Come On Spring

A few days ago I wrote about my intention to go “snow shovel foraging.” Since then, umpteen feet of snow have intervened and my plans for digging for wintergreen and ground ivy are on hold.

I still intend to do my winter foraging, but it seems like a good idea to wait until the snowpack shrinks just a mite. Call me timid…but wallowing around in waist-deep snow doesn’t thrill me. Were it absolutely necessary, sure, but as long as I don’t absolutely have to, “I ain’t a-gonna,” as my grandpa Tom White used to say.

Anyway, this winter weighs heavily upon my sun-starved soul. Dark days follow each other in painfully slow succession. And when it isn’t dark and cloudy, it is way colder than we might hope.

I find myself asking, wondering if spring will ever arrive. And just when it seems as if the answer is “no,” someone will call me on the phone, wanting to set up a foraging trip for next spring or summer.

So every once in awhile, I’ll take a stroll, so to speak, through my calendar. Doing that cheers me greatly.

Also, working on new writing projects (in addition to my regular columns and magazine assignments) helps me keep my chin up. The latest item on in the works, a forager’s notebook, will feature a monthly write-up of a featured wild plant, weekly household tips and line drawings, by me, of the various plants.

The notebook will come into being through the kind auspices of Nancy Randolph, publisher of Just Write Books, Topsham, Maine. Just Write did my Wild Plants of Maine, A Useful Guide and also, Hidden World Revealed, Musings of a Maine Naturalist.

The notebook, meant for people to write in and keep notes, comes as a companion to Wild Plants of Maine.

Finally, be cheered knowing that we have only 40 days to wait until spring. We Mainer’s can surely handle that.

Binocular Astronomy

Even now, in the middle of a 1960s-like winter, the dedicated naturalist can find something of interest to observe. In this case, we need to look up.

Winter constellations are of much interest and fortunately, the “seeing,” or quality of the wintertime air and sky is conducive to stargazing. And while no special devices are necessary, a decent pair of binoculars helps immensely.

I use a 10 X 50 set that cost less than $100 and has superb optics. This power and field of view are perhaps better suited to celestial observing than any other configuration. However, any binoculars are better than none, so if you have a set kicking around in cabinet or closet, by all means give them a workout.

I have practiced my astronomical chops for long enough now that I know when and where to look for interesting objects. One of my favorite sights are star clusters and right now, the constellation Auriga, high in the east in mid-evening, contains at least three good binocular objects.

These look like round, fuzzy swarms of bees. In fact, they are clusters of countless stars, bound together as a system and traveling through the universe together.

Of course the biggest and most extraordinary sight now is the Great Nebula in Orion, in the middle of Orion’s Sword. It’s a naked-eye sight but it really comes to the front with binoculars, a dazzling picture.

And while I can’t say stargazing in February is not without risk of some discomfort because of cold, I was outside last night for a half-hour of observing and the temperature held at a steady 0 degrees. And I wasn’t troubled by the cold. That’s because it was a still night. Even a slight breeze makes stargazing somewhat dicey.

But that’s one reason why binoculars work so well now. Here’s the key.

First, figure out what to look at and where. I suggest going to skyandtelescope.com and checking our their weekly sky report. You can also download sky maps designed especially for your area.

Next, dress warmly, don hat and gloves and step outside. It takes a little while to cool down, even on the coldest night. Try and steady your binoculars (rest on something, even a broomstick with a board on one end will work) and home in on the nearest cluster, double star or binocular-visible galaxy (the Great Andromeda Galaxy will soon be in prime position in early evening).

Finally, I bought a folding beach chair for binocular viewing. By sitting down in this comfortable seat and supporting my binoculars with my elbows, I get a very steady picture, interrupted only by my heartbeat.

Binoculars make it easy to bundle up, quickly step out for a bit of stargazing and just as quickly, dart back in again to warm up. Telescopes don’t allow of this kind of instant action.

So do a bit of studying. Wipe off those old binocs and try some stargazing. But be warned. It’s a fascinating hobby, one likely to get you hooked for a lifetime of outdoor nighttime entertainment.

The Halfway Point

February 2. Groundhog Day. Also Candlemas Day. Both have their own bit of interesting folklore and both approach us with an olive branch of hope for something better, namely an early end to winter.

German tradition dictates that if the (this means any groundhog, not just one particular animal) groundhog does not see his shadow on this day, then winter’s end is neigh. And so today, February 2, 2011, our nation’s official weather prognosticator, Punxatawny Phil, was hauled out from his semi-hibernation and given the opportunity to see his shadow. He did not see it and the official verdict was thus given: winter will end soon.

