Fall Color Along the Deschutes

A new pair of trail shoes ....

two weeks of glorious Indian Summer weather ...

a river ...

a boon companion ...

and it's time for our annual fall color walks along the Deschutes.

We feel so fortunate to have this magnificent river flowing right through our town.  More often than not, our Thursday Date Day Hikes take place on or near the river.  Although the arid West is not known for fall color the way New England is, and for good reason, we appreciate our aspens and larches all the more for their glorious light.   They pop out against the backdrop of dark evergreens and lava rock.

The river is quite low for this time of year, and the water, flowing more slowly, shows the deep green blue more commonly seen in the glacial meltwater lakes higher up in the mountains.

The past couple of weeks we have walked along the upper sections of the river trail, above Benham Falls, where the old railroad bed it follows are clearly evident.

The original railroad bed was converted to a haul road for huge log trucks in the 1950's and is now a wide, beautifully graded trail along long sections.  It reminds me of the carriage roads outside Bar Harbor, Maine.

The rotting pilings of the old haul road bridge sit next to the new one.

Just upstream from the bridge is the old log jam, purposely created to slow the river and prevent loose logs from running into the bridge pilings.

Most of this area was clear cut in the early 1900's and the trees you see are new growth since then.   There are still mature giant Ponderosa pines in the picnic area just beyond the bridge.

Just beyond the bridge, the trail bears south, after crossing the current railroad line,

and begins its run alongside the vast lava fields created by Lava Butte, visible in the distance here:

While playing with my telephoto....

I saw a flash of movement among out of the corner of my eye.   I glanced over, expecting to see a ground squirrel, but was surprised to see this little guy peering at me from a nice secure rock pile:

He stepped out to get a better view of me...

then posed for a profile shot...

Although he was as cute as could be

I suspected he was a rather fierce creature up close and personal.   Thinking he wasn't quite the right color for a pine marten or weasel, I did a bit of research once I got home.   Although rare in our area, I believe this little fellow was an ermine, or stoat.   A special wildlife bonus for the hike.

Then we headed back to our car, parked just above Benham Falls.   Here's the final view downstream

Falling into Winter

I don't know why I've been so reluctant to embrace winter this year. I have been in full denial of its surely imminent arrival since September. In the face of a predicted snowfall two weeks ago, I managed to lay down a base layer of bark mulch in the chicken day spa, and purchase a new heated waterer to replace the one that died after one short winter season, last spring. I stapled plastic sheeting to the outside of their secure runs, to reduce wind and keep the snow out. At least the girls are ready.

In the garden, though, I have been slow and laggardly in preparing for winter. In early October, I did get the massive tomato harvest picked, much of it still green, and consigned to trays, dishes, baking pans, colanders and other flattish containers spread over every empty surface in house, shop and garage, to gradually ripen. I dried huge numbers of cherry tomatoes in my ancient food dryer, and more are still ripening as the weeks pass.

Only a small part of the tomato harvest:

But the greenhouse is crammed full of my usual wintering-over container plants, and I am in a guilty quandary over what to do with most of them. Normally I let the many bowls with flowering annuals do their thing, protected from severe cold, until supremely short days in January cause them to dwindle to nothing. At that point I shove them under the greenhouse benches and let them die. A few toughies, like petunias and lobelia, actually survive and resume growing and blooming in quite early spring, if I keep them watered and unfrozen through use of a small radiant heater. Same with geraniums, some not-super hardy miniature roses, and a few odds and ends like agapanthus and tender sages.

Scene from a previous, better organized fall:

Part of my reluctance to let things go (planters with still-beautiful coleus, tuberous begonias, zinnias and fuchsia) comes from my feelings of having been robbed of a full season of bloom, due to the very late spring we had. Part comes from a few special favorites that were so amazingly beautiful -- individual varieties, or just spectacular color combinations never before achieved -- and I don't want to let them go just yet.

I plant a lot of these annual color bowls, and I pride myself on their variety and carefully matched hues. I hate those 'red, white and blue' generic planters you find everywhere in big box stores. I imagine mine to be far more subtle and tasteful, but a lot is impossible to duplicate from year to year, since I mainly buy starts where I can at local nurseries, and what is available varies from year to year.

Here is a sampling of what I start with:

and the final result, arranged on the back deck:

The guilt comes from an earlier decision I made to NOT provide extra heat in the greenhouse this winter, in order to conserve electricity and lower our power bills. The purely financial aspect of this is obvious -- saving money is good. There is, however, an additional psychological aspect to things this year that is new.

In mid-August, we attended a presentation on 'yes, you can afford a solar power system for your home or business' offered through our local Sierra Club chapter. We have wistfully thought about having some kind of solar system for decades, but solar anything has always been super expensive and impractical, and we haven't given it serious thought. But the Sierra Club is partnering with various local installation companies around the country, and it sounded interesting, so we showed up. And were amazed to learn that, due to state and federal incentives and new financing options, we actually could afford a pretty cool little system that would provide potentially 30+% of our electric usage for very little money. As in, payback in 3-4 years on a system warranteed for 25 years.

