Aflack

Wild Plants And Wooly Bears


Late Friday night, while viewing Saturn’s rings through my 8-inch Dobsonian telescope, I heard a large animal padding around in the woods by my house. “There goes a big buck,” I said to myself and quickly forgot the incident.

Saturn had just risen to a point where seeing was not severely compromised by the earth’s atmosphere and I reveled in the experience. My having been out in the dark long enough so that my night vision was fairly acute further enhanced the quality of my session.

While departing from Saturn to hunt for a nearby nebula, I heard the animal walking again, this time closer and possibly headed for me. “That ain’t no deer,” I thought. But what was it? Speculation runs rampant in darkness, especially in a woodland setting such as mine. Every species of big game living in Maine has, at one time or another, paid me a “dooryard visit.” And a few animals that aren’t supposed to live here have passed by, too.

Now, with a certainty, the animal drew steadily closer. I could take the suspense no longer and ran to the house in order to flip the switch that would turn on the outside light that would illuminate my dooryard. Night vision be darned, this was something of considerable consequence.

The light flashed on and there, at the edge of my lawn not 40 feet away and staring straight at me, stood a group of the largest ducks I had ever seen.

These were some kind of domestic ducks, as far as I could tell. But were did they come from? As I watched, the ducks, heads held high and not uttering a single sound, marched around the periphery of my woodland opening and disappeared into the darkness. Apparently, ducks do not quack at night.

The next morning just after sunrise, I awoke and went to my front door to peer out at the new day. And there, in front of my greenhouse, were five, huge ducks, huddled together for warmth.

As I write, the ducks remain, sitting on the sunny side of my little greenhouse. Whose are they? How did they get here? And what will I do with them?

Such are the questions that confront those whose lives revolve around wild plants and wooly bears.

When The Wild Geese Return

Wild Plants And Wooly Bears


All seasonal changes in nature take place on a sequential basis. These may occur earlier some years (as in the current, early spring) and later at other times. But the time between events, no matter when they begin, never varies.

For instance, when coltsfoot, a bright-yellow wildflower, blooms, anadromous (go to sea for a part of the year) brook trout ascend tidal rivers. Or, when mourning cloak butterflies emerge from hibernation and begin flying about, close to the ground, spring peepers will begin calling within one week.

Sometimes, we humans intuit coming changes, too. I woke up this morning, blinked the sleep from my eyes and listened. It was time for Canada geese to return. I fully expected to hear their noisy honking, high overhead. But no. Silence reigned. No geese, just total quiet.

Forgetting about geese, I opened my email and there was a note from a friend telling me that he had seen a flock of geese in a nearby field. So my instinct was right. The geese just didn’t happen to fly over my house, but they had, indeed, arrived on schedule.

It’s great fun to ascertain these patterns. Try noting when different birds arrive, when various wildflowers bloom and when frogs and insects become evident. Jot down the times of these events and then compare dates of one event to another. The time between arrivals, blooming times and so on may vary by a few days, but never by much more.

To get into this in an even larger way, begin observing the constellations. What happens when the Big Dipper rises to a certain point, as in over that pine tree out back? Certain natural events coincide with the ever-changing patterns in the sky.

Change. It’s something that most of us dislike, some fear and others totally eschew. But in nature, change always was, and remains, ongoing.

First Wild Plants

Wild Plants And Wooly Bears

The ground has thawed and a few of our hardier, wild edibles have become available. Yep, winter has loosed its grip on us and a new foraging season has begun.

First, I spotted several evening primrose plants. The red-tinted basal rosettes make finding these easy. Another simple trick involves searching to the downwind side of last years dried stalks. When the seed capsules explode, these biennial plants literally cast their seeds to the wind. A hand-held trowel suffices to dig the pink-topped, white root. And believe me, if my garden hadn’t already provided parsnips, evening primrose would certainly grace my table for the next few days.

