Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Leave it to science to “discover” something that herbalists first identified in the early 18th century. A recent news item from The Discovery Channel highlighted a researcher’s supposed revelation regarding the curative powers of peppermint.
The gist of this “ground-breaking” discovery? Mint oil relieves indigestion and also has antiviral and antibacterial properties. While the researcher didn’t mention menthol by name, everyone else is probably aware that mint oil contains menthol, among other useful substances.
As a child, I was given mint extract in water. Grandma kept a little bottle of the stuff in her medicine cabinet. A few drops in a shot glass of water and in minutes, my tummy felt better. Mint has other medicinal uses and as such, should have a place in every medicine cabinet.
Even though modern science is 300 years late in giving mint the green light, the fact that a plant remedy is given official credence means much. Now, perhaps, officialdom will slack up a bit in their ongoing campaign to discredit chiropractors, herbalists and homeopaths. At least we can hope.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Winter Fog
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Fog hangs low over the snow, corrupting and shrinking it in a way that nothing else can. Winter fog, cool but not cold, tiny water droplets suspended in the air, envelopes fields and woods like a great, gray blanket.
Winter fog differs significantly from summer fog. Fog now is all or nothing, no patches here and there, no clear spots. Warm air and cold snow combine to make winter fog. In summer, different conditions conspire and the nature of fog differs greatly. Summer fog is locally predictable. The bottom of Belmont Hill becomes foggy nearly each evening in summer. Likewise a certain stretch of U.S. Route 1 in Frankfort. In winter, it is foggy everywhere or it is foggy nowhere.
It seems to me that winter fog has increased capacity to hold and disperse scents. Woodsmoke from idling stoves remains detectable for a great distance from its source. Exhaust from cars and trucks hangs near tailpipes, choking those who would enjoy a tailgate visit with their friends or neighbors. Rich aromas from barns, scents of farm animals and the salt tang of the sea coalesce and spur imaginations to great heights.
Winter fog kindles memories and lulls restless spirits. Winter fog embraces and asks to be embraced. If winter fog were music, it would fall in a minor key.
Fog hangs low over the snow, corrupting and shrinking it in a way that nothing else can. Winter fog, cool but not cold, tiny water droplets suspended in the air, envelopes fields and woods like a great, gray blanket.
Winter fog differs significantly from summer fog. Fog now is all or nothing, no patches here and there, no clear spots. Warm air and cold snow combine to make winter fog. In summer, different conditions conspire and the nature of fog differs greatly. Summer fog is locally predictable. The bottom of Belmont Hill becomes foggy nearly each evening in summer. Likewise a certain stretch of U.S. Route 1 in Frankfort. In winter, it is foggy everywhere or it is foggy nowhere.
It seems to me that winter fog has increased capacity to hold and disperse scents. Woodsmoke from idling stoves remains detectable for a great distance from its source. Exhaust from cars and trucks hangs near tailpipes, choking those who would enjoy a tailgate visit with their friends or neighbors. Rich aromas from barns, scents of farm animals and the salt tang of the sea coalesce and spur imaginations to great heights.
Winter fog kindles memories and lulls restless spirits. Winter fog embraces and asks to be embraced. If winter fog were music, it would fall in a minor key.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
slideshow
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
I recently bought an Apple computer from some friends, used but only one year old and state-of-the-art. One of the programs that came with the unit allows the user to make a slideshow from digital images. I immediately recognized that here, was a way to make a wild plant presentation and tailor it exactly to my needs and wants.
My first task was to import all my plant photos from my other computer. Now, the meat of the project comes into place, that is, choosing which photos to use, what information to provide, adding music, dialogue, of “voiceover” and so on. While time consuming, this is the most enjoyable project I ever took on.
My “slideshow” won’t be ready for another year or so, because I have decided that I want to show the plants during different stages of their development, which means taking lots more photos. This will help people to not only locate, but identify useful, wild plants beyond a shadow of a doubt. Get to know a plant inside and out, throughout the seasons. That’s my motto. In the end, I will have a salable, useful and one-of-a-kind package.
