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.”
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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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