We went home and looked at our power bills, did some research, talked to our bank, and sprang for it. But even before we got our system, we found ourselves determined to reduce our overall electricity usage, so that when we did get our system, the percentage it generated would be as high as possible.

Turning off light switches and unplugging phone chargers when not in use is fine, and all those little kilowatts do add up. But let's face it: heating a greenhouse in our cold winter climate, even at the minimal level I do it (thermostat set to go on only when temps hover around 35 F), uses up a lot of juice. Ow. In the early, heady days of proud solar panel ownership, I vowed to abandon my greenhouse darlings. Practice triage. Hoard only the very dearest and best tender plants in the protected sun porch attached to our house, and good down to 7 F without opening the door into the dining room.

No problem. Conservation is our middle name. Goodbye, annuals. See you, reincarnated, at the nurseries next spring.

Uh huh. Bold promises, easy to make when the sun is shining and the days are long and warm. Not so happy, now that the reality of snow and freezation are upon us. So far I haven't had to make the final decision. Lows have stayed in the low 20's to high teens, and so far have coincided with times I was drying tomatoes in the greenhouse, which kept the temperature warm enough on its own.

But tomato drying is ending, real winter is on the horizon, and soon I must face saying goodbye to the remnants of my glorious summer garden, or ... guiltily plugging in that little heater.

Ghosts or Guardians?

These ghostly figures descend upon my garden every fall. In a normal year, we don't see them until late September or early October. This year, however, they have come early. Three times in recent weeks we have seen frost on the rooftop of our house in the early morning. A couple of days ago the forecast was especially grim, and I gave in to my fears, dug out my supply of old sheets and row cover, a new package of clothespins, and set to work crafting protection for as many of my late-ripening tomatoes as I could. Thankfully, the temperature at garden level didn't drop below 40. But it will. This early trial has shown me that I need to invest in more row cover, or head to the thrift store for more bedsheets.

Traditionally we have a long, gorgeous, 'Indian summer' here. With the exception of a few nights in the low 30's or high 20's, the garden grows happily on well into November. But those little dips in temperature spell doom for the tender likes of beans, squash and my zealously-nurtured tomatoes and melons. So I take the trouble to cover them with ghostly raiment and I usually harvest a huge crop in early October. I don't know about this year, though.

It has been a terrible year for tomatoes and other warmth-lovers here. Late, late arrival of warm weather, many cool nights all summer long. Wah! After last year, the greatest tomato-growing year I can remember in 30+ years, a lot of us longtime Bend gardeners were spoiled. I, for one, thought, 'well super -- here's a side benefit to global warming' ......... but I guess it was an anomaly not to be relied on for future years. Back to frost covers and ......

.... well, I recently splurged on a cool new lean-to cold frame/hoophouse, built by my friend Duane. Duane is a local cabinet-maker who got creative during the downturn in the building boom, and began creating custom chicken housing, runs, and superstrong hoop cold frames/mini hoop houses for local gardeners. He built my chicken house and run, and now I have this beautiful little cold frame to play with. The commercial grade plastic should be good for 10 years or more, and the house itself is well-crafted and strong. The front cover rolls up by day and folds down to fit snugly at night.

With the assistance of 2 manly neighbors, we managed to slip the whole thing down over a pre-existing trellis full of cucumber and melon vines. We didn't rip the fabric and the plants are quite excited by their new home. It was 95 in there yesterday morning when I went out around 8:00 am to lift the cover.

I am already thinking ahead on what to plant for overwintering.

What do they do?

The girls get up early in the morning. We know this because the lights in their henhouse turn on at 5:00 am. We know this because we set up the lights and timer, about 2 weeks ago, to compensate for the shortening days of late summer. It seems that a chicken's natural laying cycle naturally tapers off and stops in the fall when they molt, and begins again in the lengthening days of spring. 14 hours of daylight is the minimum amount needed to insure continued laying, which occurs around August 15 in our latitude. As much as I would like to give the ladies their natural winter break ...... we have a farm to run here. Well, ok, it's a bit of a stretch to call it a farm. But the fact remains that 4 out of the 6 girlies have not even started laying yet -- though I expect they will be mature enough quite soon. And I don't want them all to quit before they have fairly begun. Plus, I'm thinking chicken feed. Which is not super expensive, but on paper, anyway, we did get these chickens in order to provide us with some food. I would rather not support them purely as pets for a whole year before we get a good supply of eggs. Thus the lights.

But the mystery remains: what do they do out there, in the early mornings, when it is still dark outside, but the lights are on in the hen house? I get up early too, and can see the house and run from my desk. I see movement going on inside the house, through the little access door at the bottom. Farmer Don and I have been discussing this lately, and have come up with a number of theories.

I'm sure the ladies were as surprised as anything when the light started going on so bright and early. I'm sure the first few days, they hopped down from their perch, all ready to go outside and start scratching for bugs (their motto: We Are Always Busy!). But wait -- what's this?! It's DAAAAARRRRRRKKKKKKK out there. Now what?

