By Maddy Morgan
Any skier or snowboarder knows that snow does not come in just one form. Snowpacks are as variable as the snowflakes that form them. We have all heard the claim that Eskimos have dozens of words for snow (actually, I discovered, just more flexibility in how root words are modified), but what about our terms for snow? Skiers talk about corduroy and corn snow, but the variation in snow types extends beyond the ski slopes.
Here is your late-in-the-season glossary of snow. Maybe your optimism tells you that the snow won’t be with us much longer, but it might be in your best interest to brush up, just in case.
Snow forms when the atmospheric temperature is at or below freezing. In certain conditions, it is even possible for snow to reach the ground when the ground temperature is 41 degrees Fahrenheit. Freezing atmospheric temperatures, combined with moisture in the air, forms snow crystals. Snow crystals exist in four forms: snowflakes, hoarfrost, graupel, and polycrystals.
- Snowflakes, which we are all familiar with, are clusters of ice crystals that fall from clouds. Their shape is dependent on the conditions in which they are formed and through which they fall.
- Hoarfrost is our name for ice crystals that form on small surfaces that are open to the air. When a surface’s temperature is lower than the frost point of the surrounding air, moisture transforms directly from vapor to solid, forming delicate laces of surficial ice.
- Graupel is the round, pellet-like snow that resembles a softer hail. When ice crystals fall through super-cooled cloud droplets (which remain liquid although they are below freezing temperatures), the droplets freeze to the crystals, forming a clump.
- Polycrystals are flakes made up of many individual crystals.
By Matt Pierle
Cabin fever have you ready to see flowers again? If so, you’ve got options: Brazil and Bali are nice this time of year. Or seek out plants at a world-class botanical conservatory in, say, Montreal, London or San Francisco.
If you’re short on time or prefer shoestring travel though, you could do what I did over spring (technically late winter) break and book a $26 ticket on the Megabus from Burlington to Boston. From South Station Boston walk north to Chinatown, through Boston Common, past the frozen Frog Pond, to the Longfellow Bridge, over the Charles River to Cambridge and kick it up Broadway to Harvard Street. Continue north all the way to the Harvard Museum of Natural History.
In bloom you’ll find the extensive Ware Collection of Glass Models of Plants created by Czech born Leopold Blaschka and his son Rudolf. Most people simply call the collection “The Glass Flowers.” You read that right. This collection is not of flowers under glass, it is of flowers made of glass.
These life-size and larger-than-life specimens are more than impressionistic representations of garden blossoms; they are über-accurate botanical sculptures of a diversity of wild and cultivated plants. The pieces will challenge your powers to believe that something so realistic could be made from inert, colored sand. Continue reading
By Nikki Bauman
The contrast of fresh powdered snow amplified by a background of cerulean vastness is one of nature’s finest vistas. Fellow outdoor enthusiasts refer to these conditions as “bluebird” days, a term routinely followed with hooting, hollering, and high-fiving between friends and strangers gathering on the ski hill to worship the good weather.
Why do we have more fun in the sun? It isn’t the scenery; it’s chemistry. As living organisms, harvesting energy from the sun is crucial for regulating homeostasis. Our bodies literally crave sunshine, especially in the winter when it’s harder to come by as days are shortened, offsetting our mood as a result.
Serotonin is a neurotransmitter, sending signals from neurons to target cells. It is one of the oldest components of the nervous system found in the Animal Kingdom, derived over a billion years ago from a line of molecules releasing energy derived from the sun. In sea urchins, it controls appetite. In higher order mammals, it regulates sleep patterns. In humans, it functions as an anti-depressant to regulate the brain’s emotional state. Continue reading
By Clare Crosby
I spent my childhood hosting acorn cap tea parties for fairies, scurrying on calloused feet to collect eggs from the chicken coop, and reenacting Little House on The Prairie in the meadow behind my house, just east of Austin, TX. I did not suffer from “Nature Deficit Disorder.”
But as I grew, my interests shifted. I traded the meadow for well-manicured athletic fields and our old pond for swimming pools. My interest in my Central Texas natural surroundings paused around 8 years old. I never figured out what species of oak provided teacups for my parties, only that the caps were nicely proportioned for fairies. Neither did I learn what type of moss my fairies used for seat cushions, only that it opened into minute stars under sprinkled water.
