Archives for posts with tag: nature

We’ve been burning a lot of beech this year. A lot of beech. Winter is back, real winter, with the mercury hovering in the teens or below, and snow. A lot of snow. It’s a relief.

Our ‘normal’ snow load and its spring melt is nature’s natural drip irrigation for the forests. We’ve been missing it for several years, nervously noting the change. So this year’s normal La Nina winter comes as a mixed blessing. We’re happy to see the snow—even if it means snow removal duty. We’re noting the multiple polar vortices that our pushing our winter lows lower than normal. That’s also something to note. It’s an indication that the jet stream is unstable, one of the symptoms of climate change. Less visable, and more alarming is that similar instabilities are becoming evident in our ocean currents—the drivers of weather all over the world. 

Beech is not an optimal wood for heating. It doesn’t have the BTUs of ash or other, harder woods. It burns nicely, hot and fast, so we’re constantly filling the woodstove. Our ample beech supply is another disturbing symptom of climate change. We burn only deadfall, so the appearance of beech in our wood supply means the beech trees are in trouble. Beech Bark Disease has been in North America for well over a century. It hitchhiked to North Eastern Canada from Europe in mid-1800s trade, but remained there, relatively stable for its first North American Century. The disease is actually a partnership of several organisms—some fungal and some sap-sucking insects who serve to spread it. The conditions for their joint spread didn’t fuel its expansion until a shifting climate created opportunities to increase its range. It’s done so quickly since the turn of the most recent century, and beech trees are seriously threatened. 

“It all burns,” says Rick as we set out to harvest the deadfall to heat our home. We avoid conifers—because they burn dirty, but everything else that drops to the forest floor is fair game. We’re still burning ash—the last remnants from the ash die off, courtesy of another hitchhiker, the Emerald Ash Borer. Ash is a lovely firewood that burns long and clean. Our mix includes American Black Cherry, Ash, Beech, Maple, and a smattering of Hophornbeam. The only downside to the Beech is that you need more of it to get through the winter. If you’re relying on a glance of the total volume of the total cut and stacked firewood supply, you could run short. We’re running a little short this year. We have back up supplies, so we’ll be fine, but I made the mistake of forgetting to discount the beech when I stocked the woodshed. I remember harvesting the beech, several years ago. Rick was eager to get to some of the ash, but beech trees had fallen across the trail…so beech it was. 

Different species have different attributes when used as firewood. When I was growing up, my father favored oak—hard and long burning. I never liked the acrid edge of burning oak, but it’s a valuable heating source. Lucky for me—there’s not a lot of oak on our property. I don’t have to make that choice. Some woods deliver more heat, some burn fast—good for kindling or getting a fire going. Some wood, like our American Black Cherry, burn with colorful flames. It doesn’t speak to value on a heating level—but it’s pretty to watch in the woodstove. Burning wood for heat isn’t the easy thermometer setting that most folks understand. It takes many hours and hard labor to harvest, haul, stack and split. It’s free, but only in a monetary sense. We work for our warm winters. 

We are not normal in this respect. Most Americans rely on some sort of fossil fuel to keep warm through the winter. That puts the carbon footprint out of balance, essentially releasing CO2 from earlier eras into the atmosphere. This is where renewable energies can make a big difference. Our choice was driven by the economics of supply (we have acres of forest) and by an effort to minimize our carbon footprint. By burning only deadfall, we release only carbon from our own era that was already headed for the atmosphere. It isn’t a solution for everyone. It takes a minimum of 10 acres of forest to supply enough deadfall to heat a home. But it works for us. We extended our ‘utility’ by insulating the hell out of our small home when we built it. We can do even a hard winter with just under three cords of wood.

I have a recurring dream in which I am a ‘sommelier’ of woodburning. I sound like some high-end server as I inform my customers of their woodburning options. “Tonight we’re burning ash and maple—for a long burning fire with a golden hue. For a small added charge we can add some black cherry, which will burn in multiple colors throughout your evening. For special occasions, we can add some lovely imported varieties—like manzanita—hot burning and very colorful—but,” I nod knowingly, “That comes at a premium.” In the dream, I don’t know who my customers are, or what kind of business I’m running. Maybe it’s like a stress dream (like if you’ve ever waited table), or a roundabout way of appreciating life choices we’ve made. But it does make me reflect on, and appreciate, what the forest offers, even in death. Life is a beech…..

And, just like that, a profound chill settled over the land. People who thought they were impervious began to have second thoughts. People who thought they were prepared stopped and took stock of the situation. Plans changed abruptly. Things looked normal enough, but there’d been a subtle shift, you could almost hear Dorothy saying, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

It’s not a big adjustment for us. We don’t commute and we’re not big travellers, so road conditions are not an issue. It’s damn cold out there, running below zero at night and the single digits in the day. Mostly it means we run the woodstove 24/7, instead of just afternoons and evenings. It begins to chew into our firewood supply. What? Did you think I meant something else?

We went into this winter season a little lean—mostly because of other projects. The last few mild winters have made us lax—even though I said, all summer, that this would be a “real winter.” I follow weather and climate issues, and all the indicators were that we were coming into a La Nina cycle. Now I’m eyeing our fuel supply in the woodshed, wondering if it’s enough to carry us through spring.

Not that we’re without back-up. We burn deadfall—trees that have already died and fallen—so our wood supply is pretty seasoned by the time we cut. Even then, it usually doesn’t all make it into the woodshed the year we cut; it sits, cut, but not necessarily split, on pallets for another season. And then there’s usually a pile of “difficult wood” or newly cut (like when we take out a diseased tree), that we could use in a pinch. And there’s a stack of uncut, but fully seasoned wood in longer log form, out behind the barn. So if we run the woodshed empty, we can always turn to alternate supplies. 

