NH Outside: Weather Archives

by Lynne Lawrence, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Volunteer

The northwest wind screams through the tree line behind my home. When the gusts hit 40, windows rattle and the metal roof hums. Several hundred pounds of snow and ice thundering off the roof­an unmistakable roar, terminating in a loud thump-­the sound of a giant heart that beats once and then is still.

Summer thunderstorms and winter snowstorms are ubiquitous, but "thundersnow," the unlikely combination of the two, makes for an otherworldly strangeness­-a wildness that draws you to the window in fascination but keeps you hiding just behind the curtains. Requiring an unusual combination of warmer surface temperatures and very cold upper level air, it is a dramatic reminder of the powerful orchestration that is winter; complete with cannon and fireworks, the living climax of the 1812 Overture.

Ice storms, on the other hand, are all too common in New Hampshire and have sounds of their own. Who can forget December 2008, when some sinister magic transported us from our living rooms to an artillery range?

Generations-old pine trees cracked like rifle shots as their seventy-foot-tall trunks split and toppled like a giant's game of pick-up- sticks. Telephone poles went down like dominoes, trailing their snaking, arcing wires behind them. Huddled in front of our fires, we marveled at the turmoil.

The next morning the sun came up on a transformed world of strange beauty and glittering devastation. The surviving trees clattered against each other and groaned under their ice coats as we watched in trepidation. We walked out among the ice-clad trees, giving wide berth to the leaners.

Even the smaller, more intimate sounds of winter are big in their own way: the crunch of boots on intricately-structured snow when it is cold and dry, the swoosh of snowshoes, the nearly silent shifting of the branch just over your head as it drops a tiny mountain of soft, white snow onto the back of your neck.

Some snowfalls happen in still, windless air, the settling snow laced with sound-muffling air pockets. The "good morning" you shout to your neighbor falls flat at your feet; a 2,000-pound car sneaks up behind you unnoticed. The clang of a metal trashcan lid becomes a dull thud, the vibrations dropping into the snow.

Instead of careening off packed earth and rocks, sound waves skim lightly across the snow's surface, pushing air down into the empty spaces, making the world a softer, more private place. There is a magic window of time where winter creatures hunker down and people stay indoors reading a good book, creating a comforting soup, or listening for the next weather report. This snow silence has its own spiritual quality­-a pause, a waiting, a time to savor because it will so soon be overwhelmed by the noisy re-emergence of all that must continue.

Outside, leaning on your shovel-­that seems one of the best ways to enter the silence­-you become aware of hidden creatures who share the world. A perfect line of tiny footprints appears in the snow behind you, running down the driveway, then dropping out of sight into the subnivean world below--a secret society of small mammals that exist in the layer of relative warmth between the frozen earth and the bottom of the snowpack.

Six feet above that level, we are too removed to hear the rustlings of its inhabitants--mice, moles and voles. But those with keener senses, operating closer to the ground, like coyotes and foxes, are well aware of this invisible stirring, using it as an audible signpost to the next meal. With uncanny accuracy they dive into the snow cover, ending some tiny creature's life in a whirlwind of snow crystals, yelps and squeaks. We aren't sorry for this small demise; it represents one less tunnel through our spring lawn, one less summer vegetable eaten from the ground up.

Simon and Garfunkel had it right. There is a sound of silence­-not just the absence of sound, but the positive presence of stillness, palpable, exhilarating. Depending on our lifestyles, we may not miss that deep, insulating blanket that defines our world from November 'til March, but when its profound stillness is missing, we long for the peace and centering it brings.

It's what makes us stop when the driveway is half-shoveled, not just to rest aching muscles, but to listen for that absence of sound, that invitation to walk deeper into the woods, to inhabit, for just a little while, that world where no one dares, or wants to, disturb the sound of silence.

by Judy Elliott, UNH Cooperative Extension volunteer writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: kirybabe. Some rights reserved.

By Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you have friends to climb with, time passes quickly, and the panting, sweating and wondering if you can keep going is easier to push out of your mind.

