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Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Cold?

It was two degrees below zero Fahrenheit (-18 C) on Bruce’s thermometer this morning. The probe on the front porch registered three minus signs until it reached minus one degree Fahrenheit later in the morning. Birds flocked to the feeder area as I made breakfast. Then thump. Something had hit the bow window hard. A Cooper’s hawk sat below the window and took off as soon as I looked out. All the little birds had fled.

Many schools were cancelled including Tyrone. I couldn’t believe it. In Maine, at 40 below, I removed the heater from the car engine, bundled baby Mark in layers of clothes, and took Steve to first grade and Dave to nursery school in our Volkswagen bus that never warmed up above zero during our half hour ride. No one ever talked of calling school because of the cold.

And here, one year when Bruce was off to a conference in January and the boys had to get to school on their own, I walked them the two miles down to town at zero degrees, we stopped at a restaurant and they had hot chocolate to warm up, and then they walked on to school while I walked home. I remember the hoarfrost clinging to the trees beside the river and forming on my hair. In those days, Tyrone didn’t cancel school because of the cold. No wonder kids stay indoors like their parents, mesmerized by technology and getting fatter day by day. The outdoors has become something to fear.

Yesterday, it was almost as cold, but the Pittsburgh-based environmental/nature show Allegheny Front, carried on WPSU-FM, devoted most of its half hour program to winter sports–cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and ice skating–and mentioned that many people get depressed in winter because they stay indoors.

“Get outside. Enjoy the beautiful weather, the tranquility of the forest, etc.” was the essence of their message. But during station breaks, the local announcer kept warning that there was a cold weather alert until 11:00 a.m. Tuesday because of the cold and wind chill! The Allegheny Front folks intoned, “It’s not the weather; it’s wearing the proper clothes,” or something like that. Then, another station break and more warnings. What a disconnect!

I waited until 10:00 a.m. to go out this morning. By then it was two above and windy, but it was lovely walking across First Field to Margaret’s Woods where a song sparrow flew up, and on down Ten Springs Trail where a titmouse foraged on a patch of open ground on the bank.

I sat on the snow, my hot seat beneath me, along Pit Mound Trail to write notes, where I was protected by the wind and the sun shone brightly. Then on down the road, silent except for chickadees feeding on hemlock cones. Under the hemlocks, the stream was frozen. Even the chute was a thick sheet of ice. But at the big pulloff, the stream ran freely. A regular parade of deer tracks headed down for water. The hollow itself gave me a quiet interlude despite the wind that rustled the trees overhead and grew more insistent the farther up the road I walked.

Throughout the day, at the feeder area, I counted 14 bird species altogether including 35 juncos, two goldfinches, 22 mourning doves, two song sparrows, three tree sparrows and a singing house finch. But I heard no Carolina wren song. Could this cold have killed them?

© 2007 Marcia Bonta

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First Adelgid Sighting

Marcia reports that she found the first sign of hemlock woolly adelgids in Plummer’s Hollow a couple days ago: remanants of the woolly masses on the undersides of a few twigs on a hemlock tree along the Ten Springs Extension Trail above the Big Pulloff — i.e., less than a half-mile from the bottom. This is what we’ve been dreading for some time now, as we’ve watched the adelgid wave move toward us from the southeast, where some of the best-known old-growth remnant stands, such as The Hemlocks Natural Area and Sweetroot Natural Area, have been destroyed. Adelgids have already established themselves north of us in the Rothrock State Forest, so we knew it was only a matter of time.

Though doubtless the northeast-facing slopes of Plummer’s Hollow were covered with old-growth hemlock two hundred years ago, now only a remnant population of second- or third-growth trees numbering in the low hundreds hangs on in the deepest parts of the hollow. This may be to our advantage, though, in slowing the advance of the adelgids — some reports indicate that hemlocks in rich, mixed conifer-deciduous forests hold out longer than those in pure stands. We are, of course, hoping against hope that a biological control will take hold. Insecticides aren’t effective against the adelgid, and in any case we wouldn’t allow their use even if they did work — overall biodiversity has to take precedence.

We’re in the middle of a cold snap right now, with nighttime temperatures hovering just above zero F, and needless to say we are cheering the cold on. We’d welcome temperatures ten or even twenty degrees colder than that, despite the inconveniences that might cause us. The loss of all mature hemlocks in Pennsylvania, while not catastrophic for the species as a whole, could have a devastating effect on forest ecostystems, especially cold-water fisheries.

