Mama Bluebird’s extra vigilance this time around—her third clutch this spring—has paid off. I opened her nest this morning, after she flew off it, to find one remaining egg from a clutch of five and a squirmy mass of newborn chicks. Wish her luck!

I was in the house tonight working at the computer when I heard Tuck start barking outside. Lots of barking. Some growling. Very unusual from him. I looked out the window and he was pointed toward the road at the front of the house. I yelled out the window for him to be quiet, thinking he was after some biker or something on the road, even though I trained him to not bark at bikers and he usually doesn’t.

He ran to the porch to check in after my yell, but then shot back into the field, barking. This definitely warranted checking out. I put on my slippers and stepped outside.

There was a huge black vulture perched at the top of a dead tree right between the road and my property line. Tuck raced up and down through the field, barking but respecting his invisible fence. What a good dog to notice this anomaly, this potential threat from the air. Ever since I asked Tuck, many months ago, to help me get a huge flock of vultures out of the big oak–which he understood and did with a look and shake of my head–he’s been super alert to threats from the sky. Even though this vulture didn’t put anything at risk, I don’t mind Tuck’s generalizing as he also applies this vigilance to hawks and eagles that could carry off a chicken.

I knew this could go on forever, so I figured I’d finish up the job Tuck started. I ran down the road in my slippers clapping and jumping around, yelling at this vulture to get lost. If my neighbors needed final proof that I’ve lost it, they got it tonight! But I got proof that my young farmdog is acting just as I hoped he would, and that we can take care of this place together.

Unlike the chickens, which will return to the coop to lay their eggs, the guineas just drop them wherever. Including in the middle of the driveway! When you’ve gotta go…

Just went to check on the bluebird box. The pair had a couple of eggs in there—their third attempt this spring at a family. I gave my cursory, customary tap on the box, but there’s never been anyone home each time I open it. My fingers were turning the latch when I saw a glint inside the entry hole. My breath caught, unsuspecting of this connection. Mama bluebird was holding her ground, looking at me with bright eyes. She didn’t seem worried—just aware. I backed away…slowly…and she held fast to her nest. No photos, she’s had shock enough for the day.

Skunked!

At 10:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night, right in the face and all down his chest and front legs. Though scrubbed with dish soap and vinegar for an hour, both of us exhausted, he still smells like burnt balloons. Especially now that it’s raining. The winter woodsmoke smell of my home has been replaced with something just as strong and way less pleasant.

You should have seen his face the morning after when I wouldn’t touch him. Broken hearted. I hold my breath and kiss his head.

On Sunday afternoon I decided to take advantage of the last day of the national parks system’s free entry week. I loaded up the dog and within 20 minutes of leaving the house we were on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains breezing by the ranger station into Shenandoah National Park. Five minutes after that we were in one of the most beautiful forests I’ve seen—and that includes many of the major national parks out West—Glacier, Grand Teton, Olympic, Redwoods—and more.

I think that what made is so beautiful was really lucky timing, though I am sure the park has its beauty in all seasons. On this trip the trees were just barely leafed out, yet the undergrowth was blooming with wildflowers. Tiny streams ran everywhere, including alongside the trail. The scrub hadn’t grown up yet, so I could see straight through the forest all around and it was like being in a magical glade. It was about 65 degrees, and the sun made dappled patterns across the ground. The wide trail was covered in wild grass. It was like hiking on a shag rug.

I am pretty sure this is a wild elderberry. I saw food everywhere I looked, thanks to last year’s herbalism class. Fiddleheads and ramps and nettles. For the first time I understood the appeal of wildcrafting, though I didn’t pick any plants myself, and understood how one could survive on wild foods.

Trilliums

On this short hike I also saw more bear sign than ever in my life, and that includes a few months spent in an Alaskan forest! There were fresh scrapings on trees, and many huge piles of scat in the middle of the trail. I also saw a lot of dead tree stumps that had been torn open as the hungry bears searched for their spring breakfasts.

Needless to say, all the smells were intoxicating to my trail companion!

We ended up hiking basically straight down the mountain and then turned around and slogged back up. Tucker was so cute on the walk up—every time I stopped to rest or take a picture, he’d pause a few steps ahead of me on the trail and turn around and keep an eye on me until I got moving again. With all the bears in the area, I was grateful for his watchful attention. How lovely it would have been to have just kept on walking—in a few more steps we could have picked up the Appalachian Trail and gotten to Maine in time for lobster season!

