Dull

Pileated woodpecker

Winter didn’t have much of a bite this year, but that hasn’t kept it from refusing to give up the stage. This weekend and today I’ve had a mix of snow, sleet and freezing rain.  On Saturday I saw robins in the snow, though they didn’t appear unduly deterred by the weather.

The days never got very bright, and the gloomy skies that characterized so much of this past winter continued.  I’ve been trying to see this Pan-STARRS comet for days now, foiled each time by poor weather. Northern areas have had good aurora borealis displays, too, and if any of them reached this far south, I would never know it.

The landscape is dull and brown. Any thought the tender shoots had of pushing through the ground is on hold until the weather improves, which doesn’t look as though it will happen this week.  So is March 2013 a lamb or a lion?  So far it’s neither. Perhaps it’s more of a housecat or a full grown sheep .  Not a lamb and not a lion and more than a little dull.

My photo today is of a distant pileated woodpecker that was working furiously on that stump.  He didn't stay around long enough for me to switch to my long lens. Pity.

Just another day in March

March is a month of wild variations in weather here on Roundtop and around Harrisburg. Even before climate change, historical March temperature averages often varied 10-12 degrees from year to year. In 1945, for example, the average temperature that March was 51 degrees and the year before in 1944, the average was 37 degrees. So no matter what this March brings, it won’t tell much about the area’s climate, let alone be an indicator for more widespread changes.


One day March brings snow, the next day comes close to being t-shirt weather. The closest thing to a constant in March is the breeze, which rarely subsides. If not exactly roaring like a lion, it’s still strong enough to make whatever the temperature-of-the-day is feel about 10 degrees colder.

I do know that it’s cold enough to silence the spring peepers at the moment. And the one phoebe that announced its presence a few days ago hasn’t reappeared either. It has probably moved north and is not going to be one of the ones that summers here.

The landscape still looks barren and cold. It doesn’t take many warm days for grass to turn green, and I haven’t yet seen any sign of that yet. At night I still get occasional flurries, even on days when midday verges on being warm. In other words, it’s a typical March here so far.

A walk along Beaver Creek

Late note: The first eastern phoebe sang outside my bedroom winter this morning. A few spring peepers chorused last evening, too. Spring is here.

This past Sunday was a gorgeous day throughout much of the eastern U.S. Temperatures were warm and the winds calm. It’s not uncommon to get a day or two like that in March, but it sure feels as though we don’t get them very often on a weekend day when they can be enjoyed to the fullest. This one was not to be wasted.

So Sunday Baby Dog and I took a walk down the valley between Flat Hill and Roundtop Mtn. I was eager to get out and see how Beaver Creek was flowing and see how the valley looked after winter. Would I see any signs of spring?

The warm weather made the going muddy, but we proceeded down the mountain slowly. Or at least I did. Baby Dog would have bounded down at top speed if I’d let her. The valley was still brown with winter, and though I walked the length of the valley, I didn’t see any spring growth, not even the ubiquitous skunk cabbage.

Even the mosses still had a dull cast, though I did find one patch of it that was bright green. Beaver Creek flowed well, if not yet over its banks. Spring rains haven’t appeared here yet, and the snow I had this past winter wasn’t enough to create a torrent. In a way that was good news for my walk. The valley is often quite muddy in spring, and if this year is a normal one, the valley may become close to impassible in April.

Mosses were much in evidence, though I find them difficult to identify. Good sources are either expensive, non-existent or require a microscope and more expertise than I have. However, a few of them seem reasonable to attempt. The first is an atrichum moss; its reddish color is something of a giveaway. The reddish shade occurs when the moss curls up to protect itself from cold or drought. You can see a few areas where the moss is already uncurled.

The last photo is an acrocarp-type moss, though I don’t know the exact name. It’s essentially a “sheet” moss that covers a big area.

 It didn’t take but a few days for the warm Sunday to be the harbinger of spring sights and sounds. When the phoebe sings and the peepers peep, the arrival of spring is a foregone conclusion.

Raccoons 1, Chickens -1

Beaver Creek pond

Coyote urine doesn’t work as a raccoon deterrent—at least not here on Roundtop where the raccoons apparently don’t see enough coyotes to have developed the notion of what coyote urine means.

On Friday night I lost a chicken to a raccoon or raccoons. A raccoon ripped the roof/door off of my chicken pen around midnight, and even though I was out there in seconds the chicken was already gone. Since then I have nailed shut the roof door. I have no idea how I will clean the pen now, but I’ll worry about that later. I am blocking the front pen door with two large railroad ties. The raccoons can move those two ties about an inch but so far that’s all. I’ve entirely removed my bird feeders and cleaned up anything that the raccoons haven’t yet found around those feeders. I’ve duct-taped shut another cleaning entry to the chicken pen.

And, I’ve been spending the evenings in my car with a BB gun waiting to sting the butt of the next raccoon that crosses my path.

On Saturday night I did get a shot at the raccoon. It’s a big one. I don’t know if I hit it, though it did make a sound when I shot. It might have been surprised by the sound of the BB gun, though. My nephew volunteered to lead a posse of buddies with their .22 rifles to put an end to the pests. I’m not against that, but the raccoon has not reappeared since Saturday night, and I’m not sure the posse wants to spend night after night sitting in my driveway waiting for a raccoon to reappear. I’m going to give the BB gun stakeout a week before I deputize my nephew.

On Sunday, Baby Dog and I headed down in to the valley to see how Beaver Creek was doing. We had a good early spring walk, and I’ll have more about that tomorrow.

Sunday the geese flew north

Canada geese heading north and very high (taken with 300mm lens)

Sunday the geese flew north. And the tundra swans. By the thousands. Maybe by the tens of thousands.

It started on Saturday evening not long after dark, with the tundra swans. I heard that familiar “whoo-whoo” sound. And then, directly over the cabin where I have a bit of open sky, I saw them. A snowy white vee against the ebony sky, heading north. That flock was a big one, about 200 swans. If there’s anything more beautiful than seeing swans flying north at night, I can’t think what that might be.