A side benefit of this is the joy I get from seeing my favorite, wild plants up close on a 17-inch screen. Digital photography has enabled me to take close-up photos I never before dreamed possible. Color slides, the old format, were never kind to me. But digital, ahhh…that’s different. Now, I can capture such treasures as the poison-filled spines on stinging nettles, miniature details on the dandelion-like blossoms of coltsfoot and the teeny hairs on the edge of Clintonia leaves.
So let it snow and blow outside. Inside, I sit at my new computer and revel in the glory of spring, thanks to some good friends and the remarkable, new technology that makes such doings possible.
I recently bought an Apple computer from some friends, used but only one year old and state-of-the-art. One of the programs that came with the unit allows the user to make a slideshow from digital images. I immediately recognized that here, was a way to make a wild plant presentation and tailor it exactly to my needs and wants.
My first task was to import all my plant photos from my other computer. Now, the meat of the project comes into place, that is, choosing which photos to use, what information to provide, adding music, dialogue, of “voiceover” and so on. While time consuming, this is the most enjoyable project I ever took on.
My “slideshow” won’t be ready for another year or so, because I have decided that I want to show the plants during different stages of their development, which means taking lots more photos. This will help people to not only locate, but identify useful, wild plants beyond a shadow of a doubt. Get to know a plant inside and out, throughout the seasons. That’s my motto. In the end, I will have a salable, useful and one-of-a-kind package.
A side benefit of this is the joy I get from seeing my favorite, wild plants up close on a 17-inch screen. Digital photography has enabled me to take close-up photos I never before dreamed possible. Color slides, the old format, were never kind to me. But digital, ahhh…that’s different. Now, I can capture such treasures as the poison-filled spines on stinging nettles, miniature details on the dandelion-like blossoms of coltsfoot and the teeny hairs on the edge of Clintonia leaves.
So let it snow and blow outside. Inside, I sit at my new computer and revel in the glory of spring, thanks to some good friends and the remarkable, new technology that makes such doings possible.
Monday, December 22, 2008
White Lightning
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Yesterday’s blizzard took me back to another early-season storm, this one in the late 1980s. Both were full-fledged blizzards and both shared an unusual component. Lightning.
While somewhat unusual, lightning sometimes occurs during snowstorms, especially large, regional ones such as what we just experienced. Even so, when the flashes illuminate a world of white, and thunder shakes the cottage, the scene takes on an otherworldly aspect.
Nobody can predict the weather for very far in the future. But so many of us feel a compulsion to make suppositions. And I suppose that if December, 2008, is any kind of indicator, then the Maine deer herd is in for a world of hurt.
Snow arrived early last year, too. According to my plowman, the first big storm hit during the second week of December. And rather than melting, the snow that fell last year remained on the ground, receiving regular supplements from additional storms. This caused whitetailed deer to seek the security of “deer yards,” places where snow depths are less and where they walk about, foraging on established paths. This gives some degree of protection from eastern coyotes and other marauders.
Any, by late winter, deer had pretty much exhausted all available browse and were subsiding on woody matter, filling but not nourishing. In the end, we lost great numbers of deer. They simply gave out. In fact, I heard reports of dead deer being found atop trees, right where they died. The snow finally melted, leaving the carcasses in the treetops. Bizarre, for sure.
So if we must endure a repeat performance of last year’s weather conditions, I suspect that the northern range of whitetailed deer will take a significant, southerly shift.
Skiers and snowmobilers, certainly, are happy. So one creature’s dilemma turns into someone else’s stroke of fortune. In the end, we can do nothing about any of it.
Yesterday’s blizzard took me back to another early-season storm, this one in the late 1980s. Both were full-fledged blizzards and both shared an unusual component. Lightning.
