Unquiet Forest

View into the west from my cabin

It’s a gray and blustery day at Roundtop ahead of some light snow expected tomorrow.  The wind roared and howled all night long, with gusts nearing 40 mph. The temperature is now nearly 20 degrees colder than Sunday and will drop another 25 degrees before it’s done.  Winter has arrived.

I spent yesterday adding more straw to the chickens, snug in their winter pen, digging out my Yak-trax and my mid-winter parka—my winter chores. This blast of winter will last, in varying degrees, about a week.  Wednesday and Thursday look to be the coldest days, and by then the chickens will get another handful of straw.

Last night I wondered if the coyotes were around again.  Not as close as they were last week, but somewhere relatively near. The wind was from the west, and late in the evening Baby Dog faced the wind and began to bark that deep, serious bark of hers.  I scoured the forest with my headlamp but saw nothing.  With the wind as fierce as it was, their scent may have traveled quite some distance, perhaps even from the next mountain over.  Certainly, I haven’t heard them howling since that night, so they are not near enough to hear that.  But Baby Dog’s unhappy barking led me to believe that something she didn’t like—nearly always a predator—was near enough for her to sound a warning.

What the wind brought

Today’s northwest breeze is pushing a lot of migrants southward.  I’ve seen Broad-winged Hawks and Black Vultures, as well as flocks of 20-25 little somethings that are too small or too distant to identify.  Waterfowl will be appearing soon, though I haven’t seen any flocks of those yet.  The first week of October is about right for their migration.

The wind brought down a very large, dead limb not 10 seconds after Skye and I walked past that spot.  The limb was light because it was dead and pretty much hollow but it still may have been deadly if we’d been struck.  I heard it crash through the lower part of its tree when it fell but knew instantly it was far enough away that we would be safe. I’d like to think that had I been underneath it, that crack would have alerted us and given us enough time to get out of its way.    I’m not sure that’s the case, but I’d like to think so.  Skye set up a ferocious barking at the downed limb, which was curled and coiled like some large, if stiff, snake.  It was fortunate the limb was as light as it was, as I had to move it to get the car back out of the driveway.

The small annual plants on the forest floor are really fading now—turning color or just disappearing onto the ground.  Some tulip poplar leaves have turned color and are beginning to litter my driveway.  Most of my houseplants are now inside, and the rest will need to come in tonight.  Tonight the temperature will drop into the lower 40’s and that’s just too cool for a houseplant.

Settling in

The deep freeze continues at my cabin on Roundtop Mtn. Yesterday was the coldest morning so far at 5 degrees. That’s the coldest it’s been in two years. Last winter was exceptionally warm, so more than 700 days have passed since I’ve felt cold this deep. It feels odd to me that weather once so common has now become so rare.

The cold takes a bit of getting used to, again. My bones didn’t remember the feel of it for a while, though I think that sense memory is back, and both me and my bones have settled into our winter patterns again. I find myself dashing out the front door, covered only by indoor clothes, a hat and my gloves to feed the chickens and give them fresh water. It’s only later that I realize the temperature was in the single digits when I did that.

The new chickens aren’t used to the cold and don’t know enough yet to drink their water before it freezes. The old chickens drink whenever fresh water is given them, whether they are thirsty or not. They remember how the water freezes. They know they have to drink while the water is still in liquid form. For the young chickens, winter is still odd and mysterious, a time of frozen water and a cold white covering on the ground.

This morning I had a dusting of snow and am likely to add a few inches to the dusting sometime tomorrow. The dusting was dry and crunchy beneath my boots during my pre-dawn walk this morning. For the first time in a few days, the morning walk was enjoyable. The wind was calm, a blessed relief from the days before.

Snow makes everything look prettier.

Even at 10 degrees, little ice forms on Roundtop’s snowmaking ponds. They’ve been making snow 24 hours a day since the temperature dropped, and the constant drawing of water from the pond keeps it open. I did find a little ice starting to form around the stalks of last year’s phragmites along the pond’s edge.

Winter still feels like a visitor to me, though, rather than a regular seasonal tenant. Here I am more than one third of the way through the season, and this week is only the second week of actual winter weather that’s graced the mountain. It’s harder for me to get used to that notion than it is to get used to the cold.

Fallen

Mostly red oak, with one tulip poplar and one unidentified leaf

This morning I had to chip ice out of the chickens’ water. The pieces were a little more than .25 inch thick, a sign the temperature dropped below freezing early in the night and not just in the hour or so before dawn. For me this means two things.