Not long ago I set out with three friends to climb Mt. Hale, one of the White Mountains' easiest 4,000-footers. Teresa has studied plants for years and can walk up a trail, knowing so many names of tiny woodland plants. Roxanne loves to tell stories and can turn the smallest situation into a 30-minute narrative. Sandra is a soccer-mom friend. At one game, we discovered a common passion­--the mountains.

One of the lesser-known Whites, Mt. Hale has an elevation of 4,054 feet. Checking my book, I discovered I'd climbed Hale July 28 three years earlier. I vaguely remembered a long slog with the final half-mile going on and on and on.

Every time I climb a mountain a second or third time, I try not to have a preconceived idea of what the hike will be like. A mountain never bores. Each has its own ruggedness, majesty and magic. Its terrain and elevation combine with weather, state of mind, and hiking companions to offer a unique experience every day, every season, every year, for every climber.

As my friends and I geared up at the bottom, we noticed it had gotten colder and the sky had turned gray. We had diligently watched weather forecasts, and though we thought the day would be cool and clear, we'd packed cold and wet-weather gear, ready for anything. The White Mountains during a "shoulder season" are unpredictable.

Half an hour into the climb, snowflakes started falling. But none of us voiced any concerns.
Teresa kept pointing out wild plants and Roxanne kept telling stories. The snow started coming down harder.

There's a formula suggested for timing climbs. You have to learn how your own kind of hiking fits the formula and add or subtract time. We were planning on two miles per hour and a half hour per 1,000 feet of elevation gain. So, since the trail we chose, the Hale Brook Trail, was 2.2 miles long with a 2,300 elevation gain, we estimated we would reach the top in about two and a half hours.

It was getting colder. We stopped to pull gloves and hats from our packs. We put on waterproof jackets, and Sandra zipped on the bottom of her pants. Roxanne and I were wearing shorts. We hated getting overheated. We pulled our hoods up. The snow began swirling around us. We estimated about a half hour to go. I knew the worst part lay ahead: the final slog to the summit.
We stopped several times to readjust our layers. Hot, cold, back and forth. Luckily we had packed smart: extra gloves, extra socks, food, water, emergency blankets and more. We laughed at our fashion statements. Bright ponchos blowing in the wind, crazy hats of all kinds, zip on, zip off pants, gaiters.

No one wanted to give up.

Near the top, trudging along a bank that was now covered by four inches of snow, someone suggested, "Let's make snow angels."

With our packs still on, we fell back towards the bank, and spreading our arms and legs, we flew like angels, laughing and joking, catching snowflakes in our mouths with the glee of little girls. We got up gingerly, trying not to mar our angels. Admiring our artwork, we lingered there, talking about how fun it was to stop and play, enjoying what nature had thrown at us so ferociously.

We knew we could make it to the top. Within minutes we rounded the corner and reached the summit. Exhilarated, we cheered and breathed sighs of relief.

We got out our lunches and ate quickly, hooded, huddled and shivering in the blowing snow. We knew we needed to get back to the shelter of the woods and get on with the two-and-a-half-hour return to the warmth of the car. But we took time to climb atop the huge cairn and take photos of the gray, snow-filled sky around us. No view from this summit.

Our camaraderie, again, made us pause. This time our pause was more reflective. We thought of the turning weather, thankful that we had prepared well. We thanked our snow angels for boosting our spirits and reminding us that we could trust each other. So, we each put one foot forward to make four boot prints in the snow at the top of Mt. Hale­sole-sister prints, evidence of our bond and trust in each other.

In some ways we wished we'd had good weather and could linger. But we'd found fun and magic in the midst of a dangerous turn by Mother Nature.

Our four angels were covered with snow by the time we trudged by hurriedly on the way down. But we knew their magic, laughter and inspiration would be with us all the way to the end of our hike.

By Meg Downey Hardy, Master Gardener

Photo credit: Roxanne Angevine. Some rights reserved.