Looking at it now, I’m guessing we’ll run about a third of a cord short from the woodshed—and we have a half cord sitting there, covered, almost ready to go. We’ll be warm enough. It’s a country thing, pantry mentality. It means you have what you need, and then some, just in case. I know most folks don’t give it another thought—they adjust the thermostat, or run to the grocery store if things run low. But it’s a good idea to take a longer view, to keep an eye on the horizon to be prepared.

Because there are cold and dark days ahead.

A.V. Walters

Each year we have this same battle. The swallows arrive and want to build their mud-daubed nests under our eaves. I like them; they’re streamlined and beautiful, swooping in elegant arcs over the farm. I don’t fully understand the dynamic, but in their search for nesting sites, they’re attracted most to the protected areas just over our doorways. They’re almost as messy as emus (on a smaller scale) and, as beautiful as they are, I’m not inclined to duck and take cover whenever I enter or leave our home. One minute they’re endearing wildlife, and the next, they’re a strafing, dive-bombing hazard. They can nest anywhere on the farm except over my back door.

Elmer has a soft-hearted farm rule. Tenants are free to dissuade birds from building nests. (And so I’m out there like a maniac waving my arms, shouting, beating on the window and carrying on.) But if a bird pair builds a nest and lays eggs–they get to stay for the duration. We are not allowed to interrupt bird families.

Some years ago, Elmer was asked by some South American scientists if they could run DNA tests on the farm’s summer swallows. The scientists wanted to know if these Two Rock swallows were of the same family as their own Brazilian swallows.  Thrilled to be on the cutting edge of science, and to watch-first hand as the scientists captured, tagged and took blood samples, Elmer was the chief proponent of the Swallow Investigation. Sure enough, the DNA revealed that our summer swallows are the same ones that go all the way to Brazil.

It’s the same with most migratory birds. We think of them as our songbirds, swallows, warblers, hummingbirds or ducks, but really we share them with their winter neighbors. Even our Monarch butterflies are traveling visitors. The alarming part of that is that we cannot protect them. Habitat must be protected across half the globe to make the world safe for our migratory friends. That knowledge came as a shock to Elmer. The world got smaller with that knowledge. Elmer does his part with the nesting rule.

It’s that simple. One chicken farmer can make a difference with a rule, making it possible for the swallows to live and breed on the northern leg of their annual trek. We can decide to save a species by changing our behavior. Last year, Elmer put an owl house in the peak of one of the barns. Swallows, owls, a little information can go a long way to inform our decisions and how we move through the environment.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to let them build a nest over my door, but they are otherwise welcome visitors. They have as much claim to make a home as I do. And if they get ahead of me, build a nest and lay eggs, I’ll just swallow hard, and endure the inconvenience like I do for the emus. When it comes down to it, we’re all immigrants here and we can just make room.

(Oh, except for those noisy mourning doves–I don’t know what to do about them.)

Bird Mysteries

A.V. Walters

Back in May I mentioned a new bird, a raptor that we couldn’t identify. In fact, we suspected a family of them, but couldn’t be sure because we never clearly saw two of them at the same time. He (or she)disappeared for a while but then he/she/they reappeared, in force, in these past few weeks. They had us baffled. Our bird guide, (granted, a very old and confusing tome) didn’t seem to cover this particular bird. He’s clearly a raptor, a hunting bird, but not colored like anything we’d seen before.

Our mystery was finally solved. I met some birders, by chance, during a business meeting. By the end of the meeting I felt comfortable enough to ask if I could send them a photo of our mystery guest—and then, I did just that. The answer came back in minutes (don’t you just love the internet) our bird is (drum roll, please) a white-tailed kite. In fact that’s birds plural, because we’ve discovered we have a bunch of them. (The bird guide we have at home, doesn’t even have a picture of them!)

No sooner did we get the name, than a whole family of them soared over us—four or five in a loose formation. And then a day or so later we spotted another one, a juvenile. (Yup, with a name and the internet, we’re able to confirm them from sight and even know what the babies look like. Forget about your privacy now.) In the five years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen one of these birds and suddenly we are white-tailed-kite-central! We have enjoyed their company, even though they aren’t going to solve my other bird problem, those troublesome noisy mourning doves. Don’t get me wrong, the kites are entirely beneficial—eating large insects, mice and voles and, we hope, maybe gophers. BUT, they don’t do anything to scare off the darned doves. We’ll have to be content with the fact that they’re lovely to watch and a welcome addition to our farm’s roster.

But wait—all is not lost! There is a new development on the mourning dove front. You may recall that the tone of a mourning dove’s coo drives me crazy. I find it unnerving. Apparently, that’s not uncommon—I regularly get hits from internet searches looking for a solution to those noisy mourning doves. Well, we’ve found a possible solution. It’s funny because the fix was here all along. When I first moved here there was an abandoned, fake owl (with big, plastic eyes) under the balcony. I didn’t think much of it and it’s kicked around from place to place for five years now. Last week Rick came upon it and, with nothing to lose, mounted it on the back railing.

Within a day, Silence. It worked. The mourning doves relocated out of our back yard. (So did the swallows, but it’s worth it.) The doves are still active elsewhere on the farm but they stay clear of the backyard and the top of the house. It’s blissful. Well, it was ‘til today, when a pair decided to check out the front yard—in plain sight of my office. But we have a solution. We’ll just move the faux owl around to keep the fidgety little critters on their toes, and out of earshot. So, for all of you out there yearning for some mourning dove peace, it’s only been about a week but it’s still working.

We do have real owls on the farm, some barn owls and some screech owls. They are a pleasure to watch on an early evening stroll, but they don’t do anything for the doves, because the doves are daytime birds. So, fake owls it is.