And that was just the beginning. After that came the first of Canada goose flocks. I heard many more flocks than I saw, and I saw quite a few, even with the forest trees hiding many from my view. I heard them while I was on raccoon patrol—more about that tomorrow. The sound of the flocks went on for hours, perhaps all night. Certainly every time I was outside I never had to wait more than a few minutes before I heard the sound of another flock.

During the day on Sunday, even more flocks passed overhead. Mostly Canada geese, with an occasional flock of swans joining in. Sunday evening, I heard and then saw my first flock of snow geese. To my ear their honking is a bit less harsh than that of the Canada geese. Again, the sound went on for hours, well into the late night, until I was forced to bed.

Spring is here. It arrived with the geese and the swans heading north.

I hate springing forward

Don’t get me wrong. I like the longer sunlight in the evenings as much as the next person. What I don’t like are those first few wake-up alarms when my body screams at me, “WHY are we getting up at 4:30 a.m.?”


This morning on my nearly dark walk at 6 a.m. with Baby Dog, I kept thinking, “this is going to be 7 a.m. in a couple of days.” I’m going to have to wake the chickens up to feed them in the mornings. Again. Just as I’m starting to notice the barest hint of dawn in the east, I will be getting up an hour earlier and reverting to walks in utter darkness.

Arizona and Hawaii don’t change to daylight saving time. Neither do Guam, Puerto Rico or the U.S. Virgin Islands. Lots of countries don’t change either, though most of them are around the equator where the hours of daylight don’t vary much. At latest count, 159 countries do not observe the annual time flip-flop and 82 countries do.

Hawaii falls into the tropical camp of non-changers. Arizona, apparently, doesn’t like it because it’s so hot there that people don’t do much outside until after dark, and the last thing they want is more daylight in the evenings.

The time change only started in WWI, so it’s hardly a tradition of very long standing. The original idea was that the switch saved energy, but from what I’ve heard that idea is controversial and the savings are something like a mere 1% of electrical consumption. There’s little argument about people preferring longer daylight in the evenings, though.

Still, I am not looking forward to Monday morning. Or Tuesday. And probably not Wednesday either.

Disappearing snow (and coyote urine)

Roundtop this morning after yesterday's snow

Yesterday’s snow has already melted quite a bit. In fact, if I’d know how fast it was going to melt, I wouldn’t have spent so much time and effort to shovel it. This morning the cloud cover is lifting and a bit of bright blue sky is visible, a sight that’s enormously welcome. I’ve grown tired of overcast skies this winter. Skies here in winter are historically a lot more sunny than cloudy, and this year’s gloom only makes the lack of snow and winter temperatures feel even worse.

This morning looks a lot more like a typical winter scene here, even if the snow is melting and the temperature edging towards spring. For the moment I will enjoy the snow—that’s about all the longer it will last. Yesterday I got almost 5 inches. Today I have something less than 2 inches already. By tonight I expect the snow cover will already be spotty where sunlight struck it.

I have been forced to buy coyote urine to try and deter the raccoons that are pillaging around my cabin. (Thanks to Marcus Schneck, the outdoor writer for the Patriot News for suggesting it). So far it seems to be working, though with the snow melting, I will need to reapply it around my chicken pen pretty often. I’ve used it for two nights now, and so far I haven’t been awakened by raccoons or Baby Dog’s frantic barking at the raccoons. I just hope the bandits don’t get used to the smell and start ignoring it.

Oddly, the neither the household dogs nor the cats seem to mind it. The cats are actually interested in the smell. One somehow climbed atop my jelly cupboard where I had placed it to check it out. The dogs pretty much ignore it, if they even notice it. So, I find it a bit odd that it’s a raccoon deterrent. But I’m not complaining, as long as it works.

All I got for winter...

...was one little snowstorm.  And even this one might be over, though it doesn't look that way on radar. 

When I went outside the cabin to shovel and take these photos, a turkey vulture glided high overhead, and a killdeer screeched from nearby.  Neither of those two birds are known for liking snow.  They must think the storm is over.  And given that this is March already, it is becoming more unlikely that I will see another plowable snow this season.

The birds are happily emptying my feeders.  Two carolina wrens, two white-breasted nuthatch, a blue jay, three titmice, three chickadees, two downy woodpeckers, a red-bellied woodpecker and an ever-changing assortment of juncos are all acting as though the food is free.  Well, to them it is. 

The snow is heavy and wet, a real snowman-making kind of snow.  For some reason I was expecting powder, not this heavy stuff.  That really slows down the shoveling. I'm taking a lot of breaks.

Snow, maybe, and raccoons, yes

Snow flurries were a constant presence this weekend at Roundtop. Sometimes the flurries threatened to turn into a squall, but most of the time they drifted like ash from a distant fire, one or two at a time and never amounting to much.

But today it appears I might get to see an actual snowstorm this year, though when storms come in March the snow never lasts. This storm, should it appear as forecast, does not look to be an exception to that rule. At the moment I’m cautiously optimistic, while trying not to get too excited. The forecasters are predicting anything from 0-10 inches of snow, and even they are complaining about the lack of clarity in their forecasts.

I’m withholding my enthusiasm until the feeder birds start to mob my feeders. If that happens, I’ll know a storm is on its way.

At the cabin I’ve been dealing with the nightly prowls of two raccoons, one smaller than the other. They appear twice a night, the first time early in the evening and the last time around 4:30 a.m. I figure I get them heading out for their night of pillaging and again on their return from pirating. I have taken to going to bed earlier simply so that when I’m awakened by the hysterical barking of Baby Dog at 4:30 a.m. I have already gotten a decent night’s sleep so it won’t matter if I can’t fall back asleep again.

Last night I had to chase the smaller one off my front deck. It had retreated to a corner of the railing cap and was trying to make a stand there, but when I came out and waved my arms it suddenly decided that climbing down the deck post wasn’t impossible, after all.

For a couple of nights now they have attempted to breach the chicken pen, to no avail, though they have succeeded in digging a small hole at one spot so they can reach under the pen and touch the chicken feeder—not that the girls leave much food by nightfall. This morning I placed a heavy piece of railroad tie scavenged from Roundtop’s dump over the spot. The tie is pretty heavy, so I’m hoping they can’t move it. The chickens themselves are up in their coop at that hour and seem secure in there. Half the time the raccoons don’t even wake the chickens, and it doesn’t take much for the girls to set up a squawk.

I am shortly going to visit a local sporting goods store to invest in some coyote urine, a remedy Marcus Schneck, the outdoor writer for Harrisburg’s newspaper, suggested to me this morning. He claims a few drops around the perimeter of the cabin should do the trick. I’ll let you know how it works.

March

It has already begun, this march to spring. I have heard the first killdeer. It squealed at Baby Dog and me this morning as we walked across the stone parking lot at Roundtop. The birds nest among the stones, and by April tiny balls of miniature killdeer fluff will be scurrying, almost invisible, around the lot. It is too soon, today, for nesting to begin just yet, but I think the birds are beginning to stake out their territory.

A friend is already reporting he is sick of the abbreviation FOY, which in electronic birding lingo means first of year. Birders reporting a new species seen in the current year frequently report the species is a FOY for them. March is the time when summer species begin to arrive. The killdeer was a FOY for me. I’m pretty sure I’ve already heard a FOY red-winged blackbird, but when I stopped to listen the call didn’t repeat so I didn’t record it.

This morning the light has improved with the clearing sky. The gloomy overcast is lifting. This winter has seen far too many low clouds and overcast skies for my liking. In years past I would have said they were untypical of winter days in this area, but the past several years have seen many like them, so perhaps gloomy overcast winter skies are no longer untypical. I hope these are only a momentary trend and not yet another sign of climate change.

February is over already, and though the last few days of the month were above normal in temperature, the month still finished out a full degree below average—below the average of the last 30 years, that is. If you discount the official “normal” espoused by weathermen and look at February temperatures over a longer time, 2013 is slightly above normal. The 1961-1999 average for February was 31 degrees, and adding in all the records I could find for Harrisburg, which are consistent back into the 1930’s before the data I found started missing some years, the average for February should be about 30.94. So this year’s average of 32 degrees is still above all that, if below the official “normal” of 33.

 

Gloom

Don’t take my word for the gloom. Here is the proof. Sometimes fog is attractive and makes for interesting photographs but not always. And the mountain right now is in that “not always” mode as far as I’m concerned. It’s too foggy and too gloomy. Last night and this morning rain also pummeled the forest to the point where I couldn’t have the camera out for even a few seconds.

Winter appears to be essentially over, though I can’t say that it feels much like spring yet either. As winters go, this one wasn’t worth writing home about. True, winter did put in a brief appearance here, unlike last year when it was entirely missing in action . Winter started late, not getting underway in much of a real sense until mid-January. The first two weeks of February brought actual winter temperatures, if precious little snow. But now? The temperatures are March-like and the rain presages April showers. So is this what winters will be like now? Perhaps four weeks of actual winter instead of three months of cold weather?

It’s a sad state of affairs, that’s all I can say.

I can only hope that four weeks of cold weather was enough to damp down the mosquitos and ticks that will arrive with summer temperatures. I know the stink bugs are still around. I find them in odd places around the cabin—behind a painting on the wall, between the pages of a book, in a desk drawer.

In the meantime, I dodge puddles and clean mud off the dogs’ feet. I should probably store the snowshoes again someplace where I don’t need to see them for the next 320 days (at this rate of winter). My sweaters already seem too warm. It’s a depressing time, to be sure. I’m as gloomy as the forest looks today.

Potpourri

Mist rising on the Yellow Breeches Creek, Monaghan Township, York County, Pennsylvania

Although the nights are still frosty, spring can’t be far away. In addition to the dead skunk I saw at the end of last week, I can now add groundhog to my 2013 list. They are up and out of their burrows, whether Phil saw his shadow or not on Groundhog Day.

The countryside is not, to my eye, very attractive at the moment. November is just as brown but has an advantage of not yet having been beaten down by winter snow and rain. Everywhere I look the landscape seems twisted and dull, dull, dull. It’s still too early for even the moss to turn green. Skunk cabbage isn’t up yet here, either, though I’m sure that’s getting close.

Sunday was warm and sunny here, and that brought out the first of the migrating vultures, both turkey and black vultures. I saw several groups of turkey vultures and one nice-sized group of black vultures enjoying the thermals the sunshine created. Likely the weather was nice enough to move a few raptors, as well, though I didn’t see any. The first of the spring hawkwatches are already opening, but even they aren’t seeing much other than vultures at the moment.

The landscape feels very “in-between” right now. Winter seems to be fading, but spring isn’t yet here. Snow geese are gathering at Middle Creek Wildlife Area in Kleinfeltersville, Lancaster County, but they don’t stay very long. I likely won’t get there to see them this year, but if you’re nearby don’t miss it. If you’ve never seen tens of thousands of snow geese at once, there is the place. Their arrival is one of the wonders of the natural world, and sound of that many waterfowl is amazing. Best viewing is in the late afternoon until darkness falls. The geese spend the days feasting in the surrounding fields and return to the lake as evening falls. At the moment, their numbers are estimated at 40,000. Some 3000+ tundra swans are also at the site, as well as several thousand Canada geese.

No photo today, but...

Instead of a photo, I'm attaching a link to an article about the Great Backyard Bird Count that featured a video interview with me.  Marcus Scneck, the outdoor writer for the Harrisburg Patriot News, came out to the cabin last Saturday as part of a couple of pieces he did about the backyard count. Pennsylvania ended up with the second highest number of birds recorded for the count.  My total on a cold and windy day sure didn't help that total very much.

 http://blog.pennlive.com/wildaboutpa/2013/02/pennsylvania_submits_second_hi.html

Deer trail in winter

Usually deer trails are not as well-worn or as visible as the one in today’s photo. Frequently the trails peter out within a few feet or disappear into a tangle that deer but not people can navigate. This one is the exception.


With snow gone, at least for the next 24 hours, the path deer take through the woods on their way to an open field stands out. In summer, undergrowth will make this trail as difficult to follow as most of them, and the only reason the path is so visible now is that a day or so of above-freezing temperatures allowed deer hooves to leave a muddy trace of their presence.

The woods are nearly uniformly brown right now. Even the moss on the stones of the old fence has taken on a faded look. Mosses are one of the earliest to brighten up in the spring, though, so when that happens I’ll know spring is truly upon me.

For now, winter’s grip is pretty tight, with snow and freezing rain expected tomorrow and over the weekend. In fact, February is shaping up as colder than normal by a few degrees. That’s the first month that’s been below normal for some time. Still, “normal” is only taken from the average of February temperatures for the past 30 years. When I look at February averages going back to World War II (and some even earlier dates), this year’s February is pretty average and not actually below normal. At least it’s not another month of warmer weather. I suppose I should be glad of that, however small a thing it is.

Not much walking

Snow flurries over Roundtop Mountain

Although spring is knocking at the door, winter is putting up a fight this year. I awoke to frigid winds and near-blinding snow squalls this morning, a drastic change from the day before. I avoid much walking on days when the wind makes my face go numb, and this morning fell into that category. Even the chickens were slow to descend off the roost this morning. They wanted no parts of that either.

I also had the excuse of ice created by yesterday afternoon’s light snow and rain. The ground was slippery and hard but not to the point where I could comfortably wear my Yak-Trax either. So I didn’t take much of a walk this morning and for once the dogs didn’t seem to mind. They were just as eager to return to the warmth of the cabin as I was.

Some days the outdoors just looks better from the indoors, and this was one of those days.

Unfortunate signs of spring

Even though it’s snowing as I type, I’m afraid that it looks as though spring is approaching. This morning I saw several signs of the season’s change.

1. Several hundred common grackles invaded the tallest trees just above my cabin this morning and made an enormous amount of noise. To my ear they sounded like a very rusty piece of large machinery squeaking on the mountain. In fact, for a second I thought one of the snow grooming machines was the cause of the noise. To be fair, the birds did not seem to be traveling from south to north, but rather from west to east. Since the storm that is now bringing snow to the mountain was approaching from that direction at the time I saw them, it’s possible the birds were coming from some large field and simply moving ahead of the storm. At least that’s what I told myself before I saw...

2. A group of 7-8 black vultures circling over the orchard as I headed out to work. Black vultures are the southern cousins of the turkey vulture and are a recent invader from those climes, heading north on the wings of climate change over the last 20 years or so. While it is common to see the first turkey vulture of a new year on any winter day with a very slight warming trend, black vultures are likely to wait for an actual thaw before making their first appearance in my area. Vultures can travel good distances in a day, and frequently move south to north and back again several times as weather dictates. So seeing them today doesn’t mean they are here to stay, though I see them but rarely in January. Their arrival in February usually means spring isn’t far behind. But, these were circling just ahead of the impending storm, so I could possibly write off the sighting as storm-related, except that I saw a...

3. Dead skunk in the middle of the road. Folks, this one is the dealbreaker. The birds might be written off as traveling ahead of the storm, but the skunks are out and about, and there’s no denying what that means. Spring isn’t far away. Unfortunately.

Snow-covered but barely

E. Mt Airy Rd., Monaghan Township, York County PA

Last night saw the cabin covered in a pretty little snow. For once, I had more than dusting, if still not enough to ski or snowshoe. Snow stuck to every surface, too powdery for snowmen. The first breath of breeze will downgrade the prettiness, revealing what was this morning a vast expanse of white.

 

Sunrise over a snowy pond

 Dog tries to eat the snow. Baby Dog runs like a crazy dog, burying her nose as she goes like a canine snow plow. The chickens are not amused and step daintily from their coop, raising their feet high with each step. Deer have been to the juniper bush again. Their tracks tell me they arrived after the snow stopped and after a trip to the pond for a drink of water.

Snowy cabin at night

A pretty little snow qualifies as a short step up from a dusting, but not by much in my book. I ended with a tad over 2 inches of snow. The snow is a bit like a china doll—pretty to look at but not much for playing with .

Sunset walk with geese

With the days growing longer, my evening walks with Dog or Baby Dog are no longer restricted to well-worn paths or roads. It’s not yet light enough for me to wander through the woods in the evening—even with a headlamp the footing is too chancy and difficult to see. But in an open field, the last light of the day lingers long enough that a walk across doesn’t feel like tightrope walking.


So Baby Dog and I took advantage of good weather and the last remaining rays of daylight to visit one of Roundtop’s pond. We saw 58 Canada geese. Or, I should say, I saw 58 geese. Baby Dog was much more interested in nosing through the grassy stubble than in watching geese. Even when they took flight and skittered from the open water to the ice, honking all the way, Baby Dog was unimpressed.

I was happy to see them. Except for the old pair who has already taken up residence along “their” pond, I haven’t seen the local group for a while. And the local group has added several to their flock since they were here last. Sunset already held a few of the clouds that will bring snow to the mountain later today. I was glad simply to be outside, even if in failing light. At least it was light if only for a few minutes.

159 (years) and counting

I sat at the kitchen table this morning, as I do most mornings, reading the words of Henry David Thoreau. I am enamored of his journals even more so than I am his works like Walden. I like to follow along with Henry’s entries, reading a day at a time, measuring his words against what I see outside my own door. This morning: “...you hear the lisping tinkle of chickadees from time to time and the unrelenting cold-steel scream of a jay, unmelted, that never flows into a song, a sort of wintry trumpet, screaming cold...” He wrote this on February 12, 1854.


I can’t say that I ever thought of chickadees as lisping before, but I love the idea. The blue jays are perfectly captured, even as three zoom in to my own feeders, descending like fighter jets onto an aircraft carrier, scattering the chickadees (and everything else) as they screech to a halt on the feeder’s platform.

This morning the fog of yesterday is lifting. The sky is still overcast but threatening to clear. That won’t last even if the sun succeeds. Tomorrow, a bit of snow is predicted, possibly even a tad more than another dusting. Not enough snow for snowshoeing, but possibly enough for cross-country skiing, if I don’t mind scratching the bottoms of my skis a bit.

I will be glad of the snow. I noticed this morning how dark the woods were on my early morning walk with Dog and Baby Dog. For the first time in weeks I needed a headlamp again. Since early January snow has illuminated my path in the pre-dawn hour, and this morning I had only darkness.

Disruptions

Roundtop Mtn. didn’t see much of the blizzard nor’easter that pounded New England. The storm did not bring the ice that was predicted, and the snowfall amounted to little more than another dusting of snow. Strong winds followed in the storm’s wake but produced no damage.


Yesterday, before the snow was obliterated by some freezing rain that fell overnight, Baby Dog and I made a big circle around the cabin environs. I was tempted to walk down the mountain to venture along the creek but decided against it. The way down looked pretty slippery, and I was not wearing my Yak-Trax at the time. So Baby Dog sniffed at every leaf and I stared at tracks of deer and raccoon, relieved not to see any fox tracks. I haven’t heard any foxes barking for a while either. Foxes come and foxes go, such is the way of them around the cabin. For the moment, the chickens are enjoying their freedom.

I’m glad Baby Dog got a good walk yesterday, as freezing rain this morning kept our excursions to a minimum. Even with Yak-Trax I wasn’t inclined to venture far. The accompanying fog and general gloom didn’t encourage me to walk further either. Add in the lethargy naturally produced on Monday mornings by rising earlier than I do on the weekends, and shortening the morning walk wasn’t a difficult call at all.

I should add that my lethargy might also be due to a lack of sleep produced by Baby Dog’s frantic barking, multiple times throughout the night. Twice she was outraged by a foraging raccoon, once by 3 deer calmly walking right next to the cabin and once by something I never saw, though it might have been a helicopter noisily flying by at roughly the same time. It doesn’t take much for Baby Dog to sound an alarm. Some nights are worse than others, and this was one of “those.”

Snow over forest

The big nor’easter that will pound New England later today is apparently not going to make an appearance over my cabin.  Still, the local animals seem to think something is up and are acting accordingly.

Last evening nearly 20 deer were feeding in the grassy field across from Roundtop’s north parking lot. This morning, Baby Dog and I scattered deer throughout our walk.  One raced from the open water of the snowmaking pond up the slope of Drummer Boy, staying just ahead of the approaching snow groomer, which is a large tracked vehicle not unlike a bulldozer on tank treads.  Two more ran ahead of us a bit later in the walk, clattering first up the paved road, then through the stone parking lot, pausing only to stare or glare at us once they reached the edge of the forest.

We see deer on our morning walks fairly regularly, but to see so many and to have them so near is not typical.  The deer gave every sign they were filling up their bellies while they could.  Anyone who feeds birds and sees them in a “feeding frenzy” before and during a storm will understand.  Deer do the same thing.
What I find interesting about the animals’ activity is that they are acting this way even though this storm will largely miss my area.  The forecasters are saying this area is in a “dry slot” between the two storm systems.  Apparently tonight I might see an inch or so on the back side of the big storm, but nothing more. So, what’s going on here?  Are the forecasts wrong about the storm missing the area?  Are the deer (and presumably the birds, too) wrong to jump into feeding frenzy mode?

It’s a bit too soon to know, at this hour, if either the forecast or the heavily feeding forest fauna is off the mark.  I suspect the animals can sense the storm as it is brushing the southern edge of my county at the moment.  They don’t have built in radar, so they probably can’t tell that the storm will likely sweep by without causing much difficulty here.  They can feel its approach, sense its nearness and are acting accordingly.  Or perhaps they know something the forecasters can’t predict.  Perhaps I should be more worried than I am.

The earliest birds

The Carolina wren first sang at 6:14 a.m. this morning. I checked to be sure of the time. At that hour no hint of dawn yet colors the eastern horizon. With the snow cover, even just the dusting, the forest is not dark at night. The white snow brightens the woods all night long, making a headlamp largely unnecessary at any hour. In other words, 6:14 a.m. is no lighter or darker than 2 a.m., and in fact, if the wren sings at 6:14, it might just as well sing at 2 a.m.
Still, despite the lack of visual cues, 6:14 a.m. was the first time this wren decided it was morning and proceeded to sing. I used to think northern cardinals were the earliest morning singers in winter, but the Carolina wren has altered that view. It makes me wonder, though, just how a wren knows it is morning when actual daylight is still a good hour off, and the hour it chooses to begin to sing looks the same as 2 a.m.

Doodle, my rooster, for example, doesn’t crow until there’s the barest hint of morning color in the sky. Unless, that is, I turn on my bedroom light in the middle of the night. Then he seems to think morning has come, and I’m likely to hear him crow a few times before I turn my light off again.

Birds are supposed to be sensitive to the so-called false dawn that is not visible to human eyes. False dawn begins about an hour before the actual sunrise. All I can say is that if the Carolina wren is sensing a false dawn, it is remarkably sensitive. This morning the sky was overcast and even foggy, so even the faint false dawn was shrouded by that. Still, the wren sang heartily, as it does every morning. Perhaps it is just hungry, its stomach telling it that food is needed. Mine does the same thing, sometimes.

Another day, another dusting

Another day, another dusting of snow. How many dustings does it take to make an inch? I don’t know, though I do know it’s more dustings than I’ve had so far. I’ve had a dusting of snow every day for the past five days now, and I doubt there’s more than half an inch of snow on the ground.

I do rather like these little snows. Every morning the snow is fresh again, a thin carpet of white covering the forest. Oh, these little snows can’t compare to an actual snow, the kind of snow where I could go snowshoeing or cross-country skiing, but they are far more preferable to no snow at all.

By evening the dogs and I have tracked up the driveway and the lane. Then each morning I see who and what has been padding around the cabin while we are sleeping. The deer return to the juniper bush for a few bites, and their chomping is starting to result in a visibly chomped bush. I see little cat feet and raccoon tracks. I see lots of small bird tracks, though I can’t really tell a chickadee track from a junco track. To me they are all just little bird tracks.

In the early afternoon, before the snow is too much tracked up, I can see what the chickens have been up to and where. Doodle, my rooster, follows One-Eye, my old chicken, wherever she goes. She doesn’t much like snow and can usually be found under the cabin where the snow doesn’t lurk. Sometimes Doodle, who has huge feet by the way, travels over to the new chickens’ pen and parades around it, no doubt hoping to find a way in.

Even these little snows help to make the season feel like winter. The temperatures at the moment are actually below normal, though not aggressively or uncomfortably so. The days don’t break freezing, though the afternoons near that mark, and the nights settle down into the teens. The wind has finally eased up, and being outside is enjoyable again.

After last year’s non-winter, a season that approaches normal is welcome, at least by me.

Snowy weekend

Snow fell all weekend here on Roundtop Mountain, though except for a few hours on Saturday evening, the snow was simply flurries. After an entire weekend of snow less than an inch has fallen. Every time I went outside or looked out the snow was different—sometimes it was big flakes, sometimes small, sometimes it was quite a flurry, sometimes only a flake or two was falling. Saturday evening the flurries increased to a snow squall. Even though there isn’t much of it, this snow was difficult to drive in, and many accidents resulted. This snow extremely powdery and so quite slippery since there’s little traction for tires or feet. I fell twice on hidden ice, fortunately to no injury.

I love the snow and so spent most of the weekend at and around the cabin. I knew there would be less snow down in the valley and around the towns, so I decided not to go there after Friday evening. I stayed by the cabin, never venturing anyplace where I might see bare ground.

And so I was surrounded by snow all weekend, even though I don’t have enough on the ground for snowshoeing or cross-country skiing.  There's just enough snow to track the chickens from the front of the cabin to rear, to notice that the deer were back chomping on the juniper bush again, and for the entire landscape to be white. The western mountain was snow covered. The forest behind my cabin was snow covered. The driveway to the cabin stayed snow-covered. It was lovely.

Tonight, perhaps even more snow will fall, though still just an inch or so. Winter is finally here and acting like a normal winter this week. It couldn’t be any lovelier. Well, maybe if I could go snowshoeing.

Goings on

No name creek, still running full after the rain, near my cabin

Now that the wind has stopped roaring, I’m trailing around the cabin picking up debris and returning items blown off the deck to their proper places. The extra chicken waterer got blown over to the juniper bush. The cats’ water dish ended up under the steps. This is turning into something of a scavenger hunt.


Though roaring no longer, the wind is still blowing and sometimes gusting. Suddenly 25 degrees seems very cold. A snow squall this morning gave me a brief moment of hope that my windblown items would be covered by snow, negating the need to find them all this morning. However, the squall soon cleared, and instead of retreating to the warmth of the cabin, I continued my hunt.

I discovered the deer are still eating my juniper bush, even though the snow cover disappeared with yesterday’s rain. Someone told me once that deer only eat juniper bushes when nothing else is available, when snow cover is very deep. Someone should tell that to the local deer, as their muddy hoof prints, newly frozen, and the skinned bush belie that tale.

Wintry weather does not dampen the spirits of two the forest’s inhabitants. The northern cardinal has started singing in earnest again, and the Carolina wren never stopped. The wren is the earliest rising of the winter residents. I’ve heard one singing when the morning is still just half a step away from being fully dark.

The raccoon has reappeared, usually at 3 a.m. when I am awakened by Baby Dog’s howls of outrage. One good thing about mid-winter is that they disappear for a while. Not true hibernators, they do den up and stay in their dens during the coldest part of winter. I’m sort of hoping that their reappearance is temporary, and that the colder weather chases them back into their dens. I sleep better when they are not around. Or when I remember to bring the birdfeeder inside for the night.

A wild ride

Yellow Breeches Creek near Lisburn, Pennsylvania

Wild weather ripped across Roundtop mountain yesterday and early this morning. I awoke to a few flashes of lightning at 4 a.m., and more than a few strong gusts of wind. Those always make me hold my breath until they pass.

Yesterday and overnight a hard, cold rain fell, creating streams where none existed the day before. The lane up the mountain was washed out pretty bad, and leaves clogged the washed out areas. This morning the Yellow Breeches Creek ran full, if not over its banks. The wind still gusts and so far shows no sign of waning. The temperature has dropped 20 degrees so far. It is not a day for lounging outdoors.

Still, I think I’ve missed the some of the more extreme weather I’ve heard about in other parts of the country that was caused by this storm. For now, the roller coaster that is this season has rolled back into winter. Last night I went outside in my flip flops. This morning I’m wearing my winter jacket. I have no idea whether this latest big dip is the last one or just one more on the ride. Last year winter never arrived. This year it comes and goes from one day to the next.  And slams the door in both directions.

Just a moment in time

Ah, the lovely sparkly snow of just yesterday is gone, replaced with a few dull, white patches made occasionally treacherous by puddles and ice. For a few hours, the snow sparkled and twinkled like glitter, like diamonds, like stars on a clear night. It took my breath away. I watched the blanket of snow sparkle in the sun and just stood there, entranced with its loveliness.

But now, it's nearly gone already. That seems to be the way of snow in this new climate. It’s gone before you blink, leaving only a memory or an image in a camera.

Even though a photograph has always been but a moment in time, not all the captured moments disappear quite so quickly as this snow did. Mountains remain, lakes remain; to short-lived humas only the lighting changes.  Sunrises disappear, sunsets disappear but return the next day, different but always there. Snow? I expect that to last for a while, to disappear slowly, a bit at a time, perhaps turning a trifle gray in its last days. Usually patches of bare earth appear and expand over several days before the snow is overwhelmed by melting. Sometimes snow lasts for weeks, even months.  I get used to it, surprised in the spring when a pretty bump turns out to be something I should have thrown away in November.

But not this time. the snow is gone, nearly as quickly as a sunrise.

A little snow

About 3 inches of the sparkliest, most powdery snow I’ve ever seen fell on Friday. By Sunday morning, even though the temperature had yet to reach 32 degrees, it was already compressing and perhaps even melting where sun hit it. Still, after the overcast cleared, it was hard to argue with how pretty Nell’s Hill to the west looks when it is (almost) covered in snow.

Baby Dog and I took a walk through the snow. I was hoping for snowshoe weather, but the snow didn’t provide that. So we just bumbled through the snow, tripping and stumbling over invisible indentations and miniature hillocks. Baby Dog didn’t mind that at all. I was more cautious.

I attempted to do a little birding this weekend, but all the ponds and lakes around are now thoroughly iced in. The lakes were filled with a bevy of ice fishermen, but I found no open water for the waterfowl. Birding will be slow for a while until the ice melts. With winters such as they have become, that could be next week, next month or six weeks from now. There’s no telling. So I will enjoy the winter weather while it lasts, but I make no predictions for how long that may be.

Sunset before snow

Snow is coming today.  The sky is overcast, the air feels raw (though at 12 degrees it doesn’t take much for it to feel that way). The chill air takes on a dampness that goes bone deep.  I can feel that it’s going to snow long before the first flake falls.

Last evening, the first signs of snow ahead appeared, in the form of a lovely sunset. The first clouds were just starting to arrive.  The best sunsets (or sunrises) always precede a storm.  It’s only the storm’s timing the determines whether if will be the sunset or the sunrise that is the pretty one.

This morning’s sunrise was invisible; the clouds were already too thick for the sun to penetrate. The storm is already too near for the sun to peek through the clouds.  So the sunset provided the glory ahead of the upcoming storm.

I wasn’t in the best spot for the best photo of the sunset.  I was running the errands I usually do on Friday evening so I can stay home and play in the snow when it arrives.  When I rounded a bend on the back road I was driving, there it was.  So I had to stop and grab a shot.  Fortunately, some back roads around here are still lightly traveled enough that I can do that, even during evening drive times.

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.

I hope this is not a last hurrah

Snow and snow-making at Roundtop

Now this is winter! In fact, I’d be just as happy if that wind wasn’t so strong. This morning I awakened to a temperature of 10 degrees F (that’s -12C, for non-U.S citizens). The overnight forecast was for a balmy 20 degrees, so the weather people really got that one wrong. And the temperature won’t even near the freezing mark again for a solid week.

This is the kind of weather that makes it difficult to talk about climate change. Still, I won’t let that stop me. Over the weekend I watched a local show about how warmer weather will affect Pennsylvania and afterward read some Pennsylvania-funded studies about the topic. I was mostly interested in the effects of climate change in practical terms for Pennsylvania by the end of this century. At the moment it appears there are two choices—the best case scenario is that our climate becomes more like Virginia’s is today. The worst case scenario is that we end with Georgia’s climate.

The result of either will have a big impact on our state’s agriculture, assuming the state isn’t paved over with macadam by then. Pennsylvania’s famous apples? You can forget about them. Apples like cooler temperatures; they aren’t grown in Georgia for a reason. Pennsylvania’s wine industry? Grapes like cooler temperatures, too. Pennsylvania’s state tree, the eastern hemlock? Ditto. Sweet corn? Ditto.

Ski resorts? Forget about them. Snowmobiling? Gone. Some of the state’s most prized hardwood species, such as sugar maple, American beech and black cherry? Gone. The dairy industry? On life support, probably, as heat stresses cows. Changes in bird life are expected from loss of habitat or habitat changes as a result of the warming climate.

And there’s more. Winter temperatures are now projected to rise 8 degrees above historic level and summer temperatures are projected to rise 11 degrees. What this means is that the southern half of the state can be expected to endure 70 days a year with temperatures higher than 90 degrees. And in the southern tier cities, up to 24 days in excess of 100 degrees is considered likely, compared with the current 1-2 days.

The snow season will essentially disappear, and overall precipitation is projected to rise more than 10 percent. Currently, about ¾’s of the state enjoys at least one inch of snow cover for 30 days in a year. That figure will shrink to about half of the current situation.

The picture is not a good one, which is why I have to grit my teeth every time I hear someone exclaim how much better they like this warmer weather. I’m just glad I won’t be around to see the worst of it.

Impertinent

How long has it been since the sun was last out?  I honestly can’t remember.  It feels as though it’s been forever, perhaps fall, since I’ve had a sunny day.  Last night I had a bit of snow, just a flurry, but after that came an icy northwest wind that makes a 25F temperature feel like the arctic.

Sunrise was still a work in progress when I took this photo, but turkey vultures were already airborne, and not just airborne but high already. I suspect the rain, ice and gloom has not been good for their foraging.  They weren’t going to let clearing skies go to waste. Time to get out and about and smell the roadkill!

In this area, northwest winds always bring cold and usually drier air.  Winter is reappearing here as a result, though still not with the settled kind of depth it should have at this time of year.  In another day or so, it will warm up a bit and then the temperature will drop, plummet even, for another few days before moderating yet again.  In a normal winter, there should be no moderating at this point, and the cold should take on an endless kind of resonance, not the here today, gone tomorrow impertinence winter is affecting this year.

But with January’s average temperature already nearing five degrees above normal here, it’s hard to argue with the appearance of some normal weather, even if its arrival is more of a peek-a-boo game than anything.

An icy morning

I knew sleet was starting the moment the first pellets clattered onto my stovepipe.  The sound ebbed and flowed as the precipitation changed from sleet to rain to silent snow and back around to all three again.

This morning I felt as though I was in that scene from Dr. Zhivago, where Omar Sharif and Julie Christie meet in a ruined mansion where all the furniture is covered with snow and ice.  If you ever saw that movie in a theater, instead of on a small home screen, you’ll know the scene I mean. I can still remember the audience gasping at how beautiful that was.

Icy cabin 

The forest dusted with ice is gorgeous but treacherous.  The only saving grace from last night’s storm is that the temperature remained near enough to freezing that the ice fell off or broke with little effort.

Pennsylvania’s hilly and twisty roads do not make for fun driving on icy roads.  And conditions can change from one hill to the next, so it’s never a good idea to think driving is safe just because one spot isn’t as bad as it might be. Just wait until you go around the next curve.

This kind of weather brings out the feeder birds at my cabin.  They can’t forage when everything is covered with ice, so they arrive at the feeders well before dawn, anxious not to miss whatever handouts they can find. Then they hang around the feeders for much of the day, waiting for something more.

Even without the sound on my stovepipe or the waiting birds, by dusk last night I knew a storm wasn’t far off. The field atop the mountain next to Roundtop was filled with 16 deer, all grazing.  I often see deer there, but 6-7 is the typical number.  With so many there at the same time, it was pretty obvious they needed to fill up while they still could. 

Once the storm finally clears the mountain, temperatures will return to a winter-time range.  Still, the temperature will not drop to the dead-of-winter range where they should be.  But it’s better than March.

Topsy-turvy and backwards

If I have ever lived through a winter that had gloomier weather than this one, I can’t remember it. Truly, those “Twilight” vampires could live here and cavort at high noon without a getting so much as a blister.  This morning at 7:30 a.m., I had to wake the chickens up to feed them.  My oldest chicken, One-Eye the Pirate, didn’t even come off her perch for a while.  It was that dark.

This time of year, the overcast sky means it is too dark to take a photo in the forest before I leave for work. So I head out of the cover of the forest, and usually the open sky over the fields and orchards next to the mountain offers enough light for a photo. Not this morning. I drove 7 miles and it was 8 a.m. before the sky brightened enough to grab even a dark photo of distant cows.

One-Eye isn’t the only avian resident that seems to be affected by the constantly dark skies, though the wild birds seem affected in odd ways.  A Carolina wren was singing this morning at 5:30 a.m. under a streetlight at Roundtop, as were a few bluebirds.  Meanwhile, a great-horned owl hooted nearby even as I was leaving for work.  It’s not every day I hear an owl backed by a chorus of bluebirds and wrens.  Even at midday the light is more like dusk than day.

The clouds are heavy and dark. Today, the gloom is ahead of a spate of the dreaded “wintry mix” that will fall later.  The term simply means that forecasters don’t know what will fall from the sky. In this area, it usually means that every kind of precipitation known to weather will drop, possibly even all at the same time. With a forecast like that, even a few minutes of freezing rain can cause treacherous driving conditions in the morning.

Here at work, my colleagues and I are already planning to lug our work laptop computers home so we can work from home if the roads are extremely bad in the morning. That prompted one to remark that the surest way not to get freezing rain is for us all to take the computers home, as the forecasts never amount to much whenever we do this. I can only hope.

January or March?

If the weather had looked this nice over the weekend I would have gone birding.  Instead, the fog was so thick that trees just 20 feet away were hazy, and those more than 30 feet away were little more than ghost trees, mere shadows of trees.  There was no point in driving to a lake or a river to look for waterfowl, as I couldn’t even see crows in the trees next to the cabin.  Of course, this is pretty typical weather for March.  Wait, it’s not March, it’s January!

The dense fog, perhaps the thickest fog I have ever seen, persisted throughout the entire weekend.  I couldn’t see the bottom of the ski runs when I was right next to them, let alone see the skiers on the hill.  This morning the fog was still solidly in place but completely dissipated while I was eating breakfast and about to head out the door to work.  Isn’t that how it goes?  An entire weekend of gloom as dark as dusk and thick fog, and the moment Monday morning arrives, the weather improves.Of course, it’s still rainy and overcast and far too warm for January, but I can see the neighboring mountain, when  I couldn’t even see the end of my deck all weekend long.  The only birds I saw this weekend were my regular feeder birds.  I heard a few others, but they were lost in the fog.

The snow that covered Roundtop as late as Friday evening is now gone.  Even the few patches that made it into Saturday are gone now. And I am left with pretty typical March weather, except of course, this is January.

Winter takes a holiday

Roundtop Mtn. peeking up from behind an orchard

Just when I was happily getting used to winter, what happens? Winter takes a breather. Apparently more than one solid week of winter-normal temperatures was more than the season could handle. It has beaten a hasty retreat and leaves me with April showers for the next week.

This is not the kind of winter I look forward to.

At the cabin, the great-horned owl was calling this morning, so distant I could barely hear it. That probably puts the bird over on the neighboring mountain, which lies across the narrow stream valley created by Beaver Creek. Earlier, in December, a pair were courting vocally very near the cabin. They have gone silent, probably setting up nesting duties and not wanting to alert other predators to where they have established housekeeping.

I did find a raptor nest not long after the leaves fell this fall, and I’m going to investigate this weekend to see if they are using that as their home base. The odds are not high that I would find the one place where the big owls are nesting on the mountain, but I can’t resist trying.

Years ago I rented a weekend cabin with friends on Hawk Mountain, just down the road from the sanctuary. My bedroom was on the second floor, and across the dirt road from the cabin was a great-horned owl’s nest. I had great views of the downy twins that fledged from that nesting, as my bedroom was just about the same height as the nest. It was like a real life webcam.

These days, a brief glimpse of an owl is about as much as I get, and that all too rarely. Most of the time I have to settle for hearing their calls echoing through the forest.

Melting

Snow is melting on Roundtop, though I still have more cover at the cabin than here in the foothills.  The snow that's left melts during the day and refreezes at night. In some places I have more ice than snow.  The slipping is worse now than it was just after the snow fell.

It was a pretty morning, though, with less cloud cover than over the past few days. I'm ready for a good walk in the woods, but I prefer to walk in daytime when I can see what's going on around me.  For that, I will need to wait for the weekend.  Until then, all I have is a glimpse of the woods in front of me.

Winter's last harvest

Is a week of winter all that I will see this year? At the moment, winter has left the mountain and something closer to mid-March has arrived. Temperatures are expected to reach the 50’s this weekend, which will certainly put an end to my snow. The January thaw is becoming ore like a January spring.

It is, of course, much too early in the winter to proclaim the season a bust. At best, however, it will certainly take winter a while to recover from a thaw this extreme. And given the recent history of winters in this area, that may not fully happen at all. Probably to no one’s surprise who has been paying attention, 2012 was the warmest year ever in the U.S. Mainstream media has announced that over several outlets this week, as though it was something new, rather than old news. I suppose it’s worth mentioning that they’ve finally noticed!

For a week or so I had hopes this might, after all, be a real winter, though one that started later than it should. Now, I have less hope. It’s still possible , I suppose, but less likely. It will be another full week before the temperatures reach a relatively normal winter range again. By then it will be mid-January, which is normally the coldest point of the winter.

My photo today shows the last of the autumn apples, caught for a moment in the rising sun. This one is wrinkled and damaged by frost and time. Why hasn’t a deer found this to munch on? They have enough to feed on elsewhere, I suppose, so for the time being they can ignore apples in a tree along the edge of a road, perhaps having plenty of them deeper in the orchard, perhaps preferring the withered grass that is slowly appearing from under the carpet of snow.