Wild Strawberries

A singular incident occurred today, which I will share with you. I am working nonstop on my new book, Nuts And Berries Of New England and realized that while I had already written my chapter on wild strawberries, I didn’t have any fresh photos to accompany the text.

I had been keeping track of some strawberries in front of my house, but they were slow in ripening. Today, I thought surely they must be dead ripe, fresh and juicy, so I wound my way through the brush to where they grew and found them gone. Some critter had pre-empted me.

So drawing upon memory, I went down the road where I live, searching places where strawberries previously grew. But the open areas had grown in, as they will, making it too dense and shady for strawberries. I gave up and headed home and on the way, saw my neighbor and his fiancé walking down the road, taking a stroll, or so I thought.

As it turned out, the pair was heading to a fine patch of ripe strawberries. Who would have thought that at the same time I was out searching for berries to photograph, my neighbor was headed to a large patch of ripe berries, just waiting to be picked and, of course, photographed. This is, I believe, called “the law of synchronicity.”

This place was just a short distance past where I gave up my search and turned around. So the two hopped in my car and we drove to the designated area and sure enough, it was red with berries.

My neighbor and partner began picking and I began shooting photos. Anyone who has ever attempted to photograph wild strawberries will immediately know the trials and tribulations involved in the process. Focus on one berry and all the others go out of focus. Try and focus on a wider view and the overall photo becomes less sharp. Besides that, grass, weeds and leaves all vie for center focus, making it a poke-and-hope procedure at best.

Anyway, I shot lots and lots of photos and of them, perhaps three were “keepers.” But that’s not bad, all things considered.

I find it odd, that I make a living writing about nature and wild foods and at the moment, am so busy writing about it that I haven’t time to devote to gathering the wild produce. Or at least, I haven’t as much time as I would wish. But better busy than not, I suppose.

Anyway, lots of plants are coming online right now. I see buds on daylilies swelling, about right to pick and cook as per green beans. Lots of seaside plants are up and ready, too. These include sea blite, orache, goosetongue and sea rocket.

So if you can, I do hope you can make time to get out and harvest some of the wonderful wild fruits and vegetables that grow so abundantly here in the great old State of Maine. 

Wild Plants And Wooly Bears

The Amazing Transit of Venus

This past week of continual rain, cold and clouds surely dampened my spirits. Several outdoor events went forward despite the rain, but the weather put a damper on both.

Additionally, mosquitoes, enlivened by the cool, damp and gloom, have made it difficult to spend time foraging for potherbs. Consequently, I was and am consigned to foraging for lettuce, chard and turnip tops in my greenhouse…thank goodness for that.

Amidst all of this, I looked forward to the Venus transit on Tuesday afternoon. This would be the last time Venus passes between earth and sun for over 100 years, essentially making it an once-in-a-lifetime event for most of us.

So when Tuesday rolled around and with it, rain and leaden skies, I only naturally assumed that we here in Maine would be cheated out of this one-time opportunity to witness a spectacular astronomical event.

But with perhaps one hour to go, a patch of blue showed up in the western sky. I had an appointment to meet a fellow amateur astronomer in Brooks. We planned to each bring a telescope and set them up on the bridge in town. This place offered a wide-open view to the west.

Rain returned after the little bit of blue sky, that teaser, had me thinking that just maybe things would turn out okay. But again, the rain stopped and the blue sky returned. So I loaded the scope in my car and headed for Brooks, not really expecting to see the transit.

My friend was already there and had his scope set up. I wasted no time in erecting mine and at that point, the sky to the east, south and north was dark and cloudy, but the sun shone brightly to the west. At about three minutes before the appointed time for the transit to begin, several rainbows appeared to the east and some people standing nearby ooh’d and aaah’d at the sight. But my friend and I had our gaze riveted on the eyepieces of our respective telescopes, waiting for the transit to begin.

