New Hampshire Nature Notes
by Eric Orff

Leafless trees, cloudless skies and a full Beaver Moon to decorate it all.

Tuesday 11/15/2005

Sure practically all the color of fall is gone with the wind and the heavy rains of the last storms stripping even the oaks bare. Only the beeches have maintained their modesty cloaking themselves in the browning brilliantly colored yellow leaves of late fall. But the woods are naked for the most part. And the sky has been cloud free more days than not lately. A welcomed reprieve from the weeks of sunless days all fall. At least the trees and sky is willing to let the sun soak us even though the shadows are long even at mid day.

I wrapped up my annual biological deer checking station at Wildlife Sports in Manchester on the holiday, the 11th. All totaled I checked 105 or so deer this year. Down slightly from last year if my memory serves me right.

I did manage to get out hunting much of Saturday myself. I headed down around Great Bay to explore and learn a couple of smaller tracts of land recently acquired by the Great Bay Land Trust and turned over to the Fish and Game Department. Plus the deer population around the Bay is theoretically twice or more what it is around my house. Well, so much for theory. I didn't even catch a glimpse of a white tail....again. But I did flush a couple flocks of wood ducks from a creek near where it empties into the southern end of the Bay. I pretty much always have my little digital camera in my shirt pocket and couldn't resist taking a few shots of the creek with an ebbing tide in the late afternoon sun light. There was numerous shades of gold, from sedges to oak leaves near and far. I took a shot through a dead oak branch jutting out over the creek framing my beautiful view. The powerful smell of the exposed muddy creek bankings seeped into every part of my nasal passages smelling sweater with each draw of breath through my nose. This mud could swallow you even from a distance. I hopped a few tidal seeps and stared into the perfect reflections of the sky and sea of gold surrounding some of the salt water pans. They all draw you into the grasp in a memorizing way. There is so much to see while hunting.

Here in Epsom the leaves have vanished giving me a better view of the Suncook River. And to my surprise, there sat at river's edge, the beavers cache of food for this winter. Maybe it was the high water or my own harried life the last few weeks as I missed watching the beavers cut and store their winter's food supply. But there it lay for all the world to see when I glanced out my slider Sunday morning. Good for them to be ready for winter. This bank beaver (s) have occupied this site for more than a decade. No doubt several generations of beaver. This spring when the river flooded the beaver was flooded out for a couple of weeks and spent days huddled in the middle of the flooded corn field attempting to look like nothing at all. But the huge brown lump stuck out like a sore thumb. Still she was not too far from the waters edge and at a moment could make her escape. I'm glad to see she has survived to face another winter. Now if only DES doesn't draw the river down so much as to leave the cache high and dry and ABOVE the ice again this fall she should far well. So this months full Beaver Moon is aptly named for the view I have from all the windows in the back of my house facing the river.

There have been ducks galore around this last week. Some on the river, but the annual draw down of Northwood Lake brings dozens of ducks into the lake to feed along the receding water line as the lake falls each year. One year I spotted a European widgeon mixed in with the flocks. It's a great place to spend a little time with binoculars or even better a spotting scope to see what is about. Same goes for the spring when the lake is filling.

Even though Deer Camp was over more than a week ago I still keep thinking of it. One thing I forgot to mention last week was something I learned about the place my favorite tree stand sits annually. One of my aunts, who has lived in the town all her life, has been doing more genealogy. My father was the oldest of twelve siblings, eight of whom were sisters. Charlotte has been diving into the family tree for several years. This summer she informed me that the hill where I put my tree stand annually is actually named after my great-great-great grandfather. He was a minister and apparently owned pretty much all the land I now hunt and more. I did dwell upon this a bit while ensconced in my tree stand overlooking a blue berry barren that caps the top of the hill.

Not twenty yards from my stand is an old stone wall. Now I know it was my long past grandfather's hands, or those of his children that placed those stones so well. No doubt this wall was built in the early part of the 1800's during the great sheep explosion. How their hands ever laid them there to lay at rest without moving or falling 185 years later is beyond me. Each year it seems I am "fixing" the stone wall I rebuilt along the front of my house.

My first memory of this hill ,for which is named after one of my grandfathers, was when I was four years old and my parents were living in the town. My father brought my sister, brother and me across the lake in a boat to climb the hill to a special apple tree. We brought a huge gunny sack along and filled it with the largest apples I had ever seen. Much of the hill was reverting pasture in the early 1950's. He also took me to an old cemetery on the far side of the lake an introduced me to some of his uncles. I remember once as a child, then again when I was in my late twenties or early thirties. Odd names like Sylvanous were scribed on one stone as I remember. I have come to appreciate those visits more over time. He introduced me to my roots all buried in the ground not far from the lake I love. Occasionally, in my tree stand on a day with a good south breeze, I can hear the whistle of the train as it climbs the hill headed north out of town. If my father were above the ground, where he lies buried in the Olde German Cemetery, he too could hear the whistle I'm sure. So my father lays buried only one train-whistle from where I spend hours each fall contemplating life. The whistle always brings his voice to my mind calling my name.