Safe hiking essentials

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Judy Elliott, Writer

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

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

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

Each fresh coat of snow for snowshoeing and cross-country skiing means hours of clearing. By the time I've shoveled the paths to the woodpile and bird feeders, cleared the decks and porch, created paths for my little dogs, and pulled snow off the porch roof, I'm too tired to get out there and enjoy the snow.

Yesterday, however, I stole some time. I'd donned snowshoes to get behind the woodpile to clear snow off the back. So when I finished, I headed out into the woods. They were so lovely still, and peaceful, the snow clinging to many branches. I could walk everywhere since the fallen trees, small boulders, stone walls, and low shrubs were covered in snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Drawing: Pamela Doherty, UNH Cooperative Extension

Whenever my husband and I walk together in the woods, he is looking up and I am looking down. Up because he is thinking about his woodlands: which trees need thinning, which need to be allowed more light; down, because I am looking for anything that might grow on the forest floor: wildflowers, mosses, lichens, mushrooms, rocks.

Looking down keeps me from catching my toes on surface roots and fallen branches. (My husband is much more sure-footed than I.) But I have decided to look up more often. There’s so much to see­clouds, sky, the stars, bats and birds­that require leaning back and looking up.

In winter, cloud action has a different energy from that of summer; look up and you will see. The wind in the earth’s troposphere can be quite severe, and when it is, "lenticular" clouds appear more often. These clouds are lens-shaped, concave and smooth with curved tops like a lens. They occur more frequently over tall mountains and out west, but do happen here, just not as often.

One day a few weeks ago, I watched as three lenticular clouds became thinner and more stretched out over the course of 90 minutes. How long they had been there I didn’t know, but they are known to last quite awhile due to their location in the upper atmosphere and strong, circulating winds that swirl around mountain tops.

The smooth, rounded shapes may even pile neatly, one on top of another, making layered lentil-shaped clouds. Add a touch of color as occurs sometimes due to light and dust in the air, and…magic! Going back to my high school meteorology lessons, the more frequent denizens of the sky are delightful also, a sky full of mackerel cirrus or pink cumulus clouds make any day better. Look up.

Last September, in that too-brief time when summer-like conditions returned, I witnessed a spectacular sight that was seen all up and down the Asquamchumakee or Baker River Valley just south of the White Mountains.

Planting bulbs with my back to the sky and Carr Mountain, a light shower began just as the sun was setting in the west. I moved under an ancient apple tree waiting for the rain to pass. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but sunlight continued to spill over the low mountains to our west.

Suddenly, a rainbow began to appear in the northern sky, first faint and then full strength color arcing across the horizon. I dashed for my camera and got some great shots. At times it was a double rainbow and lasted much longer than usual. The combination of water droplets and sunlight at a low angle made for an amazingly bright and vivid rainbow.
The immediacy and rarity of such a sight left me feeling as though I alone had viewed it. Later, in speaking with others from up and down our valley, I was amazed to discover that many had shared my experience across at least three towns. Now, I was not alone but a member of a special club. Good thing I looked up, or I would’ve missed it all.

Looking up can also reap views of intrigue and adventure in the bird world. While looking up the other day I was fortunate enough to see a light-colored hawk being chased by several crows. The insouciance of the hawk with its mocking, leisurely glide and the raucousness of the harpy-like crows made me laugh out loud.

Later, studying some field guides to the birds, a northern goshawk seemed the likely upstart I would not have seen if I hadn’t looked...up.

Last winter, while filling a bird feeder I heard a slight noise from above, and when I looked up there sat a barred owl in broad daylight and in all of its feathery glory. I watched it for more than an hour from the relative warmth of my shed door as it waited patiently for mice and other prey. When it dove, it did so with a sureness and speed I wouldn’t have imagined. And, when it ascended to its perch, a tail dangled from its mouth. Breathtaking! Look up.