The time came and went and nothing happened. Perhaps my watch was set too fast. Or maybe it was all a sham. All manner of thoughts flashed through my mind. And suddenly, a tiny dimple appeared on the bottom edge of the sun. This was the leading edge of the disc of Venus.

I hollered out, “I see it. It’s beginning.” My friend confirmed the sighting. We both kept our gaze upon the scene, watching, as the disk grew larger and progressed further into the larger disc of our sun. Then in a wink it was fully inside. But for a brief moment, I saw what looked like a black link between Venus and the Outside edge of the sun’s disc. Was this the famed “black drop” I had read about? I don’t know, but I am certain that I saw it, whatever “it” was.

At this point, some passers-by had stopped and we invited them to look through our scopes. Each person had a different reaction, but my favorite was from a young lady who simply exclaimed, “Wow.”

And so it went. People stopped and we beckoned them to come and look at this once-in-a-lifetime scene being enacted before our very eyes.

And then the sun grew low in the sky and trees intervened. So we called it quits and packed our scopes and headed home, awed by what we had witnessed and completely satisfied.

Later, the sky darkened once again and rain threatened. It was the same this morning. Our open area of sky where the transit occurred, was it just an accident? Or were millions of people’s prayers answered and the clouds kept away so that we could witness a stupendous, heavenly event?

I’ll leave that to the readers to decide.

Contentment is wealth. That’s the title of a traditional Irish tune. And that’s what comes to mind when I sit outside in front of my cottage in late May and early June.

You see, my yard is filled with fragrant wildflowers, notable among them, dame’s rocket, a plant that releases its sweet scent in late afternoon and early evening. I’ve written much about this plant, but now I mention it because it has come to its peak, lending both color and heady aroma to my yard and home.

The chair you see me sitting on in the accompanying photo is placed among blooming dame’s rocket. Sitting here on a humid, still May afternoon, I feel the soporific effect of the setting; still, sweetly-scented and peaceful.

This, to me, represents the height of contentment and for me, contentment truly is wealth.

Looking across my lawn, I see vegetables in my raised bed gardens just popping out of the soil, a sign of plenty to come. Further on, I see the treeline. Several of the larger trees, bigtooth aspen, a form of poplar, reaching up above the treeline. These partially block my view of the ecliptic, the path that the sun, moon and planets take, and where I like to aim my telescope on a summer’s night.

But though the poplars impede my view, I’m reluctant to cut them. In fact, I’m reluctant to do almost anything that takes effort, at least while I sit in my chair, surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers.

In my reverie, I wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t get back to work, writing. Then I ask myself if the salmon or togue might bite tonight at a nearby lake. It would only take a few minutes to hook up the boat and take off. But in the end, just sitting in my chair and enjoying the scent, sounds and sensations here in my own front yard trumps all.

And that, my friends, is true contentment. I don’t know if everyone has access to such as this. I do, but only when conditions permit. Such days as today come far and few between, fleeting and because of that, very dear.

I remember such times as this, sitting in my chair among the flowers, happy, content and serene, watching and listening to hummingbirds as the males perform their seesaw flight only inches from my face. Flickers, or as my grandpa called them, “high-holes,” after their habit of nesting in holes high in dead trees, capture my attention, as do a few perfunctory blackflies. I don’t even mind them; they are so few as to be innocuous at this time.

Once, in fall, I experienced a similarly relaxed and contended time. I wrote about it in my book, Hidden World Revealed. It was a fleeting moment, never to come again. But this late spring, early summer time among the flowers, birds and yes, a few bumblebees and honeybees, comes around every year.

I wish that all my readers can and will experience such wonderful times of peace and contentment. After all, as the Irish say, “contentment is wealth.”

An Interesting Afternoon In Nature

Sunday afternoon saw a brief window of mild and mostly sunny weather. So I decided to sit outside late in the afternoon and watch the newly-arrived hummingbirds.

The hummers had announced their presence by buzzing past me as I walked out the door. This is standard procedure every year, and it is my signal to go back inside, boil water and prepare a sugar water mixture to put in my hummingbird feeder.

