Killing Frost

I have heard my last cricket. The hard frost sometimes comes in October, but this year the temperature dawdled just below freezing for many nights. Fall finally gave up in mid-November, and with it the last tree crickets. Before then, the few remaining fiddled on during sunny days as if it was still September. Deer joined the squirrels at my leftover pumpkin buffet, juncos appeared, and a few snowflakes drifted with the falling leaves. A mosquito even got me–in the house, no less. So much for early Fall.

A light freeze (29-32°) doesn’t kill everything. It’s not until the night dips below 28 degrees that we refer to it as a “killing frost”. It seemed like a long wait this year, not that I’m complaining. Usually that frost now happens in November, of course. The earliest one in recent history came in 2018, on September 2. Yow! Perhaps it’s best we’ve blocked that from our minds, as we do the Halloween snowstorm of 2011. Extreme events are often more significant for nature than averages reveal.

It’s always a little colder in a river valley. In search of frosty photos, I walked the Trust’s Schmid Preserve early one morning rocking my blaze orange fleece and cap. It’s hunting season. A buck and a doe were unhappy with my trespassing. Their previous tracks lay all over the trail, and the freshest ones were ragged, laid down as they hurriedly escaped my gaze. Little else moved during my stroll. We are in a transitional period, astronomical forces convincing biological beings to lie low.

As Edwin Way Teale said, “Autumn advances like the rising tide.” Earth’s elliptical orbit means we are, counterintuitively, 3 million miles closer to the sun in winter. It’s the planet’s tilt that means less daytime and thus cold temperatures for the northern hemisphere. We think of fall, like spring, as a season of dynamic changes. But from November to the first big snowfall, it drags. Much happens out of sight. Reptiles began to hibernate. Newly visible empty nests reveal that migratory birds are gone. Insects are done; random moths are still about. Skunks are dormant only, ready to wake in a warm spell. Raccoons sleep better than skunks. Even busy beavers have slowed down.

The full Super Beaver Moon was on November 5. I started feeding the birds, although it may not yet be safe if you have a local bear. The bobcat passed through the back yard the other day looking regal and fearless, but didn’t bother the juncos and bluebirds, who are scrounging for suet that the woodpeckers dropped. I signed him/her up on the DEEP website, where you can contribute sightings of bobcats, bears, fishers, etc.

My next hike is at Allanach/Wolf. It’s even colder now; ice has begun to form. The killing frost is here. The parking lot is empty, and the sullen sky is that now-familiar hazy shade of November. I see a pileated woodpecker right away, near the pollinator garden. That bird’s photo should be right here, but it plays hide and seek for the first five minutes of my walk, then flies away laughing. Other than a briefly screaming jay, there are no other sounds: no wind, no water, no other birds. Forget the crickets. I think, “I’d like to hear a bullfrog”. That’ll have to wait, won’t it?                                                                               

The leaves are all down and the forest has opened itself to our gaze. You’ll be able to see deer, turkeys and owls better than at any time since April. Pileated woodpeckers–well, maybe. A day near 60 will still encourage chipmunks and turtles to appear. But with Thanksgiving now over, there is no turning back. “All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin” (“Come, Ye Thankful People, Come”, 1884 hymn). You’re getting busy; nature is slowing down. Appreciate the sun, which you will enjoy seeing for as long as possible before it sets.

Happy Holidays! 

George Jacobi