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Monday, Sept. 22 -
Greetings Jane
A week ago we were at camp and saw a bald eagle sitting on the big tree on the little island. We got a good look thru the binoculars and I got some pictures good enough to confirm it was an eagle......later, Bob Kimball
I asked Bob Kimball to send the photos if possible, but I haven't heard back from him yet. This morning I heard from George Parizo:
I asked Bob Kimball to send the photos if possible, but I haven't heard back from him yet. This morning I heard from George Parizo:
Jane - reading about your sighting of a big bird on the Joe's Pond Blog, I also saw a big bird on the wing earlier this month. It was low and circling in front of the camp (94 Sandy Beach Road) I was able to get it into focus in my binoculars and it was an Eagle (all white head and blackish body) that's not all, several days latter I saw an Eagle trying to steal a fish away from a Osprey in flight, again right in front of the camp. For big birds, both were as agile as fighter airplanes, diving and dodging one another. The Eagle was not successful, and flew off to the south as the Osprey headed north. I also was too slow to get a picture of the encounter in the sky.
George Parizo
Here's a link to learn more about the eagle: Bald Eagle
Here's something going on in Cabot on Saturday that some of you may be interested in. Click on the image on the right to enlarge it.
I took a short walk in our woods at the back of the house yesterday. About 12 years ago we had a lot of the huge old spruce trees cut up there. Our logger, Randy, asked if we wanted him to pile and burn the limbs and other debris as he went along, so I got in touch with a forest agent at the Vermont Division of Forestry and he urged me to leave everything on the ground. He said it would all be gone in a couple years, decayed and nourishing the earth. I didn't think twice about it - I told Randy what the forester had said, and he smiled and went on with his work.
Some of you will remember or at least have heard about the hurricane that swept through Vermont in 1938. It did a huge amount of damage to timber land and buildings. Our farm lost acres of timber on a south facing lot we called the "morning pasture." We salvaged what we could, but there was an area, the "lower new piece," that was so tangled and splintered my grandfather decided to leave it. It was at the far end of the pasture and with only horses to move the big timbers, it wasn't worth the time and energy where there were more important things to attend to, like replacing or repairing buildings.
Life went on as usual, but the tangled mass of limbs and trees remained - for years. My cousins and I were responsible for bringing the cows out of the pasture each afternoon during summers in the early 1940's. Sometimes a cow would wander into the maze of downed trees and literally be stuck there. Cows aren't known for their intelligence, so it wouldn't occur to the stupid beast to turn around and backtrack. Usually she'd simply stand there until she realized the other cows were leaving the area and then, unable to follow and too dumb to turn around, she'd stand and bawl until we went in and rescued her.
It was hard to figure out how on earth that big animal could make it over the logs and through the brush and mud so far and even harder sometimes to figure out how to get her back out. There were three of us, my cousins Herb and Harold, and myself. One of us would take the rest of the herd home through the woods while the other two, hot and tired, had to turn around and head into that dreaded labyrinth. I still remember what it was like. There was no shade. Most of the trees were about chest high on us kids, piled one on top of the other with limbs crushed underneath often hiding brooks or marshy land that were sometimes dangerous obstacles. We usually couldn't find the path the cow had taken to get where she was, so we tried to find the shortest route possible. We'd walk on the logs when we could, balancing like acrobats, climbing over them or crawling underneath through brush and berry bushes that tore at our clothing and skin, all the while cursing the big black and white bovine ahead.
Once we'd reach her, we had to figure the best way to get her out - not always an easy task. Turning her around was usually the hardest part. It would take two of us to convince her to back up and turn. Then she'd usually pick her way out with us urging her from behind. We'd be caked with mud (and sometimes blood) by the time we got onto firm going. I remember how good the cold water of a brook felt on my scratched hot legs and arms. We couldn't take long to cool off and clean up because at the barn, milking would be going on and our wayward cow needed to be there. By the time we got the cow onto the familiar path home, we'd be tired and silly, but it was our job and there was a camaraderie between us that has lasted a lifetime. Harold is gone, as are our parents, aunts, uncles and some of our cousins who weren't part of our summers on the farm, but Cousin Herb in Florida, I hope you're reading this . . .
There is a point to my story: It took years of being left to the elements before those trees felled by the hurricane disappeared. Before that happened, berry bushes, ferns, flowers and vegetation that hadn't been exposed to the sun in years under those big spruces sprung to life. Eventually other trees grew up around the decaying logs, but it took a lot longer than "a couple of years."