While somewhat unusual, lightning sometimes occurs during snowstorms, especially large, regional ones such as what we just experienced. Even so, when the flashes illuminate a world of white, and thunder shakes the cottage, the scene takes on an otherworldly aspect.
Nobody can predict the weather for very far in the future. But so many of us feel a compulsion to make suppositions. And I suppose that if December, 2008, is any kind of indicator, then the Maine deer herd is in for a world of hurt.
Snow arrived early last year, too. According to my plowman, the first big storm hit during the second week of December. And rather than melting, the snow that fell last year remained on the ground, receiving regular supplements from additional storms. This caused whitetailed deer to seek the security of “deer yards,” places where snow depths are less and where they walk about, foraging on established paths. This gives some degree of protection from eastern coyotes and other marauders.
Any, by late winter, deer had pretty much exhausted all available browse and were subsiding on woody matter, filling but not nourishing. In the end, we lost great numbers of deer. They simply gave out. In fact, I heard reports of dead deer being found atop trees, right where they died. The snow finally melted, leaving the carcasses in the treetops. Bizarre, for sure.
So if we must endure a repeat performance of last year’s weather conditions, I suspect that the northern range of whitetailed deer will take a significant, southerly shift.
Skiers and snowmobilers, certainly, are happy. So one creature’s dilemma turns into someone else’s stroke of fortune. In the end, we can do nothing about any of it.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thorns and Roses
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Snow and cold, then rain and warm weather and then snow and cold again. Roller coaster weather conditions such as we have experienced in Maine over the last few weeks make for difficult driving and also, tough walking. In fact, the path leading from my house to the woodshed has melted and thawed countless times as of late. Now, the ice being coated with frost crystals and a light dusting of snow makes for treacherous walking.
I pondered a recent phone conversation on my way out for an armload of firewood. “If you’re careful,” my friend said, “You’ll never fall. But if your mind wanders, then you are in trouble.” Just thinking about that situation made my mind wander and I slipped. Instead of falling, I managed to catch myself. Still, the sudden flinging of arms and legs did little to help a sore back.
After regaining my composure, I continued on my way to the woodshed. I recalled, then, an incident from the far past. I was a youngster, and tripped while ice-skating. Joking with buddies, I became distracted and allowed one skate to catch on the other. The fall drove a tooth completely through my lower lip. Ever since then, I have become the proverbial soul of caution when walking on ice or other slippery surfaces.
For me, trouble comes when I’m not aware that the going is slick. A few years ago, I fell on an exposed cedar root. These, when growing above ground, are notoriously slippery. The fall made my feet dart out in front of me and I fell on my back, hurting a kidney. Now, I view every slippery-looking root with a mixture of caution and disdain.
But who can anticipate every danger? That’s not what life is all about anyway. So while I take more than reasonable care, I don’t look for problems either. I shall not allow the thorns to keep me from taking time to smell the roses.
Snow and cold, then rain and warm weather and then snow and cold again. Roller coaster weather conditions such as we have experienced in Maine over the last few weeks make for difficult driving and also, tough walking. In fact, the path leading from my house to the woodshed has melted and thawed countless times as of late. Now, the ice being coated with frost crystals and a light dusting of snow makes for treacherous walking.
I pondered a recent phone conversation on my way out for an armload of firewood. “If you’re careful,” my friend said, “You’ll never fall. But if your mind wanders, then you are in trouble.” Just thinking about that situation made my mind wander and I slipped. Instead of falling, I managed to catch myself. Still, the sudden flinging of arms and legs did little to help a sore back.
After regaining my composure, I continued on my way to the woodshed. I recalled, then, an incident from the far past. I was a youngster, and tripped while ice-skating. Joking with buddies, I became distracted and allowed one skate to catch on the other. The fall drove a tooth completely through my lower lip. Ever since then, I have become the proverbial soul of caution when walking on ice or other slippery surfaces.