We pictured them scratching their little heads (with their feet -- I have seen them do this, really I have) and talking it over. My first thought, being a knitter myself and having serious thoughts of winter scarf creation starting in my own head, was that they had taken up knitting. Farmer Don pointed out that they have no hands, and there is no evidence of knitting needles in the henhouse. Plus, it has probably occurred to them that their own feathers will keep them warm, thus they have no need for a wool scarf.

Our next idea was that they might have started some kind of discussion group. Possible topics of discussion might include:

Tasty Bugs I have Eaten ("I don't know about you girls, but I just LOVE earwigs!")
Food ("Wow, that new layer feed is great, isn't it? I just LOVE the pellets.")
Weather ("What's with the rain? -- this is supposed to be summer.")
Eggs ("Did you see my eggs? Bet YOU can't lay a green one")

But it seemed limited. By now, they may have moved on to philosophy: Hegel vs Kant. But in my honest opinion chickens are far smarter than that, and have far better things to think about. And we are pretty sure they don't speak German, so it's probably not that either.

Bible study? Just what we need: born-again chickens! Quickly we searched the henhouse for the King James Version but didn't turn up anything, nor did we find a Koran or any other religious literature, so we don't think that's it.

Finally, this morning, I think I have figured it out. They really are moving around in there. So I'm pretty sure our chickens have an early morning exercise class: chick-aerobics! or possibly Pulletes......

Uh oh, gotta go now. The most spoiled chickens in the world are calling me outside for their morning treats. Oh, and did I mention that we are now getting 2 eggs a day? Hawkeye, our Ameraucana, started laying nice green eggs a couple of days ago. Here's a comparison photo of one of Betty's first efforts and a regular grocery store egg. Yes, Betty's egg is small, but look at the orange yolk and tall, perky white! Neener!

er, Christmas in October?

The scene: the street outside our front yard. 4" of new snow, with more still dumping down. Trees bowed down with the increasing weight of wet, heavy, fast-falling snow, adhering to leaves still on the branches. 'Crack!' sounding in the still morning air, as branches broke and fell in both evergreen and deciduous trees around the neighborhood. People getting out their skis and tooling around the streets. Snowmen a-building. Power outages all over town as fallen branches snapped wires.



Anxious gardeners, trying to gently shake off the accumulating snow before it took out cherished trees and shrubs.




Sad gardeners, lamenting the flattened mums and asters lying on the path.



Regretful gardeners, wishing they had taken down the coolaroo shades before it snowed.




And wistful gardeners, saying sayonara to their pepper plants, so obviously done for the year!



Just last week I was irritated to note that Macy's already had Christmas displays up around the store. Isn't this a bit much?! I thought. Now I'm wondering if they just had insider information......

Technically snowing

Harbinger of Doom? (ie we're having an early/hard winter?) or just our typical goofy weather? The forecast is for another day of this lot, then temps in the 60's F, rising to 67 on Friday. Go figure.

Not so bad, really. I got the tomatoes harvested and now I can get an early start on pulling up blackened vines and starting the next batch of compost. Most years I stall and stall until it's time to plant new ones in June. But this year, boy, will I be on top of things.

Yesterday was cold and er, rainy (except for the technically-not-snow that fell throughout the day) and I spent most of it cowering, I mean, sitting cozily by the fire, doing gainful indoor tasks. Around 4:00 pm I awoke to the fact that things were going to continue going south (not only the geese, but the temperatures) and if I wanted any of my geraniums and other tender container plants to survive, I'd better hop to it ASAP.

I'd like to be able to say that every year I do this pleasant task in a relaxed, slow-paced and responsible gardenerly manner. That is, I stroll around the deck and bring in a few pots at a time over a period of a week or so, as the temperatures tastefully lower in a gradual, civilized manner. But no. I think that's only happened once in my many decades of gardening. Normally it's a haphazard and desperate afternoon, sometimes on a crisp but sunny day, sometimes freezing-ass windy and raining, with me bundled up in wool hat and vest, the plants shivering and nervous in case I get impatient and start practicing triage sooner rather than later.

In many ways having a greenhouse is a disadvantage, since before I had the space, I had to fit everything into my tiny added-onto-the-carport sunporch. This pretty much limited overwintering to about 15 geraniums and a potted tomato or two. Now, although my greenhouse is small, 8' x 10', I am able to be somewhat greedy, and every fall I manage to squeeze a few more favorite guys in.



There are still some bigger plants that need to come in before it gets really cold. I left them outside yesterday because they are semi-hardy and can take some light frost and because I don't have any more room at the moment. Now comes the question of what to do about the melons and sweet potatoes, which are hognoiding the south wall of my greenhouse. The melon vines, though copious, have only a couple of small, presumably unripe melons hanging from them. I say presumably because they are somewhat smaller than I had imagined they would be, though how would I know? I've never grown these varieties before. The infamous sweet potatoes are also happily growing along, and I suppose will continue to grow until the next millennium, since the greenhouse will not freeze (I use a small space heater to keep the lows at around 38). Shall I cast these fellows out into the snow now or later? See how long the sweet potatoes grow but call it quits on the melons? The spirit of research is wavering...

Not technically snowing