So after the mixture had cooled and the hummers were happily probing the little roses on the feeder for their nectar, I noticed that one bird broke away and headed for my car. It concentrated upon the left taillight lens of my 2008 Ford Focus.

Totally amazed, I watched as the tiny bird probed the red lens, looking for an entrance for its little needle-like bill. But it finally left in disgust and returned to the feeder.

After this, I decided that it was time to feed my trout. So I went to the pond, threw out a handful of floating pellets and sat back on a lawn chair to watch the surface action. Quiet, warm and generally serene surroundings lulled me into a state of tranquility. But this wasn’t to last.

Just as I was as relaxed as I ever get, something big and loud flew within one foot of my head, buzzing as it went. Needless to say, I yelped, jumped up and covered my head. What was it that had invaded, no, attacked, my space?

It was a ruffed grouse, a partridge, and it no doubt had been walking around near me and did not recognize the still figure as being a person. It then decided to take off and fly to a nearby poplar tree where it began hopping from branch to branch, picking off yet-unopened buds.

So a lazy Sunday afternoon became a time of unusual natural activity and for me, much wonder.

It all goes to show that if we just sit quietly, nature will most certainly provide some form of entertainment. 

Plants Are Where You Find Them

Are you tired of fiddleheads yet? I sure am. This morning I froze my winter supply and still, a good-sized bag remains in the fridge for fresh eating.

Dandelions, my very favorite potherb, are going by now. I never tire of them and only wish they lasted longer.

Other wild edible plants are on hold because of the cold, damp and cloudy weather. If and when the rain stops and the sun shines, I expect it to take about two days for things to put on noticeable growth.

Yesterday was an interesting time for me. I have agreed to put on weekly foraging classes at Spruce Point Inn in Boothbay Harbor during the months of July and August. So I went down to reconnoiter the area. The inn owns lots of property and I am to conduct my field trips there. But only one thing bothers me. The place is nearly bereft of plants. Oh, there are enough for me to talk about, but I’ll have to supplement my seminars with lectures and picture shows.

The trouble here is that the land is a monoculture of red spruce, with no openings, fields or anything to let in light. Such places are green deserts and a person could starve to death there for want of edible plants.

It’s the same in the north woods. Thick forests do not present a suitable environment for annual, biennial or perennial plants. It is the edges, places where the sun shines, where we find interesting plants.

In fact, a typical vacant lot in any Maine town or city probably holds a greater variety of edible wild plants than does a 100-acre plot in the north woods.

The Boothbay site is more typical of our offshore islands than inland Maine. Spruce trees dominate and the ground is covered with moss. Little light shines in here and so plants do not take hold.

The seashore is home to lots of great plants, but here again, not all seashores are created equal. In Boothbay, the shore is pretty much rocks and ledge, with no mud, sand or gravel for plants to take root.

In the Mid-Coast Region, things are different in that our seashore has what plants need. Most beaches are gravelly rather than sandy, and that’s good for all kinds of tasty plants. Sand beaches are pretty much barren, though, since nothing grows on sifting sand.

My point here is that good plant environments are where you find them. They can be small but fruitful. For instance, the south-facing side of a hill, field or even a driveway can be a plant paradise. Garden beds, too, once “weeds” infiltrate, provide as many meals of wild plants as they do cultivated vegetables.

So the typical picture of people waxing fat and happy on wild food from the wilderness is not exactly accurate. It all depends upon the wilderness. 