For me, trouble comes when I’m not aware that the going is slick. A few years ago, I fell on an exposed cedar root. These, when growing above ground, are notoriously slippery. The fall made my feet dart out in front of me and I fell on my back, hurting a kidney. Now, I view every slippery-looking root with a mixture of caution and disdain.
But who can anticipate every danger? That’s not what life is all about anyway. So while I take more than reasonable care, I don’t look for problems either. I shall not allow the thorns to keep me from taking time to smell the roses.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Salt
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Where is the outrage? Who rails against it? I mean the salt that we spread on our roads at the first hint of snow. The true reason behind the practice of salting roads is clear enough to me, but town fathers, road commissioners and of course, movers and shakers at the Maine Department of Transportation are blissfully unaware of it.
Do we contaminate springs, wells and groundwater, cause expensive motor vehicles to rust prematurely and kill untold plants, trees and shrubs solely to allow business and commerce to function at the same pace year-round? No, not at all. There exists a deeper reason.
The argument that salting roads makes for safer driving is spurious at best. Nothing is more difficult and shall I say, dangerous to drive on than slush, specifically the slush created when road “salt” is applied to snow.
I went shopping early this morning, as the season’s first significant snowstorm was at its worst. This was in order to avoid driving on salted roads. When snow falls at a rate that precludes spreading salt, most towns contain their efforts to keeping the roads plowed. Salt comes later. The exception to this is when an insignificant snow begins, a light dusting, too little for plowing. Then the salt flies out by the ton.
The country roads were as I had suspected, plowed but not salted. Driving was easy and in fact, the potholed road where I live was somewhat improved by virtue of snow filling the ruts and holes. Upon reaching town, though, things changed. Town crews had forgone plowing and instead, heaped application after application of salt on the roads, creating a five-inch layer of mush.
I recently learned how the Norwegians deal with snowy roads. Instead of salting, the wise Norse simply pack the roads down and drive on top of it. Yes, people must reduce their speed but their vehicles don’t rust out and accidents are fewer when compared to driving on slush.
But I digress. This story began with me about to reveal the real reason we salt roads. I have demonstrated what the reason isn’t and now I will reveal what it is. In our arrogant way, we want to control nature. And one way to do that is to spread enough salt on our roads that within a day, the surfaces are bare, as in summer. But who’s fooling whom? In the end, nature has her way. In response to our practice of pounding our wells, streams, ponds, lakes, springs and wetlands full of salt, nature has the final say. Once tainted, always tainted. And make no mistake, we are tainting our water with road salt. Is it really worth it? I say, emphatically, “no.”
Where is the outrage? Who rails against it? I mean the salt that we spread on our roads at the first hint of snow. The true reason behind the practice of salting roads is clear enough to me, but town fathers, road commissioners and of course, movers and shakers at the Maine Department of Transportation are blissfully unaware of it.
Do we contaminate springs, wells and groundwater, cause expensive motor vehicles to rust prematurely and kill untold plants, trees and shrubs solely to allow business and commerce to function at the same pace year-round? No, not at all. There exists a deeper reason.
The argument that salting roads makes for safer driving is spurious at best. Nothing is more difficult and shall I say, dangerous to drive on than slush, specifically the slush created when road “salt” is applied to snow.
I went shopping early this morning, as the season’s first significant snowstorm was at its worst. This was in order to avoid driving on salted roads. When snow falls at a rate that precludes spreading salt, most towns contain their efforts to keeping the roads plowed. Salt comes later. The exception to this is when an insignificant snow begins, a light dusting, too little for plowing. Then the salt flies out by the ton.
The country roads were as I had suspected, plowed but not salted. Driving was easy and in fact, the potholed road where I live was somewhat improved by virtue of snow filling the ruts and holes. Upon reaching town, though, things changed. Town crews had forgone plowing and instead, heaped application after application of salt on the roads, creating a five-inch layer of mush.