Since so much folklore has some basis in fact, let’s consider the groundhog. As alluded to above, groundhogs are not heavy-duty hibernators. In fact, on a warm February day, a groundhog may bestir itself to leave its burrow and take a short stroll, kind of a way to work out the kinks and so on. I have seen groundhog tracks on the snow and tracked them to a woodchuck hole.

As for telling the weather, well…

And then we have Candlemas Day. This marks the day on the church calendar when people bring their candles to church to have them blessed. In a broader sense, the day touches upon the coming light of spring, the ever-lengthening hours of daylight. And, of course, it ties in with the wait for Easter.

An old English proverb goes this way:
If Candlemas Day be fair and bright
Winter will have another flight
But if Candlemas Day be clouds and rain
Winter is gone and will not come again.

Of course this pretty much ties in with the groundhog seeing his shadow. It’s just another way of saying the same thing.

February 2 marks winter’s midpoint. From now on, we’re on the downhill side of the dark, cold season. And no matter the weather, no matter how much snow we get or don’t get, no matter if the temperature remains well below whatever we might consider “normal,” the faint stirrings of approaching spring have begun.

Because we are now halfway through winter, the old farmers’ wisdom rings true when we repeat the following lines:
The provident farmer by Candlemas Day
Has half his wood and half his hay.

Of course many today don’t burn wood and have no use for hay. But certainly some have preserved in one way or another, produce from their gardens and perhaps, foraged wild edibles. Have you any winter squash left? How about potatoes? Are the fiddleheads in your freezer halfway used up?

Some things never change. We just think they do.

Happy Candlemas/Groundhog Day.

Snow Shovel Foraging

I like to tell people that even in winter, we can gather useful wild plants by digging under the snow. It goes without saying that this requires knowing where to look in the first place.

But have I ever gone out and done any “snow shovel foraging?” Well, truth be told…no.

So that’s my next challenge. I can think of several useful wild plants available now and believe that I know their exact locations. Both are evergreen and should not have changed texture, color or taste since early winter, when they were first covered by snow.

Both these plants have edible green leaves. They are wintergreen, Gaultheria procumbens and ground ivy, Glechoma hederacea. The ground ivy grows alongside the north-facing wall of my greenhouse, so procuring a useable amount should pose no problem.

Wintergreen, though, may take a bit of prospecting. But I’m convinced that memory will serve well enough to locate a good patch of the leathery leaves without too much effort.

Back inside, given that my quest comes to fruition, I plan on making a ground ivy tea. This will come in particularly helpful now, in midwinter. A lack of fresh vegetables probably has my vitamin C levels at a low ebb. I don’t take synthetic vitamins, either, preferring the naturally occurring type found in fresh, green leaves. And since I don’t buy commercially raised vegetable from the store, a boost of vitamins and minerals from fresh-picked ground ivy ought to do me a world of good.

I freeze and can my homegrown and foraged foods and these suffice to keep me healthy. But still, the desire for anything fresh becomes difficult to ignore in late January.

Wintergreen will provide me with a wild, taste treat, a splurge of sorts. While wintergreen leaves surely must provide some vitamins or minerals, their main value lies in their natural wintergreen taste. Chewing the raw leaves quickly releases a delightful flavor, one that synthetically contrived products cannot duplicate.

I can think of another wild food product that could be had now, but the effort and discomfort involved makes it too dearly won. Common cattail, Typha latifolia, roots and sprouts are available only to those willing to go to a swamp or shallow pond and cut holes in the ice.

But pulling up the old dead stalks, with their living components clinging like grim death to the mud bottom, doesn’t appeal to me. At least not at this time. Come ice-out, I’ll view the process with a less-jaundiced eye.

It’s snowing now and nearly dark. Not the time to go snow shovel foraging. But in a day or two, I plan on going on my ground ivy/wintergreen leaf hunt. And, of course, I’ll write about the experience in an upcoming blog.

A Real Nail-Puller Night

Some years ago, an old farmer from up the road stopped in for a short visit. It was during a cold snap much like the present one. He remarked that the previous night was a real, “nail puller.”

I understood what he meant, since various groans and prolonged creaks had disturbed my sleep.

When temperatures plunge far below zero and remain there for a prolonged period of time, certain things happen to the materials used to build our homes. This particularly applies to older buildings and also, homeowner-built houses that used locally-sawn lumber as sheathing.

My place falls into the latter category. I used galvanized nails to fasten down two layers of one-inch, rough-sawn boards.

As I understand it, certain materials contract faster and to a greater degree than others. So it would appear that the boards contract more than the nails used to hold them. This has the effect of making it look as is someone had gone about with a cat’s paw and pulled the nails halfway out.

And, of course, it’s noisy and a bit unsettling to listen to.

Now what really happens is that after warm weather returns and the wood regains its normal thickness, the nails remain in whatever position they were in when the wood contracted.

This necessitates going around, come spring, hammer in hand, searching for protruding nail heads and driving them back in.