I’m embarrassed now, as a naturalist, to admit that I don’t know even some of the most common species of my home state. This lack of knowledge, however, offers opportunity when I return to Texas from Vermont, the home of my formal ecological education. As I walk old trails and come across a familiar (yet unknown) tree, my inclination is to turn to field guides or a trusted expert to tell me what to call it, who eats it, and what it might reveal about the soil beneath it. In Vermont, I have had a string of wonderful professors and peers to teach me about the natural world, assisted, of course, by an ever-growing library of field guides. I hope to be so lucky again in Texas. Continue reading
By Joanne Garton
I remained still underneath a swirling aquatic world. Corals of brilliant blue and pink mixed with fish of bold black and yellow. Water of crystal clarity ebbed and flowed towards gorgeously blond sand. Sea anemone wavered and I watched, transfixed, as the bulging eyes of a massively prehistoric stingray reflected the wonder of it all.
As the sea swelled, forty violins soared to a grandiose peak. As a wave smashed on the rocky shore, cymbals crashed and drums bellowed. And as the wave dissipated, a bassoon emerged from lonesome depths where a barrier shark swam far from the colorful critters near the sun’s dancing rays.
It took three wave and cymbal crashes before I realized that this music of the sea had been choreographed with Hollywood precision. As a tourist in the Georgia Aquarium in Atlanta, I was listening to the soundtrack of nature, piped in through the invisibly scattered speakers that followed my trail and amplified my mood. Those soaring chords and delightful suspensions latched onto my wonder and awe, building my anticipation and enhanced my excitement when the belugas breeched or the sea lions wrestled.
But was this a bad thing? The music kept me focused, adding drama to the already dramatic, while drowning out the hoards of young families that mixed in with my own. Carefully arranged and built to sell, this supposed music of nature sets the mood that inspires us to linger a while, more so than perhaps, these days, silence can.
Of course, real nature is not silent. Winds sweep, critters cluck, wolves howl and woodpeckers tap. So do other animals hear music in nature? What about insects, reptiles, or microbes? What do they hear? Continue reading
By Matt Pierle
In the aftermath of a backwoods Solstice party in Lamoille County we awoke to a small mountain of dishes and no electricity. The longest night of the year had wrapped us in an icy bear hug.
Cold rain followed by dropping temps had frozen everything stiff. Tree trunks, branches, rocks – anything not moving fast enough to dance off the cold crystalline bonds – was treated to an icy exoskeleton.
As more precipitation came, the ice coats thickened. The substrate for later drops to adhere to grew as the ice put on layer after layer. Classic positive feedback.
Next year’s already-formed buds and catkins, shelf fungi, conifer needles, marcescent oak and beech leaves were all locked inside one-quarter to a full inch of ice. The forest and hill farm landscape performed back-to-back versions of John Cage’s 4’33”.
NPR news from a crank-operated radio reported, “hundreds of thousands of homes and businesses without power in Michigan, New York, and the Northeast”– no doubt a result of trees and frozen limbs coming down on overhead transmission lines. Continue reading
By Kat Deely
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Jack Frost nipping at your nose….”
These words invoke every shiver of childhood anticipation for Christmas morning. Family time, feasting time, vacation time, and of course, presents time. I’ve been hearing these words sung every holiday season since before I can remember, and they have magically dropped me into a snow-globe world. So, it is with a bit of humility that I must admit something. I’ve never roasted chestnuts on an open fire. I’ve never roasted chestnuts on anything. I’ve never eaten a chestnut! And I bet I’m not alone. So how is it, this iconic Christmas classic’s first line is complete balderdash to the holiday seasons we know today? Continue reading
By Colin Stone Peacock
I am the glistening, blackened, and charred non-stick remains of a foodie. Enameled by years of cooking and eating professionally, I am unphased by the most ample and esoteric culinary ingredients and pathologies.
But the bitter kimchi of my heart sweetened ever so slightly the summer before last, when I met the bright and gleaming orange and yellow folds of Laetiporus sulphureus, commonly known as Chicken of the Woods.
It is one of the most easily identifiable, seasonally available, and tastiest mushrooms I have ever met. The drab and fickle morels of my forefathers will never look the same. Chicken is the flavor I would use to describe them. That, and a citric tanginess I have never encountered in another fungi. Continue reading
By Joanne Garton
It has happened countless times: I walk into my favorite restaurant only to find that it is out of breakfast burritos. The manager points me to the tamales without ever explaining if it was a lack of eggs, a problem with the oven, or an angry mob of hungry burrito-eaters that wiped out the supply this weekend. I leave hungry and find somewhere else to eat.
These days, the red knot birds in Delaware Bay are similarly exasperated, but with no other food to eat when their seasonal feast of horseshoe crab eggs are gone, the migratory birds are starving. Horseshoe crabs are the favored bait for a growing market of eel and conch farms, diminishing the supply and diversity of breeding horseshoe crab pairs left in the bay. Continue reading