I recently learned how the Norwegians deal with snowy roads. Instead of salting, the wise Norse simply pack the roads down and drive on top of it. Yes, people must reduce their speed but their vehicles don’t rust out and accidents are fewer when compared to driving on slush.
But I digress. This story began with me about to reveal the real reason we salt roads. I have demonstrated what the reason isn’t and now I will reveal what it is. In our arrogant way, we want to control nature. And one way to do that is to spread enough salt on our roads that within a day, the surfaces are bare, as in summer. But who’s fooling whom? In the end, nature has her way. In response to our practice of pounding our wells, streams, ponds, lakes, springs and wetlands full of salt, nature has the final say. Once tainted, always tainted. And make no mistake, we are tainting our water with road salt. Is it really worth it? I say, emphatically, “no.”
Monday, December 15, 2008
Limb Loss and Life Expectancy
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
This past week’s ice storm tore large limbs from the pine trees surrounding my cottage. This was in addition to those limbs lost to recent, hurricane-force winds, not to mention the limbs that succumbed to the great ice storm of 1998. Now, I can walk about and view huge, ancient pines with great gaps, long stretches of trunk where once limbs projected.
So why mention this at all? Well, the thing brings up a question, and I can’t come up with an answer. Let me explain. Trees need leaves in order to manufacture food, chlorophyll, through the process of photosynthesis. In the case of pines and other conifers, the needles perform the same function as leaves on deciduous trees.
So my question is this: What percentage of limbs can a tree lose before it can no longer produce enough food to maintain life? It’s possible that I will learn the answer the hard way, when my trees begin to die. But that’s a heck of a way to find out. Better, it seems, to find a tree expert and see if there is a formula for the thing.
In the long run, I’m certain that ice storm loss and wind damage has a beneficial effect, natural “pruning,” if you will. When one big, old tree dies, it opens the surrounding area and allows sunlight to penetrate the canopy. This, in turn, permits other trees to reach for the sky, literally. Nature works in mysterious ways.
This past week’s ice storm tore large limbs from the pine trees surrounding my cottage. This was in addition to those limbs lost to recent, hurricane-force winds, not to mention the limbs that succumbed to the great ice storm of 1998. Now, I can walk about and view huge, ancient pines with great gaps, long stretches of trunk where once limbs projected.
So why mention this at all? Well, the thing brings up a question, and I can’t come up with an answer. Let me explain. Trees need leaves in order to manufacture food, chlorophyll, through the process of photosynthesis. In the case of pines and other conifers, the needles perform the same function as leaves on deciduous trees.
So my question is this: What percentage of limbs can a tree lose before it can no longer produce enough food to maintain life? It’s possible that I will learn the answer the hard way, when my trees begin to die. But that’s a heck of a way to find out. Better, it seems, to find a tree expert and see if there is a formula for the thing.
In the long run, I’m certain that ice storm loss and wind damage has a beneficial effect, natural “pruning,” if you will. When one big, old tree dies, it opens the surrounding area and allows sunlight to penetrate the canopy. This, in turn, permits other trees to reach for the sky, literally. Nature works in mysterious ways.
How Much is Too Much?
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
This past week’s ice storm tore large limbs from the pine trees surrounding my cottage. This was in addition to those limbs lost to recent, hurricane-force winds, not to mention the limbs that succumbed to the great ice storm of 1998. Now, I can walk about and view huge, ancient pines with great gaps, long stretches of trunk where once limbs projected.
So why mention this at all? Well, the situation prompts a question, and I can’t come up with an answer. Let me explain. Trees need leaves in order to manufacture food, chlorophyll, through the process of photosynthesis. In the case of pines and other conifers, the needles perform the same function as leaves on deciduous trees.
So my question is this: What percentage of limbs can a tree lose before it can no longer produce enough food to maintain life? It’s possible that I will learn the answer the hard way, when my trees begin to die. But that’s a heck of a way to find out. Better, it seems, to find a tree expert and see if there is a formula regarding limb loss and life expectancy.
