NH Outside: Trees Archives

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.