More Land Posting Keeps Foragers Out

What a letdown. What a sad commentary upon our culture…or lack thereof. I went out to pick fiddleheads this week and found no less than three of my favorite, old-time sites posted. You might ask why I don’t just call or visit the landowners and ask permission. It is certainly the thing to do. But I’m old. And I was brought up understanding something called, “permissive trespass.” That means that if land isn’t posted, anyone can legally venture upon it for whatever reason. So if someone nails one of those gross-looking yellow “posted” signs on every tree and telephone pole, that tells me that they don’t want me around. And I never was much of a one to stay where I wasn’t wanted. In my youth, few people ever posted their land. We all respected each other and it was simply understood that it was mean-spirited to put up those ugly yellow signs. It was demeaning toward the one putting up the signs. In my mind, it still is. I simply cannot like someone who does that. It’s a terrible thing, too, for me to feel that way and I admit it. But the old ways are gone. Things have changed and continue to change, and fast. It is certainly a landowner’s right to post, but so often people do it because they can, rather than because they need to. That needs re-stating. To post for no other reason than it is your right is just plain mean. There is just no other way around it. I was brought up in Mid-Coast Maine and now I feel as though it is no longer my home. Things have gotten that bad. I would move and am considering moving, but don’t know where I could go to find the old-time Maine way of life intact. Is it possible? I don’t know. Where can one go to find a place where people love their neighbors? Where is it that we still have respect for our fellows and welcome them rather than work to keep them at arm’s length? I still don’t know. But enough of this sad philosophizing. I called an old friend today, a friend with lots of land, a friend who does not post because he considers that a mean thing to do. And his land has lots of fiddleheads. I went and picked as many as I needed for myself and also, for the World War II veteran who I supply with fiddleheads each year. So there is still some good in this world. I apologize to my readers for harping upon this topic, but it has become so troubling. A way of life, a culture, is fast disappearing and in fact, is more alive in memory than reality. But old dogs have trouble changing their ways, and I’m surely an old dog of the Maine-woods type. So while my heart breaks every time someone new purchases and posts a beloved bit of wild land that I have roamed since my youth, I also see that it does little good to wallow in despair and longing for the old days. The old days are gone and will never return. We may as well expect our dead grandparents to arise from their graves as to think that things will go back to the way they were. So I, and we, must look to the future, to what remains. And plenty remains. We live in a vast, forested state and thankfully, various private groups are purchasing wildlands for posterity. I do think that land trusts and similar organizations are our greatest hope. By the way, when walking on my friend’s land, with permission, I got enough fiddleheads for myself and also, to give a heaping portion to my almost 90-year old American hero. So that’s good enough for me for the time being. May your days afield be filled with sunshine, warmth and a growing love and respect for the ways of our forbears and for our wonderful natural world.

Tick Season 2012

It’s tick time again in Maine, time for a nightly check.

I went fishing in a stream in Camden yesterday and came home with more than I bargained for. I caught lots of trout, which was nice. But on the way home, I smelled something foul. Yes, I had stepped in dog droppings and it was jammed in the lugs of my shoes. This made for an unpleasant ride home.

Then this morning, while putting in eye drops, I noticed something on my neck that wasn’t there before. A closer look revealed little legs…a tick had embedded itself in my hide.

The home health book said to cover it with petroleum jelly prior to pulling it out with tweezers. But all that did was make the thing slippery. It was deeply imbedded and I knew that just pulling out the body would lead to far worse problems down the road. So I called a sharp-eyed friend and he said I could come over and he would try and remove the tick, intact.

But the thing was so deep that parts of the head and mouth remained. He had to use several different tweezers to dig and probe. Again, this was unpleasant for me.

I had been, up until last night, faithful about doing a body check before retiring. But I was so tired…I decided to let it slip. What a mistake. The one night that I failed to check resulted in a deeply-imbedded tick.

Anyone in the State of Maine is susceptible of being attacked by a tick, a tick that carries a potentially-debilitating disease, Lyme disease. So the slight inconvenience of stripping and inspecting every inch of skin each night is far outweighed by the potential results of not checking.

And now when Monday rolls around, I must make a doctor’s appointment and bring the tick in for inspection. It is always important to save the tick for the doctor to inspect. It is more than likely that I will once again need to take a prophylactic dose of antibiotics. This always raises heck with the stomach but again, it beats the alternative.

So please, my friends, take care and do check yourself every night for ticks. It could literally save your life.