So the next time someone remarks on how the previous night was a nail puller, you might respond by saying, “Yep. Just as soon as spring comes, we’ll have to go around and drive them back in, won’t we?”

Gardeners Need To Learn Their "Weeds"

I’ve always enjoyed listening to call-in garden talk shows on the radio. It intrigues me, though, when someone calls in and describes a certain weed and stumps the host. I often know the answer, though, as long as the caller offers sufficient detail.

Of course that doesn’t mean that I’m any smarter than anyone else. It just shows that “weeds” are important to me. After all, many of these weeds are useful in one or more ways. Some have food value, others have physical beauty and some combine both.

As I see it, this idea of gardeners devoting more time to learning about our wild plants has considerable merit.

For one thing, other than simply adding to their overall pool of general knowledge, gardeners can, by studying wild plants, learn how to use them to their advantage.

Sure, some wildlings are overly aggressive and need taming. But even these can peacefully co-exist with our cultivated flowers and vegetables. We only need to learn how to balance the two. Let me offer a for-instance.

Lamb’s quarters, Chenopodium album, can drive gardeners to distraction. Once lamb’s quarters seed is introduced to a garden plot (usually by adding barnyard manure or not-quite-cooked compost), the cycle begins and there is little we can do to interrupt it. So we need to take a fresh look at this ubiquitous, leafy green plant.

In spring, lamb’s quarter seedlings are often the first green things we see growing in our garden beds. These are fast growing, too, and often it only takes eight or 10 days of good, warm weather for the young lamb’s quarters to grow to a useable size. And this is when most people go on the offensive. With hoe in hand, they ruthlessly attack every lamb’s quarter plant they see, chopping with a fury guaranteed to raise blisters. But we have a better way.

Since lamb’s quarters are very shallow-rooted, pulling up the entire plant takes but little effort. And if, as we pull up the tender plants we take time to snip the roots off with thumb and forefinger, the end result is a ready-to-cook plant. Or in this case, pint, quart or even bushel of plants.

Right now, in late January, I’m reveling in the lamb’s quarters that I picked from my raised bed gardens last spring. These I parboiled and froze and now they provide a delicious side dish to many a wintertime meal.

Also, by hand-pulling individual plants, we wind up with a far lower re-emergence rate. Hoeing often does not entirely sever the roots and although the plant is covered with soil, it soon pops up and resumes growing. Pulling a plant in its entirety means an end to that plant.

In fact, I often make it a point to leave a few lamb’s quarter plants undisturbed. Here’s why.

First, the tips of even the sturdiest branches hold perfectly tender and fine leaves and these can be gathered and eaten all summer. And if that weren’t enough, the mature plant (these can grow to three feet or more) acts as a trap for leaf miners, those pesky insects that get inside green leaves and eat their way around, leaving unsightly “snail trail” marks. It seems to me that this biological control beats heck out of poison.

So far from being a nuisance, lamb’s quarters have become an important component to my garden’s annual biomass. They are as valuable a crop as anything else and perhaps more valuable than some.

Other wild plants – weeds – have similar virtues.

I find that concerning garden weeds, most of those that appear in my garden beds are edible. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to name one that wasn’t.

So by managing their weeds, gardeners can enjoy the best of both worlds. And that’s why I say that it pays for gardeners to learn more about the weeds growing all around them.

Snowed In

Oh, gorry – a snowy day in mid-January gets everyone antsy. That’s why we call each other on the phone, even if we don’t have much to say.

Today, I had to warm up supper twice, on account of snowed-in buddies calling to pass the time of day…or night, as was the case.

But I figure that a conversation with a dear friend far outweighs the relative value of a tepid plate of food. So we talked. And in some cases, we talked and talked and talked.

One of our conversations revolved around the different qualities of various types of firewood.

“I pack my woodshed so that early on, I’m burning junk wood. Then in the middle, I stuff the best maple and beech. Toward the end, which comes toward spring, I place the medium stuff.” That’s what I told one caller.

He, on the other hand, has a problem. With only one cord remaining and two good months of winter left, he feels insecure.

“What about Groundhog Day,” I queried. “Might not that one cord be just enough?” My thought was that by early February, things might moderate, at least enough to stretch his one cord of wood to where he won’t need to burn wood again until next fall.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said.

“I believe I must order another cord of ash. That way I can burn it, even though it will be green, by mixing my good, dry wood with it.”

He is probably right, too. I don’t think a cord will last him until spring. Only time will tell, though.

And so it went and so it goes. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live someplace where we didn’t need to plan our food and fuel ahead. And I wonder what it would be like not to get snowed in once in awhile and not to be able to have long, wandering conversations with good friends.

Such is the rural life. And although it may sound as if I’m complaining, that just isn’t so. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.