Signs of life

Much of what goes on in the natural world around us is hard to observe first-hand. Like the flowering of the witch-hazel, phenomena have their own time frame, so if you miss the main event you have to infer what happened from what is left behind. Short-term fossils exist all around us.

With their superior sense of smell, the dogs know so much more than we do about the goings on in the forest. For them the air is as full of information as the Internet, and there's many surfaces to post their own scent to. They have message filters as well. Their primary interests are visitors like deer and small mammals worth chasing, not to mention the bones (and worse) they love to bring home to decorate the yard.

The creatures which have interested me lately are insects. Even though the winter seems devoid of bugs, most of the summer insects are still present in some form (other species migrate). Cocoons are tucked into crevices and under tarps. Small winged insects appear out of seemingly nowhere when the temperature dallies above freezing. Many species present are tiny eggs or larvae dormant in the soil, but there are tell-tell signs of their activities throughout the year. Bark beetles for example are tiny and spend the winter as well as most of their lives under tree bark. The adults lay their eggs in cavities excavated between the bark and the wood. The larvae hatch and radiate out as they feed, leaving starbursts and fireworks to be exposed when the bark degrades.



Insects which produce galls (tumor-like plant growths) also tend to be tiny and hidden from view. Dried goldenrod stems can have golf-ball sized galls complete with resident larva, or sometimes a small beetle or other predator who has eaten the original inhabitant. Many of the spruce trees near the house have funny cone-like growths known as pineapple galls. The insect responsible, an aphid, is long gone. The next generation slumbers at the base of spring needle buds, poised to feed and in the process create new galls when warmth returns.

Tree Stories

A frozen branch.


A city tree growing through a fence.


Forest of ice.

All plants have stories to tell if you pay attention, but trees tend to have the longer narrative. Trees stand out more this time of year, especially in an older stand. We’re lucky to have a patch of protected old-growth nearby which I took to visiting during the deer season.

This stand is notable not only because it nestles against a town but because the land is fairly flat and fertile. A nearby patch of old-growth consists of small but ancient trees growing on a very steep landscape. For most of the land around here, what was farmable was cleared for fields and what resisted farming was still logged. The pattern is certainly not unique to the northwest. Protected land tends to be the more inhospitable land which lacks easily exploited resources. So it’s nice to find gorgeous straight trees which I can barely reach halfway around that were able to escape cutting for hundreds of years.



One of the characteristics of old-growth forest (a somewhat loose term) is a diverse age structure. The elders stand among young and middle-aged individuals, and death is also present. Trees have stories to tell even beyond their death, as well as roles still to play. Only a few species such as maples and hemlock are able to grow under the shade of a complete canopy, albeit slowly. Fire is not a common disturbance in our area, but wind is. Trees falling due to high wind, disease, or age create patches of sunlight which allow shade intolerant species like tuliptrees and black cherries to persist in the stand. Sometimes a tree with a shallow root system will pull up its roots and a part of the ground when it falls (this is called a tipup). The exposed soil provides a substrate for seed germination.



This forest is not untouched by the changes of the last few centuries. Beech trunks wrinkle with imported beech bark disease. Wide-ranging species like the passenger pigeon or gray wolf no longer visit, and in the case of the passenger pigeon no longer exist on earth. Some of the downed wood from the past hundred years is missing. There were two major windstorm events after which the decision was made to salvage log damaged areas. This is unfortunate because the downed wood is important. It provides habitat for such diverse creatures as small mammals, fungi, nematodes, and bacteria. Eventually the wood returns to the soil much of what it took up. Just as a 300-year old hemlock has a long story to tell (which is probably more exciting in its condensed version), nutrients taken up from the dirt and incorporated in the trunk of a long-lived tree have several human lifetimes to persist before returning. So to a human it may seem that if the forest can wait that long, the resources must not be that important. But land that is logged regularly must eventually be fertilized to keep producing. Resource extraction is like having a bank account - you can take the interest but if you dip in too deep you begin to deplete the principal.

Yeast magic

Letting the dough rise


Boiling the wort (the unfermented precursor to beer)


Fermenting the beer

The first seed catalog has come (a bit early, but everyone is anxious about finding buyers right now). Despite my daydreams of a green spring, winter has only begun. This weekend the few remaining patches of exposed ground had broken out in frozen goose bumps. There's still green to be found - evergreens, ferns huddling at the base of tree trunks, grass matted from the weight of a few rounds of snow. But the garden will be inhospitable to vegetable seeds until the thaw in March.

So I turn to growing things inside where the woodstove keeps things warm despite the retreat of sunlight. Sunday I planted some yeast. I made two ancient staples: bread (in the form of pizza dough) and beer.

I find gardening and fermentation have a lot in common. I prepare the substrate, for example cultivate the ground for plants and knead the dough for bread yeast, then provide care as necessary while they grow. Otherwise I wait. The whole process makes me feel connected both to the other beings and to history. One of our greatest assets has been our ability to make alliances across species barriers. We may have the decision making power in many of these relationships, but considering that a pampered crop like corn greatly outnumbers the human population, there's benefits for the other species as well.

Of course the quality of life for some of our partners may be questionable in the age of massive confined feeding operations. The only quality that effects evolutionary fitness (which is a bit of a misnomer) is how effectively an organism replicates its genes. If an organism has the chance to be weak, say for example because there's a sheep dog chasing away predators, it's wasteful to use resources being strong. Personally I care more about quality, but I like the lesson about intelligent laziness. I don't mind letting my companions do work they're more suited for. The cats can catch the mice that sneak indoors and the dogs can keep watch for visitors. The English ale yeast is welcome to its quiet corner, performing its alchemy on barley sugars while I tend to other things. In a month we'll crack open the first bottle and drink to the power of living things.

Night fall

When we moved out to the country from the city, night took on new meaning. Lone houses are stars nestled in the landscape while the distant street lamps and flood lights of the cities stain the sky like sunsets. My partner and I often spend the evening at her mother's house. Sure, we notice if it's raining or cold on the walk back, but also if it's cloudy or clear. Is the moon bright or just a thin crescent in field of stars?

This may be part of your life already, but if not, go out in the woods some night when the sky is clear and the full moon casts long shadows from the trees. Then return on a cloudy night when even the sliver of moon is hiding and water droplets in the air swallow the beam from a cheap flashlight. On those nights the forest is a black hole pressing in on our puddle of light. We feel our way around the bend in the driveway with our feet, and sometimes with our hands.

Out here night is a physical thing. Even when we're cozy in our little houses, the dark beyond the windows leans in whispering, "sleep." We've had a couple of weeks of mostly gray days and dark nights, and night will continue to lengthen for a couple weeks more. It's easy to see why so many winter solstice traditions are festivals of light. We won't be emulating our neighbors by lighting up our house and yard like a christmas tree, but we will be attending an interfaith celebration with lots of candles and singing. When things seem darkest is when we most need hope and merriment.