Sometimes, the reminder to look up comes from the source of wonder itself. While I was loading the birdfeeders again, a hairy woodpecker skimmed the top of my head as it dove from one tree to a nearby bush to feed on suet. I still remember with a shiver down my back the thrum of his wings, and the swoosh! of skimming feathers. Whether or not he meant to “buzz” my head, I felt as though he did mean his warning peek! for me and me alone! Translation: Look up!

Communing with nature resonates throughout our lives and enhances our days on this earth. That special connection to nature reminds us as humans we aren’t alone on our planet and in our natural environment. To reaffirm this, I’ll continue looking down but also occasionally remind myself to look up.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

I love green. In nature, green usually signifies a time of growth and renewal. In times of rest and slumber we see browns and grays, and the white that comes with ice and snow. So far the latter hasn’t put in much of an appearance here in the Northeast.

I’ve begun noticing something I usually miss: the beauty of the late fall woods if you pay attention to all the evergreen mosses and ferns. I’ve rarely admired their brilliance and have overlooked their beauty. But this year on those brilliant sunny days that come in late fall as the sun travels lower across the sky, I’ve observed that the ferns and mosses seem to glow with an emerald effervescence.

Recently, I arose to find my little farmhouse surrounded by thick, white fog. As the sun began to rise, breaks in the fog allowed me to peek into the world outside, where greens so bright they hurt my eyes reflected back the richness and depth of the world of mosses. The mosses lie hidden most of the year by shrubs and ferns, themselves green, but now dormant and for the most part leafless.

Mosses come in so many shapes and sizes. Unnoticed by most, they can coat rocks, replace grass in shady lawns, climb trees, or help fallen logs decay and mellow into the earth.

Hidden among the mosses lies a whole ecosystem we can’t see and don’t understand. Microorganisms in those mossy beds go about performing their daily functions oblivious to us, much as the characters in one of my all-time favorite stories, Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss. In that book only Horton the Elephant can see the tiny inhabitants of Whoville.

Similarly, water bears remain invisible to the naked eye unless viewed under a microscope. Minuscule one-celled invertebrates, they resemble white, translucent polar bears, albeit with eight legs, according to Robin Wall Kimmerer, the author of Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses (a book not at all as pedantic as its title makes it sound).

Kimmerer, a wonderful writer who makes the world of moss a fun, interesting and magical place, explains that these tiny creatures depend on moss in much the same way that pandas depend on bamboo; they are inextricably intertwined for survival. The water bear can insert its mouth into a moss cell and suck out its contents. It relies on drops of moisture in moss to convey it from leaf to leaf.

The tiny water bears, however, have an adaptive technique that pandas might envy. If conditions become too dry, too hot, or too cold, poof! Water bears can enter a state of anabiosis, or suspended animation. When conditions improve, they rejoin the living. Under the right conditions, mosses can do the same.

Moss can become a lawn replacement, sometimes by default, but also by intention. In Japan and other countries, whole gardens of different mosses are tended lovingly. Try walking barefoot in moss for summer pleasure. Imagine never having to spread lime or fertilizer again.

Evergreen applies not only to conifer trees, but also to some species of ferns and “fern allies.” The Christmas fern, so named because it remains green at Christmas when other ferns have turned brown or disappeared, remains vibrant in the drab landscape. In the “fern ally” category, the lycopods, often called ground pines, or club mosses, also remain green. These may look like miniature pine trees that grow singly, though they also grow in vine-like groundcover form.

Finally, I can’t forget the broadleaf evergreens - the rhododendrons and the mountain laurels. Although they stay green, they tend to telegraph their true feelings about cold by shriveling when temperatures go below freezing and would probably agree with Kermit the Frog that it ain’t easy being green this time of year.

Winter will eventually turn the landscapes around me white, but I’ve learned to notice and enjoy the greens of late fall as I walk and hike through the bare landscape.