Next, ice has receded from the banks of my farm pond, allowing access to clumps of cattails and the little, starch-filled sprouts that protrude from the rootstocks. But the thought of wading in ice water and pulling roots from soupy, gray clay gives me chills. All the same, it’s nice to know that these somewhat novel, food products are available.

Finally, although this seems way too early (not complaining, just observing) for them, the green tips of daylilies have risen to a point where, if need be, they could provide one of the first, wild greens of the season.

In truth, I’ll wait a bit before going out and digging or picking anything. Let the plants grow a bit larger. Besides, it’s cold and wet out there. But come the next warm, sunny day, I expect to have my first, wild meal of the season. And that’s an annual event that means a great deal to me.

Parsnips, Carrots and Earthworms

Parsnips, carrots and earthworms. What do these have in common? Well, on February 25, 2010, I dug all three from my vegetable garden. The root crops were no surprise, of course. Covering these with some kind of protective mulch and digging them throughout the winter is a time-honored practice. But finding the ground entirely frost-free in February and loaded with earthworms, no less? Well, that happens but rarely, once in a blue moon.

Here in Waldo, spring arrived almost as early back 1984. I was able to plant peas in a raised bed on a south-facing hillside around the third week of March of that year. That was the earliest that I had ever seen frost-free ground.

Lest the term, “global warming” enter into this, remember that early frost-free dates do occur fairly regularly. One notable, early spring happened in 1775. Minutemen left off plowing on April 19, to take part in the fights at Lexington and Concord. During the running battle back to Boston, British soldiers dropped like flies, from heat exhaustion.

So my best advice is to enjoy the current circumstance, without trying too hard to dissect it. Go out and watch the tender, green tips of daylillies as they emerge from the newly-thawed ground. Pick a few, forest-green lengths of newly-risen chives. And dig those parsnips, carrots and earthworms.

Tom the Wildflower Apologist

Wild Plants and Wooly Bears


Maine abounds in spring-blooming wildflowers. These range from everyday types such as common blue violet and coltsfoot, to the ephemeral bloodroot, which, while beautiful in its simplicity, has only a brief flowering time. Add to this mix the different trilliums and a smattering of lady’s slippers and we have a delightful potpourri of natural beauty.

Springtime wildflowers have such visual appeal that even while driving down a country lane, these vernal blooms literally jump out at me. I often stop and gaze, spellbound at the wonder and beauty of nature.

So why, then, do so many property owners ignore these same plants that so thrill and mesmerize me? I’ll cite two cases, either of which serves to make my point. First, a man bought a beautiful, riverside estate, complete with fields, gardens and a variety of ornamental trees and shrubs. But the place also came with an untamed bit of land where several kinds of wildflowers grew. This was the place the man selected as a parking spot for his truck and also, some farm machinery.

In spite of this abuse, the wildflowers continue to sprout, although their once-Elysian setting now more closely resembles a parking lot.

The other instance of blatant disregard for existing beauty happened just the past week, on the road where I live. A landowner has decided to build a new driveway. All well and good. Unfortunately, the site is (was) occupied by an immense stand of purple trilliums. These were plainly visible from the road and many of us considered them indicators of true spring. Motorists, walkers and bicyclists marveled at the beauty of their deep-red blossoms. And now they’re gone.

This wasn’t the only available site for a new drive, either. But what are a few wildflowers, to someone who cares little for nature?

I’ve always felt that the flowers that grow here on their own rival and sometimes exceed cultivated varieties for sheer beauty. Perhaps someday, others will take time to kneel down and examine some of these hauntingly-beautiful flowers. And then, maybe, they will think differently about plowing them under. We can only hope.

I'm Baaa-ck

Wild Plants and Wooly Bears

My blog has been absent for a while, and I must apologize for that. Further, I want to explain why. About 10 months ago, I suffered a huge, financial loss. The newspaper chain I worked for was bought out by an out-of-state interest. This group had gotten a grant and had a new plan for running papers, a plan that included not paying writers and journalists. Instead, they would rely upon non-professionals who were happy to contribute solely for the purpose of seeing their names in print. So after 22 years, I was canned.