–Dave

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Christmas Bird Count 2006

Another Christmas Bird Count on our mountain. As members of the Juniata Valley Audubon Society, we have been counting numbers and species of birds one day every December since 1979. In 2006 the date was December 16, and at dawn it was mostly clear and 36 degrees.

I was off by 8:30 a.m. for the CBC. Steve had left an hour earlier, having already counted yard birds at dawn, including a pair of eastern screech owls! As I reached the top of Butterfly Loop, an American crow flew overhead. At least four Carolina wrens caroled back and forth. Then a downy woodpecker called, followed by a distant pileated woodpecker that was also drumming. Next I pished up dark-eyed juncos and the one American tree sparrow. So far, so good.

I tracked back and forth along the edges of the powerline right-of-way, getting the expected species–ruffed grouse, hairy woodpecker, the local Canada geese flying overhead, a song sparrow, and blue jays. Then I heard a common raven. I walked along the top of Sapsucker Ridge, but I occasionally beat back down into the thickety areas and found lots of juncos, black-capped chickadees and tufted titmice but not much more.

On the sunny edge of the spruce grove, I did glimpse a winter wren twice that dove into the underbrush and saw my first red-bellied woodpecker. And on the Far Field Road, an eastern bluebird called. Still, I was anxious to reach the Far Field and find the fox sparrow I had seen the previous day. But I had no luck. Only chickadees, juncos, downies, and a song sparrow. Very disappointing. I so wanted that fox sparrow and the white-throated sparrows, but there isn’t much in the way of fruit for them except for Japanese barberries. Because the few wild grapes have been eaten, there are no American robins or cedar waxwings. So, despite the glorious, warm weather, I didn’t find any lingering migrants like eastern towhees, hermit thrushes or gray catbirds.

I sat resting near the end of the Second Thicket, which seemed devoid of birds, but I was too tired to care. What will be, will be.

Then I thought I heard a towhee beyond the Second Thicket and laboriously made my way up and over to a heavy blackberry thicket. To my delight I pished up the white-throats and fox sparrow along with a northern cardinal and Carolina wren. I sat down to see if I could get a better towhee call and sure enough I did. What a bonanza. I never knew this thicket existed high above and to the left of the Second Thicket, almost to the mountaintop, giving me a great view of Sinking Valley.

Pulled back down the slope by the elusive call of the towhee, I made it to Parks’s old road and wet area where the stream begins. I stood and pished at a cluster of barberry shrubs and more white-throats flushed. I waited a little longer and the male towhee emerged and then quickly hid himself again. At last I had a real view. And to think that there was not a bird here yesterday. Thank goodness for the siren call of the towhee. As I sat there, he continued calling “toe-hee.”

Finally, I headed back home for a very late lunch and saw only the usual juncos and towhees. I ate quickly and went out again. There, hunting low over our field was a female northern harrier. I watched it for ten minutes as it quartered back and forth and finally circled high and headed down Sapsucker Ridge.

Walking along Laurel Ridge quietly, I was suddenly startled as a wild turkey flew up a few feet away in the understory. Dave had gotten a flock of ten around lunch time, but this was a single.

I pished at the bottom of the spruce grove and juncos flushed all around me like snowflakes and like snowflakes, they were too many to count.

From Alan’s Bench I watched the setting sun light up the most distant mountain as chickadees and juncos called from the spruce grove. I kept hoping for a golden-crowned kinglet or two. Even before the sun set, I heard the continual, shivering, downscale cry of a screech owl.

At last it was time to call it a day. With 27 species on my own–three of which were unusual–I had had one of my best CBCs, even though I had missed the brown creepers and golden-crowned kinglets of the previous day.

Steve had even more surprising species than I had–a Lincoln’s sparrow, a barred owl, a belted kingfisher down by the river, and, just like last year, a golden eagle. Altogether, we found 37 species, missing both cedar waxwings and robins. Still, it brought both of us some exciting moments as it always does.

© 2007 Marcia Bonta

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Last of the Giants

On the day after Thanksgiving, 2006, Dad, Steve and I cut down the last of the big balm of Gilead poplars (Populus balsamifera) around the main house. It had been dropping branches for a couple of years, threatening the electric lines into the house and — if the whole tree came down — the house itself. I wrote about the felling here. You can see photos of the felling here.

–Dave