Yes, the greens will always emerge from beneath the snow each spring, but being committed to living in the present has taught me to appreciate green as Mother Nature’s autumn gift.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

This morning I awoke to the sound of gentle rain hitting the porch roof. The sky was pale gray and furry like a mouse. The rain was falling straight down with no wind to weave it around obstacles and through open windows. Ah, I thought, nature is catching up on her watering today. This will be a good chance for me to catch up on some of my indoor work, too.

I sat down at the desk and started paying bills. The sky got lighter and brighter and before long a fully beaming sun was calling me outside. Nature had finished one chore and had moved on to another. I decided to do the same and wandered into the yard.

I deadheaded daylilies and checked the size of the cucumbers in the garden. Those darn Japanese beetles were back at the beans; I made short work of them and then went inside to fix lunch.

The day continued sunny and grew increasingly warm and humid. I forgot about the bills and other paperwork and decided to transplant some daylilies. It was hard work in that heat, but the finished product of three curves of arching tapered leaves was well worth the effort.

But what was that sound way off in the distance? It sounded like thunder. The sky was robin-egg blue and clear, but that thunder was definitely rolling along somewhere.

As I put away my various tools, I looked to the north, where the large beaver impoundment always beckons me. The water is nearly covered with lilies now and the bullfrogs are often quiet. The tall, dead trees with their massive great blue heron nests stood stark against clouds the color of wet rocks. Yes, a summer storm was coming our way, and it wasn’t going to bring a soft, gentle rainfall.

I watched as the clouds swung over the tops of the nests and began to fill the sky, spilling from the north, across the arch of the sky and towards the south. The wind began to build, and the thunder grew louder. As I finished a few quick chores outside, the darkness swept in the approaching storm. I decided it was time to head inside and quickly.

Just moments later, the first patter of raindrops began to play on the porch roof. The soft drumming lasted briefly then turned into a full orchestra of sound as the rain pounded the metal roof. The wind pulled leaves from trees and flung them in dervish circles. The water cascaded down as if off a tall cliff. There was something wonderful about the wildness of the storm – something elemental and it called to me. Had it not been for the flashes of electricity in the air and the quickly following thunder, I know I would have been tempted to run outside to feel the strength of the deluge, the exuberance of the storm. Would it have felt like needles on skin or would I have been pounded until I staggered? Would I have joined the leaves in their crazy dance or been pushed down and held there by the strength of the wind and rain? What would it have felt like to be a part of that display?

The storm left as it came, the rain and wind slowing down, a music box nearly unwound. The clouds seemed to turn over, revealing their white puffy side, and blue sky began to peek through. The rain petered out, allowing the returning sun to glisten on every wet leaf and flower. The hummingbird reappeared and moved rapidly among the monarda. A squirrel began to scold from the tall pine. All was peaceful again. It was as if the storm had never hovered briefly over us.

The sunlight after a storm seems nearly miraculous. How could it still exist after what had just occurred? Surely the wind and rain, thunder and lightning, must have broken the sunny day like a piece of crockery smacked against the edge of the counter. How could it be whole again? Where could it have been hiding? How could it have returned so quickly? It seemed to be laughing, as if it had enjoyed the storm.

The wildness of the storm made the day feel more alive. It seemed to dance now, lifted from humidity-induced torpor, enjoying the cooler temperatures. The water drops and little pools sparkled and sang and every blade of grass stood up straighter. It was beautiful. The entire day had been beautiful.

The day had made me feel a part of the symphony of nature. I wasn’t just a listener at the concert but a part of the orchestra. I played the music of each movement. Oh, I hope another day like this one comes along very soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Pauline Pinard Bogaert, Master Gardener

Recent fluctuating temperatures make venturing out onto the swamp a somewhat dicey activity. To be on the safe side, I decided instead to snowshoe around, rather than onto, the swamp and investigate an area I’d not explored before. It rises up behind the swamp to the north and had long been calling to me.

I headed down the path and out the gate, continuing into the woods. In no time the old stone wall that still marks the boundary between our stewardship and the next was standing before me. I found it easy enough to clamber over the wall, even with snowshoes on. The deer I was tracking had found it equally easy. These tracks were on the small side, so perhaps it was a young animal and it clearly came alone. I looked for evidence of browse but didn’t see any. Did nothing appeal to it?