The first is that I will soon have to bring one of the chicken waterers inside at night. I switch the waterers every 12 hours during the winter, once in the morning and again in the evening, so one is always or nearly always free of ice. I bring the frozen waterer into the house and put it upside down in my bathtub. After an hour or two or three, the ice melts enough for it to fall out of the drinking area, clattering into the tub. When that happens I know it will be ready to put back out with the chickens the next time the water needs switched.

The second thing the overnight ice means is that it will soon be time for the ski area to start blowing snow in readiness for the start of the new ski season. The snow blowing probably won’t start until after Thanksgiving this year. After a quick look at the forecast, the temperature won’t stay this low long enough for a decent run at snow-blowing. And it might rain a bit next week, another negative. But it won’t be long, I’m sure of that.

Yesterday when I got home I discovered a huge limb or the top of a red oak tree blocking one side of my driveway. Somehow and luckily the limb missed the cabin and the chicken pen, by a distance of no more than 6 and 4 ft., respectively. The limb was what I hope is the last casualty of “Snowtober.” Apparently, it clung precariously to the red oak after the storm and yesterday 25+ mph wind was the last straw.

I could barely drag the limb from the driveway, it was that heavy. And it’s not a lot of fun, either, trying to drag a 10-12 ft. tree top far enough into the woods on a cold, dark and windy November evening so that I can park the car. Truthfully, if that limb had hit a person (for person, read “me”) it would have killed them. If it had hit the cabin, I’m sure it would have broken the window and very possibly damaged the roof. The chain link fence around the chickens may or may not have survived. When I got home the chickens were calm enough, indication that the limb likely fell earlier enough in the day for them to have calmed down already. I’m not expecting any eggs today, though. That’s certainly the kind of event that can stop them from laying for a day or two.

Wind, wind go away

The big northeast blizzard pretty much missed me here Roundtop Mtn., though I was stuck with 50+ mph winds for several days. The forecast called for 6-10 inches of snow, so I feel safe in reporting the prediction was wrong. Snow showers were about all I got. I should point out, though, that the forecast was only off by 20 miles or so. With these kinds of storms, figuring out the track of the storm is the tough part.

In anticipation of the aforementioned 10 inches of snow, I made all my usual snow preparations. I dug out my snow shovels, tucked in the chickens, found all the battery-operated lanterns, installed new batteries and made sure I had plenty of emergency water on hand in case I lost electricity. Fortunately, none of those things were needed

Once the wind kicked up, the forest simply howled. I heard trees cracking and had branches fall into the driveway and the lane. Last night one branch fell on the steep-pitched roof and rolled down the whole way, sounding like a herd of elephants and rousting the dogs’ ire but causing no damage.

I don’t do wind well, I’m afraid. Go ahead and call me a wimp.  Living in the forest, I am more concerned about wind than any other natural problem.  I retreated to the coziness of the cabin and only came out to quickly run the dogs. But we all made it through, and now, after one of the colder Decembers on record (might make the top 10 coldest here), I am ready for the warm up. The warm-up won’t be enough for me to bring out the t-shirts and will only result in warmer than normal temperatures for a few or maybe several days. But after the first 3.5 weeks of December that already sounds heavenly.

A little night "music"

Last night the wind roared across the mountain. I lost power so many times that I simply stopped resetting the clocks. It’s easier just to wait until the wind dies down sometime tonight. Hopefully by then the power will stay on.

Fortunately, the trees in the forest are so far staying upright. This morning I picked up various branches and limbs—mostly long dead—that littered the driveway. With a temperature hovering around 20 degrees, a 40 mph wind makes for quite a wind chill. Suffice it to say that neither I nor the dogs were interested in a long walk this morning.

The chickens are pretty much under the cabin for the winter and seem to be doing well, though it’s weather like this that makes me glad I’m not a chicken. I’ve placed tarps over their pen, which I hope blocks the worst of the wind. In the years when I did a lot of winter backpacking in below zero weather, I was always surprised at how well a thin nylon tent (and a good sleeping bag) kept me cozy inside. Still, I’m sure all of us will be happier when the wind dies down.

Opening sky

The wind that blew through Roundtop yesterday brought down a good many of the leaves that had turned color. This morning, I have fewer leaves and also less fall color than I did 24 hours ago. The wind also knocked out power at the cabin for a bit. I wasn’t surprised by that. It happens all the time. This time of year it’s little more than a mild annoyance to wander around and reset all the clocks.