In the long run, I’m certain that ice storm loss and wind damage has a beneficial effect, natural “pruning,” if you will. When one big, old tree dies, it opens the surrounding area and allows sunlight to penetrate the canopy. This, in turn, permits other trees to reach for the sky, literally. Nature works in mysterious ways.
This past week’s ice storm tore large limbs from the pine trees surrounding my cottage. This was in addition to those limbs lost to recent, hurricane-force winds, not to mention the limbs that succumbed to the great ice storm of 1998. Now, I can walk about and view huge, ancient pines with great gaps, long stretches of trunk where once limbs projected.
So why mention this at all? Well, the situation prompts a question, and I can’t come up with an answer. Let me explain. Trees need leaves in order to manufacture food, chlorophyll, through the process of photosynthesis. In the case of pines and other conifers, the needles perform the same function as leaves on deciduous trees.
So my question is this: What percentage of limbs can a tree lose before it can no longer produce enough food to maintain life? It’s possible that I will learn the answer the hard way, when my trees begin to die. But that’s a heck of a way to find out. Better, it seems, to find a tree expert and see if there is a formula regarding limb loss and life expectancy.
In the long run, I’m certain that ice storm loss and wind damage has a beneficial effect, natural “pruning,” if you will. When one big, old tree dies, it opens the surrounding area and allows sunlight to penetrate the canopy. This, in turn, permits other trees to reach for the sky, literally. Nature works in mysterious ways.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tom Doesn't Travel Well
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
“You don’t travel well,do you Tom,” a friend said as we stood waiting for a bus in the city of Montreal, Canada. I had forgotten to bring aspirin, and my back ached tremendously. Also, I was dead-tired from tossing and turning on my bed the night before, unable to sleep because of a strange setting and all the accompanying noises.
“No, I guess I don’t take to travel much to speak of,” I replied. “But if you think I’m bad, let me tell you about old Mr. Thomas, our neighbor when I lived at home with my folks.
Mr. Thomas was in his early 90’s at the time, I think. Anyway, he was my grandpa’s good friend. And in all of his 90-some years on this earth, he never traveled very far from his home in Belmont, Maine. So when grandpa asked Mr. Thomas if he would like to ride to Ellsworth with him, Mr. Thomas had to stop and think before he answered.”
“I never been to Ellsworth,” the old farmer said. “But since you ask, I guess it’s time I went.”
“So Mr. Thomas hopped into grandpa’s old Chevy and the two headed for Ellsworth, nearly 50 miles distant. Grandpa told me that his friend marveled at the sights and said that he wished he had gone on a road trip way sooner than he did. But better late than never.”
My friend cast me a quizzical gaze before climbing in the bus and settling down for the ride back to our hotel. He assumed, and rightly, that Montreal was about as far from home as I had ever been. In fact, like Mr. Thomas, I consider 40 miles or more a significant jaunt. And any locale 100 miles away rates as something of a foreign destination.
So call me backward, provincial, or whatever. But I just don’t like to travel very far from the pine-studded hillside on my little piece of Heaven here in Waldo, Maine.
“You don’t travel well,do you Tom,” a friend said as we stood waiting for a bus in the city of Montreal, Canada. I had forgotten to bring aspirin, and my back ached tremendously. Also, I was dead-tired from tossing and turning on my bed the night before, unable to sleep because of a strange setting and all the accompanying noises.
“No, I guess I don’t take to travel much to speak of,” I replied. “But if you think I’m bad, let me tell you about old Mr. Thomas, our neighbor when I lived at home with my folks.
Mr. Thomas was in his early 90’s at the time, I think. Anyway, he was my grandpa’s good friend. And in all of his 90-some years on this earth, he never traveled very far from his home in Belmont, Maine. So when grandpa asked Mr. Thomas if he would like to ride to Ellsworth with him, Mr. Thomas had to stop and think before he answered.”