Soon a lovely pine grove enveloped me. The trees were tall and the snow depth light. I saw pine cones and the little tracks of squirrels moving from tree to tree. A peaceful quiet hung there, with just a gentle murmur from the mild movement of the trees. I was reminded of a Robert Frost poem “The Sound of Trees,” in which he comments that the voice of trees is the one sound we “wish to bear” near our homes. The trees call to him, talking of going. I know they often call me to come and explore. They are most persuasive.

But today I was exploring tracks, and there in the grove were the unmistakable marks of a turkey. This was a treat. I love those ugly, gawky-looking birds. After moving into this house, I waited six years to see a turkey before looking out one afternoon a couple years ago and finding 42 in front of the house! They pecked along the driveway and into the front yard, while I ran from window to window, counting, taking pictures, and enjoying. Since then, we’ve had occasional sightings, and now, here I was following where one had gone not long before.

Up an incline it went (did it pant as I was doing?) and across a flowing stream. The rushing water confirmed my fears for walking on the swamp. Better to be here on a knoll, following a turkey’s path. Thanks to the snowshoes, crossing on the large snow-covered stones in the stream bed was no trouble at all. Soon I had moved into another grove of big pine trees, their edged bark dark against the snow.

It’s easy to understand why prehistoric peoples considered groves to be sacred places. Their height blocks out everything outside them. Every sound uttered within takes on a deeper meaning. Surely here spirits can communicate with us mere mortals. Is that chickadee really calling out to another of its flock or is it speaking to me? And what is its message? If I concentrate, can I decipher it?

Eventually, I leave the grove and turkey trail and wander down to the edge of the swamp. How often I’ve looked up at this area while pushing through the wind on the swamp’s snow-covered surface. Here, the trees break the wind and I can easily explore the stumps the beavers have left behind. There are few hardwoods here, just a couple of stumps of young trees a few inches in diameter. The cuts are old and gray. The beavers have moved to other areas around the swamp. From here, I can see all the heron nests from last summer. The older ones, big and solid looking, sit firmly on the dead pines. They look like they will be there forever. The newest ones appear to barely cling to the branches. If they aren’t refurbished in spring, they will be gone by July.

As I continue my journey, I cross the stream again farther up. I’ve lost the turkey tracks, but have found some even more interesting to me: two small paw prints, one slightly ahead of the other; and ahead of both, two larger prints side by side. Later at home, a check in a book on animal tracks confirms my suspicions. Earlier in the day, a rabbit had hopped through the upper edge of the pine forest. If you’ve ever watched a rabbit jump, you know the rear feet come forward ahead of the front feet. Thus its direction was clear­up the hill, into the sunnier area of young hardwood saplings and brush.

I would have enjoyed following it a while longer, but, unfortunately, my time grew short. I turned and headed back towards the house. Sharing time with the wild beings that live in this land is a privilege. I had seen the tracks of three fellow creatures and heard the calls of a few more, but my senses are imperfect. How many other creatures had been watching me, while I, all unawares, blundered around in the snow? Quite a few, I hope.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener,Community Tree Steward

Sometimes, we’re so used to seeing something, we don’t notice it at all. You know what I mean. It’s there, but we don’t truly see it. Whenever I drove by a nearby forest, I knew I was looking at trees and undergrowth. Sometimes I did think about how different it would look if the land were developed and houses grew there instead of nature’s plantings, but I never really looked at the land.

I didn’t notice the ratio of hardwoods to evergreens. What kind of oaks grew there? What species of plants made up the undergrowth? Had invasive burning bush or oriental bittersweet moved in? Were there native viburnums growing? Did the red color of winterberry hint at wet ground? Was the land bisected by old stone walls? What lay beyond the trees?

I didn’t think to ask. No, I drove by and saw only green and brown. I was glad to see the wilderness left uncut, undeveloped, undisturbed, but I never really looked at it.