I should have known - but as I walked yesterday on our small lot, I remembered the huge stacks of limbs Fred and I piled and eventually burned to cr
eate paths when it became evident two years time hadn't made a dent in the tangle of huge spruce branches that kept us from enjoying our back woodlot. I was pleased that now, 12 years later, the remaining tangle of branches left were fairly well covered with moss and grass, but I still had to be very careful not to be tripped by a still tough and slippery extensions of tree limbs. I don't climb over logs or scrunch under them easily like I did in my cow-herding years; and I try never to w
alk on logs except when absolutely necessary to get across a brook. I cling to my walking stick and depend on overhanging branches to steady me on slippery slopes and always look for the easiest way through a maze of brush. I like to think because I'm older, I'm wiser now.
Here's a link to learn more about the eagle: Bald Eagle
Here's something going on in Cabot on Saturday that some of you may be interested in. Click on the image on the right to enlarge it.
I took a short walk in our woods at the back of the house yesterday. About 12 years ago we had a lot of the huge old spruce trees cut up there. Our logger, Randy, asked if we wanted him to pile and burn the limbs and other debris as he went along, so I got in touch with a forest agent at the Vermont Division of Forestry and he urged me to leave everything on the ground. He said it would all be gone in a couple years, decayed and nourishing the earth. I didn't think twice about it - I told Randy what the forester had said, and he smiled and went on with his work.
Some of you will remember or at least have heard about the hurricane that swept through Vermont in 1938. It did a huge amount of damage to timber land and buildings. Our farm lost acres of timber on a south facing lot we called the "morning pasture." We salvaged what we could, but there was an area, the "lower new piece," that was so tangled and splintered my grandfather decided to leave it. It was at the far end of the pasture and with only horses to move the big timbers, it wasn't worth the time and energy where there were more important things to attend to, like replacing or repairing buildings.
Life went on as usual, but the tangled mass of limbs and trees remained - for years. My cousins and I were responsible for bringing the cows out of the pasture each afternoon during summers in the early 1940's. Sometimes a cow would wander into the maze of downed trees and literally be stuck there. Cows aren't known for their intelligence, so it wouldn't occur to the stupid beast to turn around and backtrack. Usually she'd simply stand there until she realized the other cows were leaving the area and then, unable to follow and too dumb to turn around, she'd stand and bawl until we went in and rescued her.
It was hard to figure out how on earth that big animal could make it over the logs and through the brush and mud so far and even harder sometimes to figure out how to get her back out. There were three of us, my cousins Herb and Harold, and myself. One of us would take the rest of the herd home through the woods while the other two, hot and tired, had to turn around and head into that dreaded labyrinth. I still remember what it was like. There was no shade. Most of the trees were about chest high on us kids, piled one on top of the other with limbs crushed underneath often hiding brooks or marshy land that were sometimes dangerous obstacles. We usually couldn't find the path the cow had taken to get where she was, so we tried to find the shortest route possible. We'd walk on the logs when we could, balancing like acrobats, climbing over them or crawling underneath through brush and berry bushes that tore at our clothing and skin, all the while cursing the big black and white bovine ahead.
Once we'd reach her, we had to figure the best way to get her out - not always an easy task. Turning her around was usually the hardest part. It would take two of us to convince her to back up and turn. Then she'd usually pick her way out with us urging her from behind. We'd be caked with mud (and sometimes blood) by the time we got onto firm going. I remember how good the cold water of a brook felt on my scratched hot legs and arms. We couldn't take long to cool off and clean up because at the barn, milking would be going on and our wayward cow needed to be there. By the time we got the cow onto the familiar path home, we'd be tired and silly, but it was our job and there was a camaraderie between us that has lasted a lifetime. Harold is gone, as are our parents, aunts, uncles and some of our cousins who weren't part of our summers on the farm, but Cousin Herb in Florida, I hope you're reading this . . .
There is a point to my story: It took years of being left to the elements before those trees felled by the hurricane disappeared. Before that happened, berry bushes, ferns, flowers and vegetation that hadn't been exposed to the sun in years under those big spruces sprung to life. Eventually other trees grew up around the decaying logs, but it took a lot longer than "a couple of years."
I should have known - but as I walked yesterday on our small lot, I remembered the huge stacks of limbs Fred and I piled and eventually burned to cr
eate paths when it became evident two years time hadn't made a dent in the tangle of huge spruce branches that kept us from enjoying our back woodlot. I was pleased that now, 12 years later, the remaining tangle of branches left were fairly well covered with moss and grass, but I still had to be very careful not to be tripped by a still tough and slippery extensions of tree limbs. I don't climb over logs or scrunch under them easily like I did in my cow-herding years; and I try never to w
alk on logs except when absolutely necessary to get across a brook. I cling to my walking stick and depend on overhanging branches to steady me on slippery slopes and always look for the easiest way through a maze of brush. I like to think because I'm older, I'm wiser now.
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