I love having even a tiny bit more open sky around the cabin. During midsummer I can’t see more than a pinprick of sunlight through the leafy canopy. I’d call the coverage about 99%. That’s great for keeping the cabin cool without air conditioning, but after a while I do start to feel somewhat boxed in.

Today, the canopy cover is down to perhaps 75%. I can’t yet see the mountain to the west of the cabin, but I can see part of the sky, the moon and even a few stars. It’s a big improvement, and I am seeing more birds and animals as a result, too.

The summer birds have mostly left the mountain by now. This morning I surprised a great blue heron as I drove past a pond. That may well be the last one I see here until spring. The chipping sparrows are flocking in groups of 20 or more. They will leave any day now. The winter residents have yet to arrive, though the first juncos could arrive as early as today, which marks my earliest record for them. More likely it will be next week or even the week after before I see one. I am ready for them, assuming I can keep that early morning raccoon out of the bird feeders.

East wind

An east wind blows across Roundtop this morning. Easterly is the least common of the wind directions here on the mountain, and it always brings moisture from the Atlantic. The ocean is several hours away to drive the distance, but even that’s not enough to overcome how far moisture from the ocean can travel.


It isn’t raining here yet, though it’s likely that it will before the day is over. The morning breeze is both cool and damp, making a temperature in the mid-50’s feel cooler than it really is. The distance to the ocean is too far, apparently, to actually smell salty air but not too far for the air to have the ocean’s chill to it.


The cabin is still warm and cozy from several days in the 70’s, and the easterly chill won’t insinuate itself inside for at least another few days. By then, the easterly breeze will likely be gone again.

It was a dark and scary night

Wind scares me more than just about anything else does here in the cabin. The idea of one of the large oaks toppling over and hitting the cabin is never far from my mind when the wind howls as it did last night. Winds gusted over up to 60 mph and were sustained at not much less than that.

Anything that wasn’t nailed down disappeared. The dog gate fell over and banged on the back deck. I heard some kind of metallic clanging somewhere down around Roundtop. I lost power several times, though not for any length of time. I didn’t get much sleep once the wind started.

Once, a large tulip poplar perhaps 30 feet from the cabin toppled over in an east wind (not the typical wind direction here) and took out a total of 16 other trees with it. I counted them because the whole fiasco surprised me too. A few of those were also good-sized trees, with the rest smaller ones. I wasn’t at the cabin when that happened—probably a good thing. The tree still lays where it fell. The uprooted base served as a fox den for at least one litter of kits.

I have been at the cabin when other trees have fallen in the forest. For the most part I don’t hear them when it happens. I feel them, like a little earthquake. The ground will vibrate under my feet for a few seconds to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the distance and the size of the tree. Sometimes when the trees are fairly close I can hear them hit the ground. That invariably sets the dogs to barking.

Fortunately, the large oaks that surround my little cabin are still standing this morning. They all look healthy enough and are straight and tall. It’s just that when the ground is soft and the wind is high, well, things can happen.

Easing towards winter

The wind that has dominated here is finally easing. Yesterday was the most intense—45-55 mph winds for much of the day. I lost power at the cabin several times, each time briefly. I can’t drive up the driveway and down the lane without needing to stop at least once or twice to remove a branch too large or too gnarly to drive over.

More juncos have arrived, though still not huge numbers of them. That might well change in the next few days. Once this nor’easter clears, those little snowbirds may decide they’d better clear out of Canada and head south while the gettin’ is still good.. The Canadian robins have also arrived. When I was a youngster, these were called "woods robins." These birds are a bit larger and browner than the birds that summer here (and which left about a month ago). Down here the Canadian robins tend to stay in small flocks and often stay throughout the winter, especially if the winter tends to the mild side. They don’t hang out in fields and yards like the summer robins. They prefer woods and sometimes abandoned fields. We used to think that "woods robins" were simply summer birds that didn’t migrate, but over the years research has shown they are really Canadian robins who have migrated, and after a trip of 1000 miles or so, they have flown south.

In general, though, I see few of the forest’s animals in weather like this. They are as hunkered down as I am, waiting for the raging weather to abate. The snow that fell in the Poconos missed me. I was on the southwest edge of the storm and so got the worst of the wind instead.

It’s a bit early in the season to have what is essentially a winter storm of such strength. This year will be the first year in what seems like forever to me where there will be no El Nino or La Nina effect to warm the winter. That doesn’t hurt my feelings at all, though I reserve the right to change my tune if I’m snowed in for longer than a week.