Hold outs hangin' on #phenology

This morning was spent moving some of the recently pulled buckthorn from the front of the property to the burn pile out back, pulling some sort of thorny vines (we don't think they're blackberries) so they'll have fewer opportunities to trip us or rip our ankles, and checking the pocket gopher traps (there's one less gopher on the property). In our wanderings about, we noticed two tiny flowers still in bloom. Those of us who've lived in the North Country for a while are rugged souls. It takes more than an evening's hard freeze or so to do us in.

a pair of hard-frost holdouts, one white, one yellow

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night may, or may not, have qualified as once again having frost / freeze temperatures. The lowest we saw locally was 33℉. We neglected to cover the mums and asters because we didn't expect another overnight freeze. This morning the mums are looking healthier and hardier than the asters so we'll just keep an eye on things and see who may still be alive over the next day or two.

wooly bear with (only) two bands

Photo by J. Harrington

The other pleasant surprise we encountered today was our discovery of a real, live wooly bear caterpillar. This one wasn't on the road or hiding under leaves or in the wood pile. As you can see, it's hanging onto a plant. If you look closely, you can see that it barely has all three bands. With the relatively wide band of brown in the middle, we're thinking this caterpillar believes it's going to be a relatively mild Winter. Our personal beliefs are that that would be nice if it doesn't bring too many ice storms. If this caterpillar is still hanging around later today, we think it's going to become a subject for observation  if we can set up and suitably fit out a container. Last time we tried this, the wooly bear escaped before we got the dirt and twigs into its Winter home. This time we'll rig the container first.

A Caterpillar on the Desk

by Robert Bly

           Lifting my coffee cup, I notice a caterpillar crawling over my sheet of ten-cent airmail stamps. The head is black as a Chinese box. Nine soft accordions follow it around, with a waving motion, like a flabby mountain. Skinny brushes used to clean pop bottles rise from some of its shoulders. As I pick up the sheet of stamps, the caterpillar advances around and around the edge, and I see his feet: three pairs under the head, four spongelike pairs under the middle body, and two final pairs at the tip, pink as a puppy's hind legs. As he walks, he rears, six pairs of legs off the stamp, waving around the air! One of the sponge pairs, and the last two tail pairs, the reserve feet, hold on anxiously. It is the first of September. The leaf shadows are less ferocious on the notebook cover. A man accepts his failures more easily-or perhaps summer's insanity is gone? A man notices ordinary earth, scorned in July, with affection, as he settles down to his daily work, to use stamps.  

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