And now, it’s gone. In just a few minutes, minutes, it was all destroyed as surely as if man had come in and clear-cut.

In July of this year, a tornado swept through the land, twisting the trees as I would twist a handkerchief. The aftermath was stunning. Of course, I’d seen images on television of the damage a twister could do­houses without roofs, cars lifted up and carried away, but it’s hard to truly grasp the power of a tornado, even when the images are on a large-screen television. But this, this used-to-be forest, this was real, and it was frightening.

The tornado began south of us, tearing its way through woods, damaging houses. It raged across one lake, more woods, across our lake, just catching a corner of a summer camp, where moments before children had been boarding busses to take them on an outing. It crossed a busy road, where a mother and her young child narrowly escaped the crashing trees, barreled across more woods and another road, then veered around as it raced up a hill and on into the next town.

The devastation it left in its wake stunned us. For weeks afterwards, people’s first words to acquaintances were, “Have you seen it? Have you been to look at the damage?” Friends told one another of their close calls­the house with downed trees all around it but undamaged itself, the driver who got through just before the trees blocked the road.

Then came the chainsaws with their incessant whining and the massive chippers with their deep drone. The heavy trucks rumbled by our home several times a day, coming in empty and going out filled with wood chips for some distant wood-fired power plant. The trailers filled with oak and maple and pine seemed to be everywhere. The work has gone on for weeks and weeks. Months later, it’s still continuing.

The finished areas are now clear-cut. Where once deer and bear and moose browsed for food, where birds built their nests and searched for seed, where smaller mammals like squirrels and skunks found shelter­now, there is almost nothing. A few small shrubs, a sapling or two standing starkly against the sky­nothing else remains.

How could it all go in such a short time? Nature spent years and years building up that forest, then destroyed it in a few short minutes. A clear sky one minute, then storm clouds the next­we’re used to that sort of change.

But this? This total devastation seems alien to us. Unreal. A mistake.

Now, when I drive down that road, I wish I could recall what the forest looked like. The starkness of the landscape disturbs me and not even the new vista can erase the sorrow I feel.

Now, instead of green and brown, far down the hill of stumps and low brush, is the lake itself. It’s peaceful and lovely in the sunlight, but I don’t feel serene looking at it, as I usually do when viewing the water. I see destruction and I feel disquiet. I’m uneasy and insecure.

And I wonder, what other surprises does Nature have in her magic bag? Which one will she produce next?

One either side of the devastation lie intact woods. Now I notice the trees, picking out the oaks which hold their leaves so long into the fall and winter. I see an old stone wall, its stones tumbled thanks to the growth of trees and the pull of frost. I see the winterberry and the fir and the hemlock. I look at the landscape. Nature has taught me a lesson and I intend to remember it.

By Susan M. Poirier, 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

The swamp is quiet now. The great nests high atop the dead trees stand empty and silent. The 18 young great blue herons and their parents have all left. Quiet reigns where once there were raucous cries.

The red-winged blackbirds and grackles have also left, as well as the tree swallows with their iridescent blue wings. The very air seems empty, bereft of their brilliant colors and acrobatic swoops. The deep-throated croaks of the bullfrogs have disappeared. Once the night was filled with their symphonic calls. I look in vain for the four young mallards that swam along so comically behind their mother. She and they have left. Where are they now? Have they joined a group on a larger body of water or have they already begun the great trek south to warmer weather?

The crickets still grind out their evening songs, but slower now, as the cooler nights lessen their enthusiasm. Sometimes a blue jay will squawk about something as it flies over, but mostly, there’s a sense of waiting, a pause in time between the noise and exuberance of summer and the slumber of winter. It’s like the time in the evening when you lie in bed, waiting for sleep, and you listen hard for sounds. Each seems magnified against the empty background.

