their margins (edges). Botanists say trees evolved their many leaf shapes to capture adequate sunlight and carbon dioxide for photosynthesis, to prevent overheating, and prevent excessive water loss.

An article in the Nashua Telegraph estimated that 608 billion colorful leaves fall in our state each year. Many homeowners grouse about all those falling leaves. They see red when they imagine themselves raking and bagging for weeks.

But what proves irritating to some is a rich food source for Mother Earth. As they decay, fallen leaves release nitrogen and minerals such as potassium, calcium, iron, manganese, iron, sodium and zinc to nourish and renew the forest for another growing season. Decaying leaves provide fodder for the lady slippers, wild calla, goldenrod, bittersweet and other woodland plants I see along trail edges early in the year. Smart homeowners mow, mulch and/or compost the leaves to use in flower beds and vegetable gardens.

Like a well-tended garden, my soul is enriched by autumn’s glory. I am reminded fall doesn’t spell the waning of another year, but signals the magic renewal of life itself.

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

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

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

Well, crocuses, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

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

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

By Carol White, Master Gardener

Seeing a “new” bird or animal is an unexpected thrill. We have enjoyed two new bird sightings already this summer.

The first sighting happened recently in Franconia, when an unusual mewing sound caught our attention. The mewing turned out to be birds!

A woodpecker like bird was scampering up and down a white birch tree next to the high deck, just six feet away. Its coloring differed from that of hairy or downy woodpeckers. A quick check in our bird book confirmed we were observing a yellow bellied sapsucker, a member of the woodpecker family.

The sapsucker was industriously drilling rows of holes to get the sweet birch sap. Later we saw several more drilling away. These two had no red markings on their heads and speckled buff breasts the markings of juveniles. They had already learned to drill for food and were happily sucking out the birch sap.

Next we noticed bees flying about. They were obviously attracted to the sweet sap, too. And could it be? Yes, a humming bird! What a fabulous example of the interdependence of the flora and fauna of nature a little ecosystem right in front of our eyes, like a TV screen, but real. Watching this intertwined ecosystem reminded me of a favorite paperback book, Forest and Thicket, Trees, Shrubs and Wildflowers of Eastern North America, by John Eastman, with beautiful drawings by Amelia Hansen. Eastman not only describes a tree or plant, but gives its “lifestyle.” For white birch he notes that it “does not thrive where average July temperatures exceed 70 degrees Fahrenheit.” He also relates fascinating information about each plant’s “associates” and “lore.”

Eastman confirmed our amazing sighting in his chapter about white birch trees: “[A] pitted area of holes drilled in regular horizontal rows, usually fairly high on the tree, indicates the feeding site of the yellow bellied sapsucker. After drilling the holes, the sapsucker returns at intervals to lick up the exuded sap and any insects attracted to the flow. The ruby throated hummingbird is a secondary feeder. Though not the only tree ‘tapped’ by sapsuckers, white birch is a favorite.” I was curious to know more about sapsuckers. I discovered they breed north of the Nashua Manchester line here in New Hampshire. They like to nest in second growth woods.

White birch and aspen are tree species that sprout first in a cut forest, because they thrive in full sun. Sapsuckers like these pioneer tree species, but they need the older trees that are beginning to decline and have rotten centers. They excavate or dig out the punky centers for hidden and well protected nest sites. Obviously pecking holes in trees is the woodpecker’s unique adaptation. Woodpeckers may use the same tree for several years, but they excavate new nest cavities each year. They usually rear a clutch of five or six, incubating the eggs for 12 to 13 days and nesting for 24 and 26 days. In addition to sucking sap, they eat inner bark, insects, and fruits and berries. Our second “new” bird nested in the shrubbery next to our house in Amherst. Wood thrushes made a nest at the top of an overgrown lilac under our bedroom window.

We were alerted to the nesting activity by the lovely, flute like song of the thrushes. They started singing at sunrise, giving us a melodious alarm clock for a week or so. Then they moved on to other behavior that didn’t require singing perhaps incubation is quiet time.

Soon there were babies in the nest I could barely see by peeking through the dense cover of leaves. With the continuous rain this summer, the roof of leaves proved strategic. In early July we finally had a sunny Saturday. Not only were baby swallows fledging from their nest in the box in the garden, but we also heard lots of commotion near the thrush nest. A baby thrush was perched on a branch near the nest making a loud racket. Mother thrush paid no attention to the little ball of fluff, which eventually figured out how to flap its wings in the damp air. I didn’t pay enough attention either. Soon it was gone along with its mother, and the nest was empty.

I’ve just learned that bird nests next to houses are a bad idea because of bird mites. The life cycle of the mites coincides with the nesting schedule, and the mite population can explode just as the birds leave. With the birds gone, the mites can invade a home and bite humans to test them as potential hosts.

So I will cut back my lilac tree to shrub size to eliminate the perfect nesting site. The thrushes will find another location nearby, although maybe not so perfect for bird watching.

By Anne Krantz, Master Gardener and Tree Steward

Early spring is a great time to take a good look at bark before the trees leaf out. The bark of each variety of shrub and tree is different in texture and color, and changes as the tree grows.

I started noticing bark after a field trip and presentation I attended a couple of years ago given by Tom Wessels, a professor of ecology at Antioch New England and author of Reading the Forested Landscape.

The bark of paper birch is one of my favorites. You’ll find this tree growing way up north in the coldest of temperatures­it can survive to minus 40 degrees F. Of course, its white color allows it to stand out in any clump of trees, but Wessels told us the bark also allows the tree to thrive where other trees might not survive.

First, the white bark allows the tree to reflect winter sunlight. If it couldn’t, the low winter sun, even in January, might heat up the inside of the tree, causing it to expand; then, as the sun sets, the bark would contract faster than wood underneath and split.

Wessels told us the paper birch developed the ability to peel off in those gorgeous layers to discourage the growth of epiphytes (plants that grow on other plants without harming them,) which could expand and darken the bark. Underneath the exfoliating layers, new white bark grows, keeping the tree safe from winter sun.

The oily birch bark also acts as a vapor barrier, keeping water inside the tree during the cold, dry months. Native Americans of the Northeast knew that and used the bark to build canoes, baskets, and watertight boxes.

So how do other trees survive cold winters if they don’t have white bark? Take a good look at a mature oak or a black cherry. The rough, ridged bark of the oak and the scales of the cherry bark act like fins that dissipate heat into the surrounding air rather than conduct it to the wood beneath.

Another bark that offers great winter interest belongs to the Common Ninebark (Physocarpus opulifolius), a shrub native to New Hampshire. Its common name gives you a clue as to why it’s such an interesting plant to have in your garden. The bark exfoliates, layer after layer, peeling off great long strips of pale orange brown bark. Beneath them, you can see the newer layers, which are lighter in color. When I feel that nothing is happening in the winter garden, I trudge over to the Ninebarks and enjoy the texture of their stems, noting the marks where bark has loosened itself to flutter in light breezes.

In the swamp near our home, there are many dead trees, killed by the rising waters behind beaver dams. It’s easy to tell the hemlocks. Hemlocks, pines and spruces all rot from the outside in, but the hemlock retains its bark around the rotting trunk. If I find a tree with just the bark still in place and not much else, I know it was a hemlock. Of course, enough time must have elapsed for the wood to rot away. Wessels said he’s seen hemlocks 35, maybe even 50 years dead.

As bark leaves a dead tree, what’s left behind is fascinating to look at. It’s easy to find where a limb broke off years ago and was then covered with new growth. The tunnels made by wood- eating insects meander up and around. Often you can find large bore holes, rectangular and wide at the surface and narrowing down as they go in. These were made by woodpeckers, removing dead material to get to the insects living inside.

The dead trees that still have bark often have wonderful epiphytes growing on them, curly white and gray-green lichen, crawling up the sides and spreading out like a slowly widening pool of water or looking as if someone had thrown paint onto the trunks.

Many dead branches have strands of plant material that twist in the breeze. At a distance, the trees still look alive with their coating of pale green. It’s only when you get close you notice the lack of leaves, the gaping holes, the slightly peeling bark. Near the base, I’ll often find lovely, soft moss crawling up the trunk. In season, small stalks with little rounded tips appear. The moss works its way into the crevices of the rough bark and I love to run my hand over the smooth surface.

Like our own skin, the bark covers the tree and protects it. When a nick is made in the bark, the tree works to repair the opening, growing from the sides over the wound. In a few years, the gash is covered once more. The bark is whole again and the tree continues its quest for the sky.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Actually, on any given day that's clear and not too adverse weather-wise, you can find an ideal place to take a walk. Seniors, including me, may get cabin fever during the winter months and cast about for something else to do besides card games and daytime television.

The Franklin Falls Dam is just a couple of miles from my house. So, on with the boots, coat, caps and gloves and off to the dam I go.

Here, the Army Corps of Engineers has provided the citizens of New Hampshire with an ideal multipurpose, year-round recreational facility, which draws dog-walkers, parents with small children, hikers, snowshoers, cross-county skiers, runners, mountain bikers, hunters­and in other parts of the Franklin Falls Reservoir, canoers, kayakers and fishermen.

The gate to the facility is open during most week days. As you arrive at the kiosk adjacent to the parking lot and want to know more, pick one of three brochures to peruse while you take your walk on a paved road that gently takes you to the dam.

As you stroll along, you pass a nice restroom facility on the right. Further along on the left you pass the ranger station that is staffed during the day. It houses the rangers' office and has a phone you can call on your cell phone if you have an emergency while visiting. The number is printed on all their brochures. They respond quickly and expertly when asked to do so, but otherwise remain discretely out of sight.

These rangers are an example of your tax dollars well spent. They not only keep watch on their facility, they provide educational programs to local schoolchildren and homeschoolers and host a variety of events throughout the year.

Past the ranger station, the road turns slightly left and goes down a gentle slope. Both sides of the road are lined with groves of evergreen trees planted several decades ago, which provide cooling shade in summer for folks who want to sit awhile on one of several picnic benches tucked under the trees.

For those who like to gather in groups, there is a pavilion that can be reserved for an afternoon gathering. There's also a playground for the children. I move on down the drive to a small sign that reads, "Piney Point." Just past the sign is another small parking area for those who don't have the energy to do the whole two miles of road. As I pass the parking area, an impressive vista opens.

The dam is about 200 hundred feet above the Pemigewasset River. Looking across the dam along the road that extends to the edge of the spillway on the west side, I can see the traffic along Route 3. To the left is a view of Piney Point as the birds see it. To the right is the so-called impoundment area. Unless there is a serious threat of downstream flooding, this is a prime recreational area. The Corps has built roads designed for their service vehicles that walkers can use.

The stroll along the top of the dam ends at still another parking area. A gazebo, complete with picnic table and benches, is perched on a flat expanse with a view of the river flowing from under the dam on one side and Piney Point on the other. There I have the feeling that I’m far from the cares of the world and daytime television. Only the walk back stands between me and the rest of the world, but it seems just far enough to change my feeling of being trapped by four walls and stale air.

I head to Piney Point­the trail for people who want a real hike. The trail down to the point provides the greatest challenge, dropping away from the road rather sharply through broken hardwoods and brush for a little less than a quarter of a mile.

Once at the base of the dam, I traverse to the point where the trail begins a loop through the woods on the point. It meanders along the shore of the flowing river until I reach the point and then reverses direction and proceeds along the back water section of the area.

The whole trip from the edge of the road and back is a little over a mile. (There are cutoff connectors for those who don't want to do the whole loop.) Wear your hiking boots for this trip, bring a walking stick and be prepared for a workout.

Of course, Piney Point and the dam walk are just a small part of the entire system associated with the trails, woods, and waters of Franklin Falls Reservoir. A mountain-bike trail map is available online-and of course, all the bike trails are also available to hikers. This map is just for the east side of the compound accessed by Route 127.

One of my favorite areas on the west side­quite a distance up the river, in the area between the towns of Hill and Bristol­is the Profile Falls Recreation Area, a real gem for those of us who like to fish and canoe or kayak.

You access the area off Route 3A about two miles north of Hill. Just beyond the bridge that crosses the Smith River, you make a left onto the road that leads to the parking area for the facility. I won't spoil the surprise of this little gem, beyond saying you won't be disappointed!

Editor's note: click here to learn more about Franklin Falls Dam.

By Bill Dawson, Tree Steward

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 thermometer read 24, no wind whispered, and I stood on the driveway inhaling that fine autumn air. The sky, as blue as a kid’s crayon, shimmered as the sun climbed over the ridge to warm our valley. With maple leaves having already dropped, copper and gold blinded me with their fluorescence. A gorgeous autumn morning.

So quiet, so still, and then I heard it: fall. Fall, the verb.

Warmth from the sun had finally reached the treetops behind our home, melting the frost and knocking the final bits of stubbornness from the leaves. They fluttered and cascaded to the forest floor, scratching branches along the way, swooshing a bit in an unfelt air current. With no other sound to compete, they cluttered and clanked, sounding almost as metallic as they looked.

A blue jay squawked, perhaps alerting the others that summer’s camouflage would soon no longer protect them. Perhaps the jay complained about the first deep, deep frost. Perhaps it called an early morning greeting, to wake up the rest of the flock.

Nevertheless, in a week or two, the trees will be bare of this vibrant splendor and we will enter the second phase of autumn: Stick Season. Lovely for its austere elbows and knees of silver and pewter, Stick Season allows us to peer deeper into the woods, watching wildlife meander through the underbrush.

We watch as boulders appear: big, granite, glacial erratics that we haven’t seen since last winter. We welcome them back, though, obviously, they've been sitting there year-round for thousands of years. With each new layer of fall leaves slowly decomposing, the soil around them gets richer each year. Little critters burrow into that soft, matted fluff, hiding seeds and making well-insulated nests.

Perhaps the weathered boulders shift a bit, or crack apart through the freeze-and-thaw cycles during the year, but for the most part they stay put. Some of these boulders, at least the parts we can see, are much bigger than our cars. We are happy to have them remain where they are.

We admire gravity, keeping all that rock in place, and we dodge gravity as our big old oak trees release their acorns. It’s a hard-hat zone near our wood-yard. We hear those plump, nut-nuggets pummel and ricochet off the wheelbarrow, the log-pile covers, and the car if we've forgotten to move it from the ambush. Sometimes, for only for a second or two, we mistake those gray, lichen- and moss-covered boulders for visiting wildlife. Once we debated the bizarre winter arrival of a 36-inch-long rock under our bird feeder. That bobcat quickly decimated the gray squirrel population that frequents our winter-only bird feeders.

Soon, the white stuff will fall. It will cover those fallen leaves and highlight the boulders. Snow will allow us to see the animal tracks of those that live and forage in the forest behind us.

Some beech and oak leaves will cling all winter to the branches. The sun bleaches them of color and they’ll flutter in unseen breezes making a racket of white noise. Finally, they’ll either slowly tatter to pieces or drop when spring’s new buds push their stubborn selves off the branch.

The morning was really waking up now, the sun higher in that cyan sky. Suddenly I heard it dripping, then raining: Ping, ping, ping. How could that be, without a cloud in the sky?

I puzzled for only a second, then grinned and turned to our house. The sun had finally hit the metal roof. The white layer of frost had melted off the edges and dripped to the next roof. Plunk, plunk, plunk.

The frost shower only lasted a minute or two, and I thought of the fleeting moments of life that we so often miss. Find your minute of wonder. Listen to the leaves fall or the frost melt and drip. Inhale that crisp air in the morning or the sensuous deep funk of decaying leaves in the late afternoon. Embrace that tapestry of color by jumping into the leaf pile you just raked. Or crush one of those leaves in your hand and inhale its fragrance. Soon, it will be gone for another year.

By Laura Richardson, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?” I whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Lynn Quinlan, Volunteer

We needed to remeasure the incredible shrinking tree. Last fall, our team of measurers from Hillsborough County went out to measure our national champion sweet birch (called black birch around here). The circumference measurement they submitted was smaller than when the tree was measured in 1988. How could that happen? We had to find out. American Forests, keeper of the National Big Tree List, tries to update its list every 10 years.

I had just taken over the volunteer position of N.H. Big Tree Coordinator. One beautiful day in early spring, Mary Jane Sheldon, who maintains our database, my husband Gordon, and I set out to find the tree. After a sandwich and some map consulting at the New Boston general store, we ended up having to ask some kids where to find the road that would take us to the big black birch.

We stopped at the address given in our records and were met by a lovely woman who came to investigate the commotion caused by her dog’s greeting our team. She directed us to a far corner of her field and told us the tree we were looking for was just inside the woods.

So off across the field we went with our bag of tools: a 100-foot tape measure, the clinometer we use to measure the height of the tree, and the GPS (global positioning system). Trying to find the same tree again after 10 or more years can be difficult. Landmarks change, owners move, phone numbers and addresses get changed. We hoped that GPS coordinates will help solve that problem in the future.

Toward the end of the field we scanned the tree line and saw nothing spectacular. But as soon as we stepped inside the woods and looked to the right as instructed, there it was!

As a novice, I find it difficult to identify the species of big trees because most of the parts used to do it­the leaves, twigs, and buds­are 50 to 100 feet above my head. I was explaining this to UNH Cooperative Extension Forest Resources Educator Phil Auger while taking his Tree Identification workshop, foolishly mentioning that the bark looks the same on all species of big trees. He smiled and said, “That's like telling me the Beetles sound just like Beethoven!”

But this time we knew we’d found our champion birch without needing those identifying clues. It was the biggest tree around. It must have been growing on that stone wall for hundreds of years.

The stone wall turned out to be one of the problems. The tree straddled it. The Big Tree rules specify taking the “circumference at breast height” at about four and a half  feet. “Breast height” was a foot higher on the other side of the tree.

We immediately saw another problem. Picture the trunk of a tree as a human body. The roots are the legs. Where they start to flare out from the trunk is like the hips flaring out from the waist. Then think of a long waist up to where the arms or branches leave the body. This particular tree had normal legs and arms, but it also had two breasts, one in front, one in back!

The two bulges were right where the tape measure should go around. This meant we had to find a spot on the trunk under the bulges and above the root flare. Doing this, we measured 165 inches. Eeeek! Even smaller than the measurement done in the fall. Moving the tape up to include part of the bumps, we got the same 170-inch measurement as the fall team. But the original 182-inch measurement remains a mystery.

Would the smaller measurement eliminate this New Hampshire tree from the National Register? No matter, I had to send the current accurate measurement to American Forests. Months passed before we heard the status of our latest measurement. Finally, in July I got an email stating that the tree is still the largest specimen of its kind in the nation.

The new roster from National Forests will come out in 2008. The Granite State has two other champs and two pending. You can check out the New Hampshire list of Big Trees at www.nhbigtrees.org. Information on the national program is available at www.americanforests.org.

If you know of a big tree, put a tape around it at breast height (watch out for those bumps), and check out our website. If your measurement comes close to the circumference of the current Big Tree of that species, email me at carolyn_page@hotmail.com. P.S. If there is no listing for your county, your tree is an automatic champ!

By Carolyn Enz Page, Community Tree Steward
UNH Cooperative Extension

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

There used to be a magnificent, stately pine tree in front of our house. It was tall and straight with symmetrical branches gracefully spreading across the stone wall. The house faces south and the tree was a feature of the view from our dining table, across the pasture to the hills beyond.

Last winter we had it taken down. It took several years for us to come to that decision, and still I sometimes miss the big pine. In summer it provided shade; in winter it was a welcome splotch of green in a gray-brown or white world. But in winter it blocked the warmth of the low winter sun. When the sun passed behind the tree, in mid-day, the chill in my house was palpable, and by the time the sun had moved west beyond the influence of the tree, it was too late in the afternoon for the weak December sun to warm us.

When spring arrived, flowers under the tree struggled pathetically—an azalea, daffodils, a mountain ash, a couple of rhododendrons. None could thrive, so overwhelming was the tree’s influence on all in its shadow.

We built our house 40 years ago. The pines were waist high, entangled in a jungle of juniper in the overgrown orchard. We pulled up the juniper and cut some of the pines, but those that were left grew—and grew. At last their presence dominated the area.

Without regret we had our logger cut several scraggly specimens behind the house, although they had provided some brake on the cold northwesterly winds. Once, the logger miscalculated the fall of a monster and it took with it two smaller trees that held a swing our small grandsons loved. It was our delight to watch from the kitchen window while their dad pushed them.

But back to the big, perfect tree. What of the decision to remove so great a presence? Eventually it would have matured and, like all living things, returned to mother earth in its own good time. Meanwhile, it served to dim the light and warmth of the sun and discourage new growth where it cast its shadow. We chose to intervene in nature’s course.

All this from the demise of a single tree, which blocked the sun and dominated its surroundings. So it seems that anything so overpowering must, sooner or later, give way to allow others to grow and flourish. This spring I watch as newly released shrubs lift their heads. Gradually, over several seasons, they too will thrive. Will one of them become too overwhelming and have to go in order to allow others to flourish? We shall see.

There is a lesson in this: living things do grow. Eventually it is necessary to let go of something admired, even revered, in order that new life may emerge. Clinging to a dominating presence too long stifles that which struggles to come after. Sometimes we can take a hand in the process. But eventually the natural world will do it for us, regardless of our preference.

By Carolyn Baldwin, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

Birch trees beautify our landscapes while providing food and shelter for wildlife. We use birch wood for a variety of products, from furniture, flooring, and fuel, to toys, kitchen utensils, and Popsicle sticks.

Birch trees offer another valuable resource that remains untapped here in the Northeast—their sap. The sap that flows up through birch trees in early spring is as sweet and tasty as maple sap. Europeans are bottling birch sap, Alaskans are producing syrup from it, and one New Hampshire Master Gardener is making beer.

There are plenty of birches scattered throughout New England, so why aren’t more enterprising Yankees tapping their birches? Hillsborough County Cooperative Extension forester Jon Nute told me he thinks it’s tradition. Sugar maples are plentiful. We’ve established a nice niche in the maple industry. Birch syrup might be a tough sell. Perhaps all we need is a little education.

Making birch syrup has emerged as a cottage industry in Alaska, which has no sugar maples, but plenty of birches. Alaska is also full of adventurers willing to try something new. Within the last decade, a handful of hearty souls have developed a commercial operation that’s producing 1000 to 1500 gallons of birch syrup annually, marketed as a unique Alaskan delicacy.

Tapping birch trees is much like tapping maple, but the similarity between the two ends there. The biggest reason New Englanders may be less than enthused about producing birch syrup may lie in the fact that the actual sugar content of birch sap is about a third that of maple. To make one gallon of birch syrup you need around a hundred gallons of sap, while maple syrup requires only forty.

Ninety-nine gallons of water is a formidable amount to extract to get a single gallon of birch syrup. Boiling works, but it takes a lot of time and fuel. Dulce Ben-East, one of the early Alaska birch sap entrepreneurs, told me reverse osmosis technology works best, but the equipment is expensive—another drawback for thrifty Yankees.

The typical birch season doesn’t last long, either. Birch sap tends to spoil more quickly than maple, so rising daytime temperatures may necessitate more frequent sap collection from buckets. Plus, as soon as those buds begin to break, birch sap gets cloudy, the flavor deteriorates, and the season is over.

For all this trouble, you must be wondering, “Why bother?” The obvious answer would be taste: Describing birch syrup, Ms. Ben-East says, “The flavor is deep and velvety, caramel-like; somewhat richer to me than maple and not quite as cloyingly sweet.

Curious New Englanders might choose the path New Hampshire Master Gardener Diana P. has taken, which requires far less sap and minimal effort. Diana has a keen interest in edible plants and medicinal herbs and takes advantage of any opportunity to learn more.

After attending an herb conference workshop on healing beers, she decided to make some using birch sap. Using Stephen Harrod Buhner’s book Sacred Herbal Healing Beers for her recipes, Diana tapped a couple of the birches on her property: one golden and one white. She gathered about two-and-a-half gallons of sap, which she boiled for an hour, for no other reason than to kill bacteria.

Diana added honey, allowed the liquid to cool, added yeast and nutrients, and waited for the mixture to ferment. After a couple of weeks, she bottled her brew and waited a few more weeks. She pronounced her results delicious, and says the beer got even better with age.

Any variety of birch can be tapped for its sap, although golden and black birches have a more distinct “wintergreen” flavor. Using the rule of thumb for tapping maples, tap birches that are at least 10 inches in diameter, adding additional taps for each five inches of girth—though you’ll be hard-pressed to find many birches that size in our region.

For more information about birch trees and the birch syrup industry, tap the resources of the Internet. The University of Alaska in Fairbanks has an especially useful eight-page publication titled, Birch: White gold in the boreal forest, which offers recipes for birch root beer, malt beer, and wine, as well as an extensive section of tips for making birch syrup, including a best practices fact sheet.

For the fascinating story of an entrepreneurial young Alaskan couple’s venture into birch syrup production (and more), visit the Kahiltna Birchworks Web site <alaskabirchsyrup.com>.

By Jackie Bower, 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

The ancient Egyptians, Romans, and Celts brought evergreens into their homes at the winter solstice as symbols of life’s enduring triumph over death. In the late Middle Ages, Germans and Scandinavians brought evergreen trees into their homes or set them outside their doors to represent the hope of new life in the coming spring.

Our modern Christmas tree has evolved from these earlier traditions to become a dominant symbol of our winter holiday season. It provides more than symbolism. The Christmas tree trade earns more than $6 million annually for New Hampshire growers.

Decorated and lighted, a Christmas tree engages not only our senses of sight, touch, and smell, but also our sense of tradition, hope, and goodwill. But once this festive season has passed, what will become of your Christmas tree? Consider one of these recycling options:

• Use your tree to create a natural bird feeder. Place the tree in a corner of your deck or in the yard and hang orange slices, balls of suet and seed from the boughs. Rolling pine cones in peanut butter, then in bird seed, can provide a wonderful activity for children and adults. Suspended on wires from the tree branches, the pine cones will provide food throughout the winter months for birds of all types. The dense boughs also create a protective covering that will reduce the wind chill on cold winter nights and provide an escape when nearby hawks or cats threaten.
  
  
• If your tree is adorned with UL-approved outdoor lights, leave them on the tree and place it in the yard for all to enjoy.
  
  
• Clip off the branches and use them to add extra insulation around plants that should remain dormant all winter, such as a semi-hardy perennial or any recently planted tree or shrub. Leave the boughs in place until spring arrives, then cut them into small pieces and add them to your compost pile.
  
  
• You could use the trunk as a garden stake next spring or cut it into lengths and let it dry for use as firewood. If you do decide to burn it, be aware that fir, spruce, pine, and other evergreen species burn hot and fast, and the resin will bubble and pop as the wood burns.
  
  
• Place the tree on its side in a woodsy area to serve as a hiding place for rabbits, moles, and other small animals. Place the tree where any wildlife encouraged to take up residence won’t become pests later.
  
  
  
• Feeding branches of your tree through a wood chipper will produce a nice, organic mulch to use around trees and shrubs or to mark trails and pathways. We commonly hear the question: “Isn’t pine mulch toxic to plants?” The answer: No, but you should prepare and use it carefully. Let fresh chips age for at least three months, and spread them around older, well-established trees and shrubs that won’t be sensitive to the nitrogen-depletion that can occur as the microorganisms that help decompose the chips temporarily tie up available soil nitrogen.
  
  
• Christmas trees can make effective sand and soil erosion barriers, especially on beaches and along riverbeds. Sunk into private ponds, evergreen trees can also provide substrate for water plants to grow on, and provide cover for minnows and other small aquatic creatures. Make to get permission from the pond owner to before you sink a tree. How do you sink a tree safely? When the ice has thawed, tie the trunk to a cinder block with a short, stout rope, and toss it in. You may want to mark the location with a bleach-bottle buoy attached to the tree with twine, so you will know where the fish are next summer.
  
  
• Strip the needles from the branches of the tree and use them to stuff a sachet to freshen your pillowcases, drawers, or bathroom.
  
  
• Make a Christmas-scented potpourri by mixing equal amounts of balsam or pine needles, bayberry leaves, and tiny pinecones with orrisroot, a fixative that absorbs the scent. The scent of the season will prevail for many weeks. As a rule of thumb, add two tablespoons of orrisroot to every five or six cups of dried materials. A few drops of pine-scented oil will give the potpourri an even more fragrant scent. You can find orrisroot and scented oils at herbal shops, craft stores, and many pharmacies.
  
  
• Many New Hampshire communities recycle Christmas trees. Check with local officials to see if your town does.

Whatever way you choose to recycle this year’s Christmas tree, you’ll cut waste, exercise your creativity, and establish a “re-gifting” tradition that brings closure to the winter holiday season.

By Rachel Maccini, Coordinator, Family, Home & Garden Education Center, UNH Cooperative Extension

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.

The branches of deciduous trees have so many different patterns to display when they no longer wear their foliage wraps. Lying on the forest floor on a warm November day allows me to see all that lies between me and the sky after the leaves have fallen or blown away.

The autumn sun reflects off of smooth, young bark in a way I see only at moments such as these. The conifers stand resolute, and remind me that green always returns. Ahh! I pause and drink in blue sky, billowy clouds, fresh air and sunshine that still warms the ground beneath the trees.

Soon these will change too, replaced with autumn’s cold rains, sleet, and even snow, next up in nature’s unending march through the seasons. I try to get up to my viewing spot twice each fall, first when the maples glow with vivid orange and red, then again when all of the leaves have vanished. Magic moments.

Last summer, I had the good fortune to rise early one morning after a night of rain and see a flock of 10 turkeys just outside my bedroom window. Sitting on a large boulder drying themselves in the sun, they spread their wings in mock flight as the steam rose from their feathered forms. The feeling of seeing something that others might never enjoy made me want to share it even more. So I woke my husband who, at that early hour, resisted the moment. One person’s magic.

Not all magic moments happen in sunlight. On a cool, gray Labor Day morning, my grandson Liam and I headed across the highway to open up the chicken coop. Liam commented, with the wide-eyed ingenuousness of an 8-year old, “Look Nana, the clouds look like they’re stitched to the top of the mountain. It’s Grandma Nature’s quilt!” he added, tongue-in-cheek. Liam had captured the picture in words perfectly. The mountain we and everyone in this community lives or drives within sight of, looked like a well-loved appliquéd quilt. Shared magic.

One day in late winter, as I tramped on snowshoes along the edge of our woods, I found pockets of smooth, silky ice that transformed large hollows at the base of several large pasture pines into pools of solid silver. I continued to go out each day to watch as they shrank slowly by sublimi, a process that causes solid ice to change to a gas without melting. The ice pools’ transient nature made me appreciate them even more. I must admit, I couldn’t pass up the satisfying crunch of punching through one of them, only to discover any ice or water below had disappeared. I‘ve looked for those icy creations in winters since, but haven’t yet seen the same combination of events. Magic moments don’t always repeat.

One spring we watched every day for a pair of foxes who frequently hunted in our field. Early in April, a trio of fox kits began appearing in the field, frolicking under the watchful eyes of whichever parent babysat while the other hunted for food. One gray afternoon, I looked outside our backyard windows to see those three small red fox kits sitting in a drainage ditch. Apparently told to stay there by their mother, they waited for her return.

As time went on, they began to tumble and roll over and under each other. As they played, I leaned out our window and took digital pictures. Eventually, two of the kits wandered off to explore the rest of the backyard. One remained alone, looking forlorn and worried. It finally settled down and took a nap, but when it awoke, it continued to watch the woods for its mother.

Time dragged on and I began to make plans to call the Fish and Game conservation officer regarding abandoned fox kits. Just as the sun began to go down, Mother Fox appeared at the edge of the woods and the dutiful kit darted out of the ditch to reunite joyfully with its mother. Meanwhile, the wandering pair returned, looking guilty. The look she gave them spoke volumes. Then, forgiveness dispensed with a poke of her wet muzzle, off they went, a family once more. Another magic moment for my collection.

By Helen Downing, 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.

Many New Hampshire residents enjoy living in a heavily forested landscape where they can live close to the natural environment. Suburban house lots often contain manicured lawns surrounded by woodland, or are adjacent to large tracts of forestland.

Despite this closeness to the natural world, we often try to tame and domesticate nature around us. I am reminded of this tendency when I see piles of brush and limbs stacked on the roadside after each spring cleanup, or rows of bagged leaves in the fall, all bound for municipal composting facilities.

New Hampshire prohibited the disposal of leaf and yard waste in landfills or incinerators in 1993, and many towns created municipal composting facilities to comply with that law. As a result, many residents bag leaves and stack brush for recycling at the municipal facility. Yet it seems foolish to spend tax dollars to haul away these valuable natural resources from our land.

Since the last glacier receded some 12,000 years ago, the soils in New Hampshire are being constantly replenished. The slow, ongoing natural processes that build soil will continue as long as we don’t interfere.

Pennsylvania State University Professor Richard Yahner has estimated that as much as two tons of leaf litter per acre can accumulate in a mature forest during a single season. Fortunately, naturally occurring bacteria and fungi, along with a large number of other organisms, decompose the material and return nutrients to the soil.

Someone walking through a deciduous forest for the first time and observing the deep carpet of fall leaves might think the forest would eventually be buried under the accumulation. From experience, we know the mass of leaves will have mostly disappeared by mid-summer. Nature’s recyclers will have finished their work and returned to the soil the nutrients vital to the growth of all plants in the forest.

But it isn’t only falling leaves that return nutrients and energy to the forest. Falling limbs, branches, twigs, and even whole trees add to the process. In his book, The Trees in My Forest, Bernd Heinrich summed up this whole dynamic process by writing: “The tree’s decaying body releases the resources collected throughout its life, passing them back into the forest.” All living things in the forest, not just plants, benefit from the recycled energy.

Leaf litter is important to many species of wildlife that inhabit the forest floor. Shrews and rufous-sided towhees search the leaf litter for invertebrates that are one of their primary food sources. Hollow logs on the forest floor are favorite den sites for up to seventeen species of mammals in New Hampshire. The coarse, woody debris is used as habitat by 30 percent of the state’s mammal species, 45 percent of the amphibians, and 50 percent of the reptiles.

One of the amphibians, the Eastern Newt in its “red eft” (terrestrial) stage, lives in woodlands under rocks and logs on the forest floor for up to seven years before returning to water and transforming into an aquatic adult.

Downed logs and woody debris also provide habitat for insects and other invertebrates, as well as mosses, fungi, and lichens. The larger the log, the more value it offers to a wider range of species, but all woody debris on the forest floor has value to some species.

When we recognize the value of these natural resources, we might change how we view woodlands. We have become conditioned to looking at woodland around our homes as an extension of the lawn, to be kept neat and manicured. But nature is not tidy,

If the woods in and around your home landscape seem messy and you cannot let nature take its course, then go ahead and clean things up: break fallen branches into smaller pieces and spread them on the forest floor, limb fallen trees so they lie on the ground, and create brush piles in a hidden corner of the woods. The piles provide tunneling space and cover for wildlife and are easy to build. On their Web site, the National Wildlife Federation offers detailed instructions for constructing a brush pile.

Consider raking your leaves from lawns and spreading them directly into adjacent woodland, which is much less labor intensive than bagging them. If you don’t have woods nearby, create a compost pile, simple or elaborate to match your ambition.

Reduce the size of your lawn by allowing surrounding woodland to expand into the yard and by using the fallen leaves to define the new border. Instead of a lawn that may require a significant addition of nutrients, pest controls and irrigation water, the natural woodland will maintain its own health, returning nutrients to the soil through natural processes.

Live with nature, don’t fight it.

by Larry E. Ely, UNH Cooperative Extension Wildlife Coverts Cooperator

The miraculous ability of leaf and flower buds on trees and shrubs to survive the deep cold and howling winds of our harsh northern winters amazes me. Because we have a few peach trees, I know that blossom buds can die, usually because of extreme temperature fluctuations in early spring. Once the hard, protective covering, what botanists call the “bud scale,” breaks open, a sudden plunge in temperature can kill the flower bud.

Like seeds, buds are dormant embryos packed into a protective outer scale. The period of winter dormancy lasts several months, and most native N.H. plants will not break dormancy during a fleeting January thaw, a clever survival trick. Tree seeds need the same dormant time period that prevents them from sprouting too early.

When present in high-enough concentrations, a hormone called abscisic acid, found in both seeds and buds, switches off all metabolic activity in the bud. In spring this hormone becomes increasingly dilute, losing its inhibitor capacity, so the buds and seeds burst open.

Buds form during late summer at the base of the leaf stem, unnoticed until the leaves fall. Inside the bud is miniature leaf or flower, ready to explode the following spring.


Here in the north, with short growing seasons, this “head start” system enables woody plants to grow rapidly in the spring and to complete their annual growth cycle before the next winter.

To discover more about this phenomenon, I checked out a few buds on my plants around my home. I marveled at how different they all are. There’s a unique bud design for each species. I picked a few shrub twigs for closer inspection: a fat rhododendron flower bud, a slender and delicate blueberry twig, a sturdy lilac twig. Some different tree species also caught my eye for the striking appearance of their buds: birch, beech, sasafrass, hickory, dogwood, and some peach buds.

The huge rhododendron flower buds are at least twice the size of the plant’s leaf buds and easy to distinguish. I found few, indicating that I won’t have many blooms next summer. I sacrificed one flower to science and cut it open to see what was inside. I cut the bud in half crosswise and inspected it with my 16x loupe. (This is the small, inexpensive magnifying glass that field scientists hang on a cord around their necks and hold close to their eye in bright sun for fantastic magnification).

I saw pale greens and cream shades, outer scales surrounding folded and curled-up flower petals. What a beautiful kaleidoscope design! This fat bud had air pockets between the many layers of embryonic flower tissue—a  layering system providing protective insulation. Skiers and winter hikers keep warm the same way by dressing in many layers to trap air.

I also noticed the big, fuzzy buds of the hardy star magnolia that look like pussy willow blossoms. Another winterizing strategy! The fuzz traps air that helps insulate the flower buds from the cold. Happily, the magnolia is loaded with flower buds I hope will erupt in a stunning display next April.

I studied a few unusual tree buds, including the sharp-pointed beech tree bud that resembles a needle. Birch trees also have similar, but smaller, pointed buds located on opposite sides of delicate, slender, zigzaggy twigs making a graceful line against the snow.

Depending on the type of plant, flower buds may be separate from leaf buds and open at a different time, or the flower and leaves may be combined in a single bud and open together. The distinctive “button” flower bud of my dogwood trees is quite different from the leaf buds. I see that I will have a beautiful display of dogwood blossoms in the spring.

It’s easy to identify buds in your own yard when you know the kind of plant you are looking at. But amazingly, experts can identify trees and shrubs in winter without the leaves. Clues from the buds, leaf scar, twigs and bark, as well as the overall form and structure of the plant help provide the answer.
 
Buds may grow directly opposite each other on the twigs, or they may alternate from one side to another. Many shrubs have opposite bud placement, but only a few trees do. You can easily remember them by the acronym MAD Horse: maple, ash, dogwood and horse chestnut. A tree’s branching pattern, easy to see in winter, is the same as that of the buds: opposite or alternate.

The buds themselves provide many more identification clues: they differ in shape, size, texture, color, and even the way the bud scales are wrapped around the bud. Some buds are so small they are hardly visible and are actually imbedded in the twig.

Next time you venture into the winter woods, take time to inspect one of nature’s subtle miracles, and the winter landscape will come alive.

By Anne Krantz, UNH Cooperative Extension Community Tree Steward and Master Gardene

I built my first fire of the season a few weeks ago. Certainly this is an unremarkable event for anyone who’s lived a long time in the North Country, but for me it marks a rite of passage.

When I moved to this area several years ago, I barely knew how to build a fire, let alone operate a woodstove. In my previous life my “ex” always started the fires. Sure, I’d throw a log on now and then, but that was the extent of it. Growing up as a kid in the suburbs of New York City, we only had a fire going on an occasional holiday.

The truth is, I was always a bit intimidated by fires and generally left them to the men in my life. The one time I did attempt to start a fire on my own resulted in the evacuation of the apartment building I was living in on Boston’s Beacon Hill. In an effort to impress a gentleman I was having over for dinner, I bought a paper-wrapped log at the supermarket. I lit it without knowing I was supposed to open the flue. I made an impression for sure, just not the kind I had hoped for.

Then I landed here. Despite my anxiety, that first winter I realized I would need at least some wood in the event I lost power, which seemed likely. So I arranged to have a load delivered. After it was dumped in my driveway, I stood there blubbering, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Did I order this much wood? Could I possibly burn it all? When I realized I had bought green wood, my tears turned to anger. Right there I vowed to conquer my fear and get this fire and firewood thing mastered.

I used my anger to invigorate the not-so-small task of constructing an orderly woodpile. I decided to move as much of the wood as possible into the shed. On a neighbor’s advice, I stacked the rest in the basement to expedite the drying process.

“Put as much as you can on end. That’ll help some,” he suggested. I thought she ought to know, having lived here the last 65 of her eighty-odd years.

Next, I located the manual and proceeded to familiarize myself with this cast-iron box. Notwithstanding good intentions, at this point I still had no plan to use the stove unless it became absolutely necessary. It did in October when the power failed for three days. I quickly realized the inevitability of the situation. I would have preferred to bury my head under a down blanket, but set about my task as cold began to creep into the house.

The manual was refreshingly clear and presented four concise pages of instruction on how to build and sustain a wood fire. I used most of the Sunday Times to coax the flames that ignited the kindling and the kindling to torch the logs. This first attempt resulted in a diminutive fire at best, but I was ecstatic to see some result. My sense of accomplishment was unabashed.

By day three I figured out how to keep the embers burning overnight. I was learning about the relationship between air flow and the fire, and which controls on the stove proved most effective in regulating it. I realized if I could stoke up a robust fire, I could damp it down for a long-burning, intense delivery of heat.

What I hadn’t anticipated discovering was the magical aura of a fire. The pleasant smell of it. Its mesmerizing quality. The cozy and friendly atmosphere it creates.

This will be my third winter in the North Country, and this year I plan to heat my home with almost equal portions of wood and oil. I can maintain a fire for days on end. A neighbor felled some trees for me last spring. I bought and learned to operate a chain saw, so now I cut and split my own wood. I purchased a tree identification book.

When my mother learned of my undertakings, she laughed nervously and remarked, “You’re using a chain saw? Oh honey, that’s too dangerous. Don’t you want to buy your wood? Do you need money?”

I replied, “It’s not about money, Mom. The sense of reward I get from the whole process is remarkable. And I’m very careful.”

Last month a friend came to visit from Boston and proceeded to help me with my wood tasks. I enjoyed even more the lugging, cutting, splitting, and stacking with his company. I know he found the physical nature of the work as satisfying and stimulating as I did.

A neighbor passing by yelled to him, “Wood warms you up a few times before you even burn it.”

He replied, “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

I had to agree. I’m figuring it out, too.

12/13/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

Splitting and stacking firewood in the 80-degree heat of a steamy August afternoon, I got to thinking about the old saying, “Wood warms you twice.” As someone who’s burned wood, and only wood, to heat my home for 37 years, I came up with a list of ways wood warms me and my family—and we don’t even fell the trees or clean our own chimney:

• Sawing loads of 16-foot logs into 16-inch lengths
• Splitting these rounds into two, four, or sometimes six or eight pieces so they fit into the stove
• Stacking the split wood in the woodshed
• Hauling armloads of wood from the shed into the house during heating season
• Loading the stoves and basking in their radiance
• Cleaning out the ash pans and hauling buckets of ashes into the cellar for storage in steel garbage cans
• Spreading the accumulated ashes on our lawns and gardens in the spring

Wood also preheats the water we use for bathing and dishwashing and warms our bellies with winter soups, stews and sauces simmered on the stovetop.

By any standard, our household firewood operation qualifies as primitive and labor-intensive. We have a Husqvarna 350 chainsaw and tools to maintain it, two 8-lb. splitting mauls (in case the urge to split strikes two parties simultaneously), a couple of wedges, a lightweight axe for splitting kindling, and a cheap plastic wheelbarrow for moving split wood across the driveway to the woodshed. The rest of the work we accomplish with what my dad called the “Armstrong Method.”

Wood does more than keep us warm. It supports our values and our way of life. Wood heat dries the laundry we hang on racks around the stove on winter evenings, simultaneously humidifying the dry indoor air. It gives us a concrete form of homeland security, keeping us warm and able to cook and heat water from the gravity-feed well when the power goes off.

Wood ashes neutralize the acid soil in our big vegetable garden and add minerals our crops need for optimum health. We use the strips of bark that accumulate on the ground in our wood-splitting area as mulch to mark the aisles between planting beds in the garden.

In a nation where obesity has reached epidemic levels and threatens to overtake smoking as the Number One public health concern, working up our winter wood supply helps keep our weight in check. Exercise physiologists say a person my weight burns between 300 and 400 calories an hour doing various wood-working activities. I once did the math and figured that a single intense weekend of wood-splitting and stacking provided the calorie-burning equivalent of running 50 miles. Not bad! As a side benefit, splitting wood relieves stress better than anything else I’ve tried.

Living in a state that’s 84 percent forested, I’ve always assumed it makes economic sense to heat with wood. The various years I’ve looked at charts comparing the relative prices of firewood, propane and home heating oil, the facts have borne out my assumption. No matter how low the prices of fossil fuels have dipped, wood has always come out ahead, even in years when we bought our wood cut, split, dried and delivered. Because the work of it adds so much to our quality of life, I don’t factor the value of our unpaid household labor into the price we pay for our fuelwood.

I like knowing that my decision to heat with wood supports the New Hampshire economy. Joe Broyles, energy program manager at the State Office of Energy and Planning, estimates that two-thirds of the $2 billion New Hampshire consumers spend on energy products leaves the state. But the money I spend on firewood stays right here in New Hampshire.

The firewood business represents a significant and essential component of New Hampshire’s forest industries, which collectively provide jobs for 10,000 to 15,000 New Hampshire residents and pump $1.7 billion directly into our local economy.

Even if you don’t cut down your own trees or learn to use a chainsaw and splitting maul, home woodburning does require savvy. You need to learn to evaluate the quality and energy value of the wood you plan to burn. You need to know how to season and store firewood, how to size, install and maintain your woodburning appliances for safe operation, how to burn wood safely, maintain your chimney and handle your ashes.

 “It’s worth building a long term relationship with your wood supplier,” advises Sarah Smith, UNH Cooperative Extension’s forest industry specialist. “That’s the best way to ensure you’re buying a good cord and getting a good mixture.”

11/08/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.

From the south-facing windows of my house I can see two apple trees. They sit on the northern slope of a small mountain in central New Hampshire, closely surrounded on three sides by oaks, maples, black birches, poplars, pines and all sorts of undergrowth busily filling up the mountain. The only open space for sunlight and air movement is between the trees and the house, an area of about half an acre. The apple trees stand as vanguards between the cleared, civilized world and the dark, mysterious forest stretching out behind them.

The house was built circa 1790 when George Washington was in politics and apple trees were planted as part of a homestead. My apples could have known the virgin chestnut trees that are built into the house. Maybe they were planted during the Civil War when the land parcel was 80 acres, not 10 as now. The mountain was cleared of forest then and the apple trees shared the acres with blueberries and sheep.

The apple trees are grafted; their trunks sport a distinct line about 12 inches up from the ground that looks like a soft blouse on a person whose belt is too tight. Above the graft, the trunks are textured with worm and flicker holes and the scars of lost branches.

When we arrived here 23 years ago, the trees were completely buried in the woods. We cleared a small area for a back yard but gave the old trees little attention. We kept assuming they would die or fall over from leaning towards the sun. Fifteen years ago, after we hired a professional who pruned them and cut away a few surrounding trees, the apple trees began to produce fruit.

Throughout the years these trees have offered us continual entertainment and wonderment. The ground beneath them is covered with mosses and lichens. The shadows cast upon the soft patches of greens, russets and snow can almost lull away the blues of winter. When the branches glaze over with ice from some bitter onslaught of weather, they shine silver in the morning sun, and in the evening they can become pink and purple, reflecting the sun through the mature forest that protects them from wind.

The apple trees seem to bloom best in the meanest years. When they bloom, they brighten the entire back yard. Then the petals drop to the ground, and it looks as if someone sprinkled pink rings around the trees. The sweet smell and bright pinks of the blossoms arrive as gifts after a long, sterile winter.

The shade of these trees makes a good place to sit from a dog’s point of view. The area is soft and shaded, and you can watch the house and yard, and see all the way down the driveway to the road. All kinds of critters take advantage of these trees. Bees especially like the flowers of the apple trees. You can hear their excited rumble from the middle of the yard on a spring day. Over the years we have watched horses, turkeys, deer and grouse graze on the apples that have fallen to the ground. Birds court, nest, eat bugs and buds. Orioles, scarlet tanagers, blue birds and cardinals visit in the early spring, attracted because we have these grand old trees. Chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, blue jays and titmouses that stay all year, frolic through them.

There was a good crop of small apples this year, russet globes suspended among the branches and leaves. One morning we saw a lot of small branches on the ground around the larger apple tree. The next day the first branches were turning brown on the ground and there were more added to the debris. We also saw broken branches all though the tree and the apples were gone!

Investigation revealed bear scat on the ground. A small bear had come to feast on the apple crop. I would have loved to watch the bear climb up into the tree and snuggle in its cradle of branches, pulling those sweet red treats to its mouth. Those large paws snapping branches inward perform a sort of natural pruning.

My UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener training manual reminds me to prune them, but I feel that would hurt these mature ladies who know better than I what they need to face more decades. During Master Gardener training, when I asked the Cooperative Extension fruit specialist what I could do to help my apple trees, he suggested, in the interest of maximizing home fruit production, cutting them down and planting new trees.

I prefer the assisted-living approach. These trees have been providing for the inhabitants of this slope for more than three times my time on this earth. They’ve survived droughts, floods, blizzards, and the hurricane of 1936, which took most of the trees of the state. They survived the barn burning down some 100 years ago.

To whoever planted them and all those who’ve lived here since then, thank you for not eliminating these apple trees. I’d lose a lot from the days in my office, back porch, dining room and kitchen without those trees in my back yard.

By Stephania Pearce, Master Gardener

10/04/06

For more information call the UNH Cooperative Extension's Family, Home & Garden Center's Info-line (toll free) at 1-877-398-4769 or send us an email. Volunteers are available to answer your questions Monday through Friday 9:00am to 2:00 p.m.