The hurt, which I took personally, never stopped. Until today. This needs further explanation. In addition to the newspaper work, I write for magazines. I have written for a regional magazine for about as long as I did the newspapers. This has been my economic salvation. In addition, I have gotten some new accounts, but these are not sufficient to pay bills. “What would happen if my magazine goes under?” I was swamped with what-if’s and undue worry.

And so I suffered. “How will I get by? What will happen to me?” Even worse, I stopped enjoying nature. I worried about what the people over me said, to the point that my stomach was constantly tied in knots, trying to please and appease.

I knew something was wrong when I went out on a sunny, warm spring morning and instead of basking in the glory of nature, worried about my economic status. Clearly, I was in trouble.

But no more, no more. Today, April 26, 2009, I had an epiphany. None of us will live forever. Each day is precious. So I see that worrying, trying to please people for some little sum of money is the ultimate in self-abuse. Whatever happens, economically, I will no longer trade my happiness for some vague idea of financial security.

As a forager, I know that I can get by. Maybe I’ll need to rely upon my outdoor skills more than ever. And just maybe, something good will come along and lift me out of these economic doldrums. But never again will I trade one, happy spring day for needless worry.

I thank God that I have the ability to see my foibles and to change my ways. Now, I can once again go out and enjoy the nature that I so love, to the fullest.

I urge every reader to adopt a similar mindset. Each day is precious, especially when spent enjoying the immense beauty of creation.

Capricious April

April has me at her beck and call. The fourth month of our calendar year, most capricious of the twelve, plays with my physical being as well as my emotions.

The dismal, gray landscape that greets me each morning does little to encourage the spirit or to inspire creativity. Huge piles of dirty snow remain on the edge of my lawn, along my driveway and worst of all, on top of my vegetable garden. I live in a valley, carved out long ago by a small stream. Here, tall pines cast long shadows and sunrise, at least the physical appearance of earth’s star, arrives much later than the almanac would suggest.

Daytime temperatures only in the mid-40s make it necessary to wear a jacket for outdoor work, especially under cloudy skies. Such conditions also dictate that we continue to pay homage to the woodstove. Without a fire, the house becomes cold and clammy. But wood doesn’t burn well now because the same temperatures that call for a fire also keep the chimney from drawing. Smoke fills the room each time the stove door opens and when the wood finally catches, it burns for only a brief time before regressing to a low-grade smudge.

Melting snow and ice create sinkholes in the dooryard and in the driveway. Long-forgotten logs and rocks, pushed up by the retreating frost, become stumbling blocks for the unwary. Water from snowmelt forms wide pools, mandating the use of “walking boards.” These are stored in the barn and only used in April. When the land finally dries, they go back to storage, out of sight and out of mind for another year.

Spring bulbs emerge, but refuse to bloom. These need sunlight and for days, even weeks, the sun seems so very distant and foreign. Accordingly, crocuses, tulips and daffodils send up their leafy tips but keep their colorful blossoms under wraps.

The storm systems that sweep through Maine every week or so signal their arrival by causing arthritic joints to ache. Fingers become stiff and unresponsive. Oddly, the onset of low-pressure systems causes the most physical discomfort. When the system finally arrives, symptoms gradually fade.

But April has an alternate persona, maddeningly shy and reclusive. This other personality holds a promise, one that makes the fourth month’s dark side so difficult to endure. If it wishes, April’s sun can send healing warmth to our very bones and joy to our hearts.

April’s grandeur has no peers. Hayfields become carpets of soothing green and poplars on distant ridges, all decked out in swaths of gauzy, pastel green, contrast perfectly with scarlet red maple flowers. Fire on faraway blueberry fields sends out tantalizing streamers of fragrant smoke.

April, if it only chooses, has the power to lull, to soothe and transform.