"Never have so few apples needed so little thinning."
 

Now ol' Winston may never had said anything at all like that but it's a bit of paraphasing that sure reflects reality on the ground in an orchard that saw temps of 24F at full bloom on May 9. The extension charts are right: 90% bud kill is spot on when temps get that cold. Which leaves me protecting a somewhat limited crop, admittedly slightly better in the later blooming varieties. I watched bumblebees joyfully have a go at these blossoms after the freeze and figured maybe they know something I don't. I watched more apple sawflies than ever oviposit on the undersides of blossom clusters  and figured maybe they know something I don't. We were all wrong. . . and 2010 will be nowhere near a bumper crop year. I sprayed Surround on all the trees that bloomed thinking maybe I'll be lucky. Now these "ghost trees" stand as sentinels to my frustrated hopes. What fruit I do have looks fantastic, but sometimes I wonder how long I always will be needing to look forward to the next year!

The skunk cabbage provided the first clue with all its leaves in tatters. I looked to comfrey and saw the same. Tulips had been clipped from the stem. Hail had come to the farm in our absence and literally beat up my fruit trees. Some buds lie on the ground but mostly it was a bruise and batter job on the emerging leaf tissues and tender flower buds at the pink stage. We will see bloom this week and all will be fine... this hail was early enough to be acceptable. A neighbor reported that marbel-size ice balls fell for about 15 minutes as part of a huge thunderstorm on Saturday, literally covering the ground before melting in the heavy rains that followed.

Last night the temps got down to 28 F at the bottom of the orchard hill. No worries as those precious buds are tucked away for a day or two yet and thus safe from a touch of frost.

I'm guessing the next thing on the horizon will be a herd of stampeding moose... and somehow my orchard will get by yet agian!

These very last days of March are tentative, eh? People in warmer places report trees in bloom and in the next breath speak of air too cold at such a vulnerable point in the season. Here the snow has given way to drizzle, with my south-facing block of trees showing all grass but the last inches of white still holding strong in the younger orchard. The big trees are mostly pruned, a new sprayer ordered, and “organic apple shares” are being purchased by those loyal customers who help support my insatiable orchard habits. And yet it may snow any day this week!

My mind shifts gears from feeling overwhelmed by all there is to do to feeling ahead of the curve, all depending on what the day offers in terms of sunshine and precipitation. Bloom here in the North Country will occur sometime in May, whether the first week or the last, I do not know. The weather shifts and seems more erratic than ever. And yet, come fall, we’ll all be picking the good fruit regardless of how things stand now where we each live. Tentativeness, somehow, always gets fulfilled.

I'm just back from particpating in a heirloom apple summit put together by Slow Food USA. Twenty incredible apple people met in Madison, Wisconsin, to discuss strategies for keeping alive many "antique varieties" in the nursery trade, farmer's markets, and even backyard orchards. The discussion readily turned to keeping alive "apple culture" in this country as a way of life and connection to the land where we each live.

Particpants included John Bunker of Fedco Trees, Lee Calhoun author of Old Southern Apples, Jim Cummins of rootstock research fame, Tom Burford apple gentlemen extraordinaire, Dan Bussey soon-to-be-author of an incredibly comprehensive varietal book, Kent Whealy author of the Fruit,Berry, Nut Inventory, and other growers and cidermakers I was meeting for the first time.

Having all this apple energy in one room for a day was definitely inspiring. Laying out a course for the revival of the locally-grown apple in Amercia is ambitious. This very much ties into our community orchard movement, for without wise and savvy growers passing on insights, we would o

We can bring the power of ceremony to the orchard on Old Twelfth Night, not to mention have some rowdy fun with good friends. Wassailing apple trees is all about waking the orchard to the coming year and sharing heartfelt appreciation. The traditions we carry on here at Lost Nation Orchard include the apple wassail song and circle dance, a “toast” to the tree and other allies in the orchard ecosystem, communicating our harvest hopes through rediscovered ritual, and lastly a slam bang finish to ward off those “evil spirits” who browse on apple buds. Much of this is shared in The Apple Grower and elsewhere on the web.

The traditional date for this is January 17, which happens to fall on a Saturday this year. That confluence marks what I call a “power wassail” for modern times, as that’s the night of the week when more friends are free to come and party. The background story here is a good one. The year 1752 saw a shift in the Britain Isles from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar. The King of England decreed that 11 days were to be

Pine martins (a bigger cousin to the weasel) are active in the orchard these nights. Tracks go from tree trunk to tree trunk, then veer off when vole movement is sensed beneath the snow. There must be several dozen plunge holes out there, and certainly the martin comes up with a meal on some of those dives. Coyotes also cross through looking for voles as well. The one deer that discovered the unfenced entrance into the farm seems to have been deterred by the ol' fishline trick, whereby clear fishline is strung between trees and gateposts to "invisibly" snag any passerby ... which doesn't appeal to deer as they can't see what is blocking the way. They easily manage to go under the fishline but then tend to shy away, leastways for several days. This approach to deer deterrence requires making "your mark" in some fashion or other every few days. Perhaps my gentlest visitors to the orchard these days are the chickadees, zooming back and forth from the bird feeder with sunflower seeds to be eaten in the privacy of a bare branched apple tree. I'm glad to have finally learned that saying "chick-a-dee, chick-a-dee" out loud (in a most proper chickad