Nature is Never Spent

I took my walk this evening through a wooded area. It had been a windy day (a blessing in the summer!) and we had a strong storm on Wednesday. Normally in the middle of summer I'd expect to see some branches on the ground along with a few bunches of green leaves torn off. Instead, the broad path looked like a postcard of a forest road in high autumn: strewn with brown leaves, the ground only visible in a narrow band where other walkers had been. Crunch, crunch, a wonderful sound if it were appropriate for the season.

They were mostly red oak leaves in that area, but it's not just oaks; the birch and cottonwoods are shedding leaves that aren't even brown, they're a crisp-dry gray green, as if they were cooked alive and then fell.

This reminded me that when I was hiking at the beginning of July, I saw a very dramatic leaf drop. I was walking along and suddenly noticed that I was past ankle-deep in oak leaves. They were all in one area and clearly all from the same tree. I looked up and found the source: a gnarled, denuded oak. I could see the blue sky so clearly between the bare black branches. It looked like all the leaves had dropped almost simultaneously, like in a cartoon. They hadn't had time to even be blown around by the wind.

Lots of Nature to share! But so little time, alas. I recently started filling the birdfeeder on my balcony again, and the usual suspects didn't waste time returning: house finches, tufted titmice, cardinals. They seem to have an excellent appetite. I don't know if their energy needs are particularly high for some summer related reason (like raising chicks) or there are simply more of them around. It was 105F Monday and 107F today, so I know they don't need the food energy to keep warm! Despite all the sprinkler-watering that happens in the city, there's probably less natural food around for them. I've put a pan of water on my balcony for the birds and squirrels, and I hope they're using it while I'm away.

The drought has been worse this year than last: it started earlier in the year, was not preceded by floods like last year's, and it's following a bad year already. Most of the state has been declared in severe or extreme drought. A few cities have already postponed their July fireworks until New Year's because of the wildfire danger.

This mourning dove didn't seem too worried though...

<

It was just checking me out as I stood inside with my telephoto lens.

According to a meteorologist or climatologist on the local radio news recently, "It looks like the drought will continue through the winter months and into next year." Not good news for the trees that were stressed by this summer. Sometimes with trees, it takes a couple of years to tell if they're going to survive.

Two weeks ago when I was at the farm, I went out to the apple tree hoping to find enough good apples for a couple of pies. I'd checked at the end of August, and there were a lot of apples but they weren't really ripe enough yet. A few weeks later they still seemed like they could use a little more time, and besides, there weren't any on the ground. The way I've always been able to tell they're good and ripe is when they start falling off the tree on their own. If we don't keep up with the tree and pick them by the bucket (and we usually can't get all of them), we end up with a fermenting, cidery slick of apples on the ground, with wasps and beetles having a feast. It's been that way every summer/fall, as long as I can remember.



But this last time when I went to check, there weren't any at all. I asked my dad about it — maybe he had let someone pick them? — but he had no clue. Not a single apple left on the tree nor a trace of one on the ground. We talked about it, and our theory is that the deer must have come for them. They've got so little to eat in the woods, and it's hard for them to find water as well, so they're approaching civilization and trying foods they usually don't bother.

We agreed that if the deer are that hard up, we don't mind that they took the apples this year.

This morning, the sun is burning down on the lawn, but last night the ground was shining and wet and deliciously cool. We had another rainfall, bringing the week's rain to about an inch and a quarter, more than the previous two months combined. It's a great blessing and even if we don't have more for awhile, it's enough to keep things from dying for a little longer. Drought is a slow-motion disaster. It sneaks up on you, you barely realize it's happening until you're in trouble, like the frog who's put into cold water and slowly brought to a boil. And there's so little to be done: you can't hide in the basement or stand in a door frame or pack up your car and drive inland. I've lived through two other major droughts in other places, and one thing that has made a big impression on me is how drought doesn't just exhaust the land and flora and fauna: it creeps into your psyche and wears away at your hope. And when a drought breaks... I can't even describe it, but it's beautiful.

So here are a few observations from the farm, because I want a record for myself. I hope I can come back in a few months and sigh with relief at how things have changed for the better.

* In the morning, there's a smell like when you're buried in a pile of fallen sycamore leaves in November. But it's everywhere, and it's coming from the dead grass. Walking on the grass is like going out in a frost in January: it's stiff, it crunches and breaks under your feet. The color of the grass in the pastures isn't the yellowish grey-brown of winter though. It's a dead brown, almost black in places, with the dirt showing through. There's a lot of dust.

* The leaves of the dogwood trees are half shriveled and crunchy brown. It's not like fall, when they hold their shape and slowly turn streaked red then maroon and orange, then fall from the tree. These are still a weak green where they're connected to the tree, but dessicated and grey-brown at the tips.

* In 1997, I planted a lot of hostas around the bases of the trees in the front yard. After that first year, they never got a bit of attention and certainly were never watered, but they've survived, spread and thrived in the 14 years since then. This year it looks like they're gone.

* The grasshoppers are amazing, both size and number. I don't know if this is unusual, or I just notice them more because of the lack of grass. When you walk, dozens of the huge critters scatter, sometimes landing on clothes. I'm glad for my sunglasses and hat.

* There are few cattle. The farmers have sold off their herds because they can't feed them. Normally, in the spring and summer the cattle and horses get fat on grass and the farmers make hay from the tall fescue, at least three crops worth. Then in the winter when there's less forage, they feed the cows the summer's hay. This year, the farmers got one crop of hay in May if they were lucky, but in June the rain stopped and no more grass grew. They've fed the winter's hay to the cattle already and now there's almost nothing left. They could buy more, but other regions are suffering as well, so anything that's out there to buy is too expensive. So they have to get rid of their herds.

None of these things are conditions I've ever seen before. In any other drought year, I'd say from experience that most things will be back in the spring. You just have faith through the winter rains and wait for the green buds to start peeking out in March and April, for blades of new grass to come up in the brittle lawns and bare pastures. But this year my faith is wavering. What if this year is different and all bets are off? I don't know which trees will actually survive or if the lawn is gone for good. For the first time I genuinely worry about forest fires.

( Photos )

But there are still little signs of hope. A month ago I noticed that my five-year old oak tree (actually a pair of oaks planted together) was dying -- one of the trees had turned completely brown. It's old enough, it should have good deep roots by now, but my dad started watering it anyway. When I returned to the farm, I saw that all the dead leaves had dropped and new, spring-colored green leaves had come on. It looks like it's going to make it.

I'm back at the farm. I knew the drought in this part of the state was becoming severe, but driving here through the hills almost made me gasp with how obviously bad things have become. I'll probably write more on the general situation later, but this morning I walked down to the pond and saw something I've never witnessed before: our spring-fed pond is almost completely dried up. The spring bubbles out of the ground nearby and flows into the pond, oxygenating and cycling the water before it flows out into a little creek at the other side. Or it has done with basically no human interference for the 29 years we've lived on this place, but now the spring has disappeared. The sight of the cracked mud and stranded lilies and the pathetic, murky pool that remain were a bit of a shock, even though I was prepared.

It's nothing like this lake in Texas or this one in Florida, but the condition of our little pond is a very personal illustration for me of how this disaster affects natural systems.

( Images of a dry pond )

Even though it was an unpleasant surprise to see how things have changed so quickly, it was interesting how some things are still hanging on and taking advantage as well as they can. Bless the frogs and dragonflies and raccoons and birds and waterbugs and anything that can live in green mud.

The trumpetvine is back and blossoming with gusto. There are big, knobby orange trumpets hanging over the cars in the parking lot, vines and flowers covering utility poles and trees... while many plants (including trees) are already wilting in this early-season heat wave, the trumpet vine seems to be quite happy.



The heat and lack of rain seems like just what we wanted after the rains and floods in April and May. But it's more like insult to injury, unfortunately; we entered the year with drought conditions, and the rains alleviated that a little but not completely. Now we have some farmers whose fields are still under water and others who got their seeds in late and now the seedlings are dying in the ground. Any young trees and plants without deep roots are suffering too. We usually see this in July and August. What a year!