Let’s pick back up with what’s kept me occupied every weekend for the past month:

I leveled the mulch and topsoil piles.

Just like with the azaleas, I am on a mission to clean up the extraneous piles and anything that gets in the way of easy mowing (all the trees I keep planting notwithstanding). The tarp-covered piles were just as attractive to snakes as they were to a hot dog on an 80+ degree March day. In fact, last fall I found a five-foot snakeskin in this mess.

But really it was the sight of the Katrina chic blue tarp on the latest satellite map shot of the farm that finally embarrassed me into action. Got to have this place looking good, even from the air!

Now, it’s much cleaner! I spread the extra mulch around trees and used the soil to fill in more low spots around the house.

Finally, I dug out the previous owner’s boulder collection and leveled “forsythia ridge.”

April 2009, the first day I saw the property

There was an old stepping stone path from the wellhouse to the big oak tree behind it. At one time I suspect the path traveled to a clothes line, but now it didn’t do much more than beat up the mower blade. My dad popped the stones out with the backhoe and we tipped them in the bucket. Turns out the “little” stone were actually huge. They had just been in place so long that grass had grown over them! They’re nice stones—and waiting in a pile in the woods to be called into service again.

With the boulder collection gone, we knocked down a high spot in this area to greatly improve the levelness of the ground. This ridge was left over from the previous owner’s forsythia installation, which was actually a couple of sad little bushes intermixed with honeysuckle and wild blackberries that were choking out a big old Rose of Sharon. I am not a forsythia fan, so we dug them out and now Rosie has room to breathe and there’s nothing blocking the pasture and mountain view.

Of all the work that I’ve done this spring, cleaning up this particular section has been the most rewarding. When I bought this property, this area—which is in direct view out the kitchen window—was full of junk, including a huge satellite dish stand, a couple of termite-infested rotten whiskey barrels full of dead plants, the remains of a giant stump that no one had bothered to remove, and—oh—a giant electrical pole. Then I added a satellite internet dish. The human junk along with the misplaced bushes and uneven ground pocked with huge rocks always made this little patch feel forsaken. It’s taken three years to remove all of the above and more. Finally having this small area stripped to clean dirt area makes me feel like I am erasing the abuse and neglect heaped upon this property by previous caretaker and replacing their story with mine.

And with all this newly bare dirt to cover, I am off to buy another 50 pound sack of grass seed!

It’s that time of year again, when writing blog posts about projects takes a back seat to the actual projects. Spring sprang in early March, more than a month ahead of schedule in Virginia, and with it came an onslaught of seasonal tasks that usually start ramping up in late April. So every nonoffice moment has been spent outdoors, primarily in pursuit of my spring goal, which is to tidy up the messes and impediments to mowing around the property. So in the past month I’ve:

Bushogged the front field.

This field hadn’t been cut in more than a year, and I was sick of the straggly grass and generous deer habitat uncomfortably close to the house. So much nicer now!

Seeded the worst bare patches with grass.

The worst part about mowing, which I otherwise enjoy, is going over bare patches. If it’s dry, the mower kick up so much dirt that I am blowing red boogers for days.

It took me six hours on a Saturday to seed all these spots, but if I can get grass to grow, mowing will be much more enjoyable.

Disappeared the dirt mountain behind the chicken coop.

This pile of dirt had been here since building the house. It was the soil excavated when the crawlspace was deepened. I was sick of looking at it and weedwacking around it, so with about six scoops of the tractor bucket the soil was gone and distributed around the fields, where I shoveled it into low spots. And I got a sweet new tractor parking spot out of the deal!

Got rid of the azalea pit.

This was where I had stored the big old azaleas removed from around the foundation of the house I tore down. But I’ve finally accepted that I don’t even like azaleas, and I was tired of mowing around this mess in the middle of the field. A few minutes of backhoe action and they’ve gone to a new home, a ditch out of sight in the woods.

Up next…the landscraping continues…

Been waiting for this all week.

Porch sitting begins. It’s officially spring.

And the extra special deliciousness is coming inside after sundown to sit by the hot woodstove. Best of both worlds.