“I never been to Ellsworth,” the old farmer said. “But since you ask, I guess it’s time I went.”
“So Mr. Thomas hopped into grandpa’s old Chevy and the two headed for Ellsworth, nearly 50 miles distant. Grandpa told me that his friend marveled at the sights and said that he wished he had gone on a road trip way sooner than he did. But better late than never.”
My friend cast me a quizzical gaze before climbing in the bus and settling down for the ride back to our hotel. He assumed, and rightly, that Montreal was about as far from home as I had ever been. In fact, like Mr. Thomas, I consider 40 miles or more a significant jaunt. And any locale 100 miles away rates as something of a foreign destination.
So call me backward, provincial, or whatever. But I just don’t like to travel very far from the pine-studded hillside on my little piece of Heaven here in Waldo, Maine.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Of Hares and Hounds
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
Today saw the first measurable snow around my place. I could barely wait for daylight to go out and see what kind of critters had crossed my driveway during the early-morning hours. Fresh tracks on newly-fallen snow excite me.
Surprisingly, I saw only one kind of track. A hare had loped along the side of my drive and then slowly hopped down the center. But then it reversed direction and the tracks became farther apart, indicating that the bunny had put on a burst of speed. I wondered what might have alarmed the hare. The answer soon became evident.
Someone has the inconsiderate and displeasing habit of walking their dog along the road and stopping in front of my driveway, where it relieves itself either in the driveway or around the mailbox post. This morning, the evidence told me that the dog spotted the hare and made after it. The owner succeeded in stopping it before it went too far, though. The dog, obviously obedient, stopped and trotted back toward the road.
Normally, I would have pursued the hare myself, following its tracks as they led through high sedge and fir thickets. But with temperatures in the single numbers and 25 mile-an-hour winds, it was just too uncomfortable for that. Hopefully, the hare will survive and I will chase it on some other morning when the bushes hang heavy with new-fallen snow.
Today saw the first measurable snow around my place. I could barely wait for daylight to go out and see what kind of critters had crossed my driveway during the early-morning hours. Fresh tracks on newly-fallen snow excite me.
Surprisingly, I saw only one kind of track. A hare had loped along the side of my drive and then slowly hopped down the center. But then it reversed direction and the tracks became farther apart, indicating that the bunny had put on a burst of speed. I wondered what might have alarmed the hare. The answer soon became evident.
Someone has the inconsiderate and displeasing habit of walking their dog along the road and stopping in front of my driveway, where it relieves itself either in the driveway or around the mailbox post. This morning, the evidence told me that the dog spotted the hare and made after it. The owner succeeded in stopping it before it went too far, though. The dog, obviously obedient, stopped and trotted back toward the road.
Normally, I would have pursued the hare myself, following its tracks as they led through high sedge and fir thickets. But with temperatures in the single numbers and 25 mile-an-hour winds, it was just too uncomfortable for that. Hopefully, the hare will survive and I will chase it on some other morning when the bushes hang heavy with new-fallen snow.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Sun Dogs
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
As the sun drops behind the pines on the ridge in back of my house, I am surprised to see a prominent sun dog a few degrees east of the setting orb. And while my new, The American Heritage Dictionary carries no description of a sun dog, my 1969 Merriam-Webster dictionary does. It says, “A small nearly rounded halo on the parhelic circle most frequently just outside the halo of 22 degrees.” Of course to a non-scientist, this sounds like gobbledygook.
Not to pick a scrap with Merriam-Webster, but I have never seen a round sun dog. In every case, sun dogs that I witnessed were in the shape of a bar. These show the color spectrum the same as a rainbow.
Anyway, sun dogs precede storms. I think I heard something once about ice crystals in the atmosphere reflecting the sun’s rays, and thus a sun dog. I’m not certain if that’s so, but I do know that a sun dog is about the most reliable weather indicator going. When a sun dog appears in the afternoon sky, it’s for certain that a storm is neigh.