After clear skies for much of the summer, we’ve had thick gray clouds and heavy precipitation. The rain has brought a new sound, one missing for most of the summer: water running over and through the beavers’ dam. I expect the beavers hear it too and are working to shore up their construction before the winter ice appears. I like the sound of the running water. It’s a soft sound, a background sound, a soothing cadence to the soft rustle of dried grasses.

A swamp maple is already showing off its new garment, the first of many to add a final burst of color before the bare starkness of early winter comes. Soon the sound of wind in the trees will change from a whisper of moving foliage to a rustling of desiccated brown leaves.

Up in the evergreens, the squirrels are busy and not as quiet. With self-important chirps, they dash from limb to limb, out to the very end, knocking off seeds and pine cones, then quickly scurry down the trunk to the ground to gather up all they can. Last fall they must have buried some sunflower seeds in the area behind our shed, for now tall sunflowers nod their heavy heads there like small giants asleep on their feet. How many other plants have begun life thanks to the squirrels’ need to stash food away for colder days?

Suddenly, the winterberry has erupted in brilliant red. One day the berries were a subtle green and the next, scarlet pearls shone out from the leaves. How did it happen so quickly? Nearby, the goldenrod is flaunting sunny hues to light up the shortening days, while the asters add soft shades of purple to the final hours of summer. The elderberries too, are rich in color now, the deep purple looking luscious enough to eat. A small cluster of black-capped chickadees flits from branch to branch, calling as they go, while searching the bark for insects. They let me stand close by, still and silent, and eavesdrop on their conversation.

Evening slips in earlier now. The air is different­crisper, sharper. The sun, already lower in the sky, begins to sink down behind the tall pines long before I’ve finished my twilight walks. I watch the bats dart about overhead. Flit, flit­and gone, lost against the darkening trunks. Only when they fly above the treetops can I see them silhouetted against the sky. Feast now, I tell them, winter is coming.

Everything is in abeyance, waiting, waiting. Standing here, I feel as if Mother Nature is holding her breath, stretching out the last, lingering days of summer while she gathers her energies for the great burst of autumn and its riotous exuberance of reds, oranges, and yellows. And then, at last, the deep rest and deeper quiet of winter.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

It happened about two weeks ago. My husband and I, our two grown sons, and their young families were standing around the kitchen, preparing a weekend meal, when out the kitchen window I saw a sign from above: the chaff from pine cones and needles now spent with the summer’s heat and rain, slowly drifting down to the lawn and forest floor behind our 1800’s farmhouse.

Everyone agreed, if you could do nothing else but look out the window, you would know: no longer high summer, not autumn yet, but late summer. Perhaps a time to regret opportunities missed before school begins and chilling weather becomes the norm, but for others, time to get out and garden!

In the garden, cooler days mean you don’t feel dehydrated and burned to a crisp by end of day; fewer insects mean less aggravation; you can count on more regular rains. Fewer weeds need pulling—a few hours’ work and a perennial bed returned to a weed-free condition does the gardener’s soul good. Newly planted perennials have time to develop good root systems to make it through the winter. A few more weeks and bulbs will become another item on the list of things to plant, but not yet. Late summer.

The nights have become cooler, dipping into the 50s after weeks of temperatures in the 80s and 90s, a delicious change. Time to dispense with fans and air conditioners, light blankets, and thin cotton pajamas. Time to throw open the windows, pull up an extra blanket, and don the predecessors to the flannels of winter, not quite so thick and warm, but longer and useful when you, the first one up, need warmth to keep you from running back to bed.

The days warm quickly, and often require removing a layer of clothing to keep up with the more summer-like temperatures of the afternoon, but at night, it all goes back to that cool of the evening we associate with this time of year.

Listen! The insects of night also make different sounds: the crickets croon instead of chirp; the saw-whet owl’s raspy metallic call has become more intense somehow; in some areas, the whippoorwill startles you out of sleep, now that fans and such no longer hum a soothing lullaby.

The ferns start to turn; their fronds change from green to gold and bronze. Mosses green and lush have taken over vast areas of our yard, something I never mind. The thick, velvety surfaces make

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener