A Northwoods Almanac for March 1 - 14, 2019

A Northwoods Almanac for March 1 – 14, 2019  

Depth and Character of Snow

            Shoveling roofs has been the exercise du jour of the last few weeks. If anyone had any illusions about how deep the snow was, the shoveling cured all of that. What I learned up on our roof was that the snow had four layers – an initial ice layer on the shingles, a several-inch layer of compressed snow on top of that, a layer of thick ice on top of that, and then 24 inches or more of lighter snow – the icing on the cake. Undoubtedly, chiropractors have found themselves in heavy demand this week, as have couches for splaying upon after total exhaustion has set in.

shoveling the roof got much easier on 2/24

            Yesterday, 2/24, we were blessed with another foot or more of snow, and I’m now lowering my eyes whenever I walk around my house so as to avoid seeing the roof. Ignoring the issue always solves it, right? We snowshoed today, 2/25, breaking trail, and it was way more work than it was fun.

            Deep snow is either a curse or a blessing for wildlife. For animals outfitted with enormous feet well out of proportion to the rest of their body – think snowshoe hare, lynx, and caribou – the depth of snow serves to slow down their predators and/or their prey while seldom hindering them at all. These animals were made for snow.

The ability of an animal to basically float on the snow surface is determined by the efficiency of their foot-surface-to-body-weight ratio. A lightweight animal with big feet is well-adapted to deep snow. Compare a cottontail rabbit to a snowshoe hare, for example. A cottontail’s hind foot is 3 inches long and 1 inch wide, while a snowshoe’s hind foot is 5 inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide. A bobcat’s front foot (a cat’s front foot is larger than its hind foot) is 2 inches long and 2 inches wide, while a lynx’s is 3 ¾ inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide – nearly twice the size of a bobcat’s. A coyote’s front foot is 2 ½ inches long and 2 1/8 inches wide, while a timber wolf’s front foot is 4 ¾ inches long and 4 inches wide, nearly twice the size of a coyote’s. Caribou have large circular and spreading front hooves that are 3 ½ inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide compared to a white-tailed deer’s front hooves which are 3 inches long and 1 7/8 inches wide. For deer, the rule of thumb is that if snow reaches 18” deep, they yard up, because the energy lost struggling through deep snow exceeds the energy they can get from available food.

            A tall chest height helps to further reduce the energy needed to wade through deep snow. A moose stands on long, thin legs that permit it to keep its body out of the snow, thus reducing the energy it needs to get around. A bear, with its short legs, would move like a small bulldozer through deep winter snows losing enormous amounts of energy as it tried to find food, thus its need for hibernation.  

            But it’s not just the depth of snow that matters to wildlife – it’s also the character of the snow, the wetness or dryness or crustiness. Ruffed grouse, for instance, dive into deep snow on very cold nights to conserve energy. They need deep, light snow for their roosts. Heavy, wet snow, or hard-crusted snow makes for unsuccessful and painful entries and exits.

            And for all the rodent species whiling away the winter hours under the snow, a deep lightweight blanket provides the best insulating blanket.

            The snow we received last Sunday (2/24) was forecast to be heavy and wet, but at least around us, it came down rather fluffily, good news for many wildlife species, and good news as well for we roof shovelers. 

Sightings

Twenty bohemian waxwings appeared on one of our crabapple trees in Manitowish on 2/15. They spent an hour or so consuming the fruits, then left, and we haven’t seen them since.

Jeff and Rosie Richter in Mercer have had 40+ evening grosbeaks and 50 or so common redpolls attending their feeders since the second week of February. These species remain quite uncommon throughout the Northwoods and the whole state this winter, so although they are spending far more money on bird seed than the rest of us, they are darn lucky!

A starling hung from one of our suet feeders on 2/24 in the midst of the blizzard swirling around us. This may be the earliest starling we’ve ever had at our feeders, and if I can presume a judgement, perhaps the stupidest.

Art Foulke has had a northern junco at his feeders in Manitowish Waters all winter. Given that juncos are ground-feeding birds, I imagine its engaging in some internal dialogue this week. Bruce Bacon in Mercer also has a couple juncos visiting his feeders, as well as a northern cardinal.

David Foster in Natural Lakes has several male and female pine grosbeaks visiting his feeders, species which are also quite hard to find this winter.

Kay Rhyner sent photos of a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers working on her suet feeders in Hazelhurst. 

In Manitowish, we are supporting at least 22 blue jays, along with 8 American goldfinch, and the other usual suspects like both species of nuthatches, mourning doves, etc. Still no grosbeaks, siskins, or redpolls, but I’m betting next week will change our luck.

Celestial Events

            It’s March! For planet-watching, look after dusk for Mars high in the west and setting around midnight, and that’s it for planets after dusk. Before dawn, however, the planet-watching picks up! Look for Venus low in the ESE, Jupiter rising in the SE, and Saturn rising in the SE.

            Early this morning, 3/1, look for Saturn just beneath the waning crescent moon. Tomorrow morning, 3/2, look for Venus just above the moon.

            As of 3/3, the average high temperature for Minocqua reaches 32° for the first time since 11/27. Minocqua averages 265 days with high temps above freezing. 

            New moon on 3/6, and daylight savings time begins on 3/10. Spring ahead!

Canoecopia

            Canoecopia, the world’s largest canoe/kayak show, takes place in Madison from March 8-10. If you’ve never attended, it’s an amazing event. We’ll be there! Hope to see you.

Thought for the Week

            Mary and I ski and snowshoe as much as we can in the winter, and, like me, she writes of our experiences. She wrote this story in 1995:

            “Stepping into the ski bindings, I wedge the three pins in and clamp them tight. With the pole straps looped around my wrists, I slide forward. Kick and glide, kick and glide, shuffle through the deep snow, then glide again where the snow is packed and firm. I slip down the little hill near the house to the edge of the marsh, and angling the skis along the bank, drop down onto the ice. Stems of tan sedges protrude from their hummocks and wave well above the snow. Just inside the entangling, vile clusters of alder, the rabbit tracks are thick. 

            The early February sun shines palely in the late afternoon, its warmth not exceeding 10 degrees nor slowing the brisk westerly wind. Gusts fling the new snow high into the air like white ghosts, eddying and whirling above the river. A thin strand of tracks crosses and re-crosses the river, a coyote's recording of its nighttime journey.

            In a broad white band, the frozen river ribbons out, curving and bending between the snow-sculpted banks of the marshes and the high ridges of pines. The boundary between river and shore softens and disappears beneath the snow. I ski along this border, sometimes on the river, often on the marsh, and skirt the deep cut away banks where the quickness of the current could keep the ice thin.

            Where the snow lays deep and powdery, only the wooden tips of the skis emerge from the snow. They skate beneath the surface like two small animals tunneling together, one burrowing forward and then the other paralleling its course.

            Leaving the river edge, I cross a section of marsh and ski onto the slough ice.  The skis glide easily on the open smoothness of this frozen backwater.  At the far side of the slough, the riverbank rises steeply.

            I ski among the large white pines. The wind seems to be caught far overhead in the branches of the trees, and I'm warmer for their shelter. I skate among the trees with ease. Beneath these pines, 70 years ago, my Grandparents built a cabin. It was constructed of timber from the land and built for those hot summers when their children could swing on a rope from the big pines and land splashing in the river. All that remains now is the rusted-out shell of my Grandma's cook stove and, farther along the bank, the caved-in root cellar.

            Skiing along the trails through the overgrown fields and then beneath the rich canopy of old pines, I smile to think of my Mother and Grandmother skiing here on their long, dark, wooden skis 65 years ago. 

            My family and I have lived in my Grandparent's old home one-half mile upstream from the cabin site for eleven years. This is where my Mother and her siblings were raised, where my Mother grew to love the river and the land.

            Frequently, in the warm months, my family and I paddle the river. We explore the land through the seasons, but most thoroughly in the quiet, snow-covered realms of winter. On skis and snowshoes we discover a world my Mother and Grandparents knew.

            I hurry home to my eight-year-old girl and tell her to get her skis, and we will ski on the marshes and through the woods just like her Grandma did when she was eight years old.  

            Back out in the pines, we talk about Grandma, how she snowshoed, skied, fished, even hunted. And rapidly our skiing takes on another dimension. Just as the old pines watch us now, they've seen the passage of many people: my Mother, Grandma and Grandpa, the fur traders before them, and the Natives before them. My girl senses this, and asks how old the pines are – ‘Were they here when Great Grandma and Grandpa lived here?’

Mary Burns and Zoe skiing in 2019

            ‘Yes.’

            She thinks on that awhile, as do I. She is gaining a sense of place, something I have been blessed with since my childhood. And she, in her youthful, passionate, bordering on overly-dramatic way, says, ‘I always want to live here.’ I can't remember, but I am sure I must have said the same thing to my Mother years ago. I can only hope my daughter has a child who says the same thing to her someday under these pines.”