While one sun dog is a sure sign of oncoming bad weather, two give an infallible testimony. Tomorrow’s storm probably won’t be too severe, because I only saw a single sun dog.
By the way, I have also seen the word spelled sundog. But since Merriam-Webster was kind enough to include a description in their dictionary, I’ll adhere to their spelling…sun dog.
So call them sun dogs or sundogs, it doesn’t really matter. But remember that they are reliable weather prognosticators.
As the sun drops behind the pines on the ridge in back of my house, I am surprised to see a prominent sun dog a few degrees east of the setting orb. And while my new, The American Heritage Dictionary carries no description of a sun dog, my 1969 Merriam-Webster dictionary does. It says, “A small nearly rounded halo on the parhelic circle most frequently just outside the halo of 22 degrees.” Of course to a non-scientist, this sounds like gobbledygook.
Not to pick a scrap with Merriam-Webster, but I have never seen a round sun dog. In every case, sun dogs that I witnessed were in the shape of a bar. These show the color spectrum the same as a rainbow.
Anyway, sun dogs precede storms. I think I heard something once about ice crystals in the atmosphere reflecting the sun’s rays, and thus a sun dog. I’m not certain if that’s so, but I do know that a sun dog is about the most reliable weather indicator going. When a sun dog appears in the afternoon sky, it’s for certain that a storm is neigh.
While one sun dog is a sure sign of oncoming bad weather, two give an infallible testimony. Tomorrow’s storm probably won’t be too severe, because I only saw a single sun dog.
By the way, I have also seen the word spelled sundog. But since Merriam-Webster was kind enough to include a description in their dictionary, I’ll adhere to their spelling…sun dog.
So call them sun dogs or sundogs, it doesn’t really matter. But remember that they are reliable weather prognosticators.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
December Bonus
Wild Plants and Wooly Bears
December 1 usually marks the end of the year for foragers. But yesterday, I sat down to a plate of freshly-dug dandelions. These had grown in and around the edges of my vegetable garden. Unseasonably warm weather gave dandelions and a few other wild greens a chance for one, final push.
I had triple-tilled the garden this fall, in order to fully mix some sand that I had added to improve the soil’s tilth. So it surprised me to see dandelions poking their little, green heads up. But it just goes to show how tenacious these “weeds” are.
Soon, long stretches of below-freezing weather will put a final end to such shenanigans and my dandelions will have to come from the freezer, not the garden. But for now, I’m pleased to have continuing access to fresh, wild food.
I decided not to harvest a patch of chickweed, dark green and enticing, growing on a raised, “lasagna” bed. Since chickweed persists throughout the winter, it will be there when snow melts in spring. And by then, I’m sure I’ll need the cheer afforded by the first, wild plants.
What an odd, in-between month is December. Not yet winter, and well past fall. So until the proverbial hammer finally falls, I’ll gladly accept what nature offers.
December 1 usually marks the end of the year for foragers. But yesterday, I sat down to a plate of freshly-dug dandelions. These had grown in and around the edges of my vegetable garden. Unseasonably warm weather gave dandelions and a few other wild greens a chance for one, final push.
I had triple-tilled the garden this fall, in order to fully mix some sand that I had added to improve the soil’s tilth. So it surprised me to see dandelions poking their little, green heads up. But it just goes to show how tenacious these “weeds” are.
Soon, long stretches of below-freezing weather will put a final end to such shenanigans and my dandelions will have to come from the freezer, not the garden. But for now, I’m pleased to have continuing access to fresh, wild food.
I decided not to harvest a patch of chickweed, dark green and enticing, growing on a raised, “lasagna” bed. Since chickweed persists throughout the winter, it will be there when snow melts in spring. And by then, I’m sure I’ll need the cheer afforded by the first, wild plants.
What an odd, in-between month is December. Not yet winter, and well past fall. So until the proverbial hammer finally falls, I’ll gladly accept what nature offers.
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