And that means green, in this part of the world. More shades of green than we can count although we relish them all— the first faint glow of new rye grass, the saturated wash of wheat, the fading celadon of oak-borne lichens as they dry with the strengthening sun. Locally prolific, green is an anomaly in the universe despite the abundance of hydrogen; we see no green stars. Green is overwhelmed in the spectrum as soon as it is emitted, like a single oboe once the brass kicks in. Robert Frost got this right:

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

He rushes things a bit there—I have no problem with dawn ‘going down to day’ except it means that I must get to work (this time of year, that means mowing, among other things.) But the preciousness of green is sacred, and this time of year as the leaves open and the first berries hang from the stems, promises ripeness and, ultimately, passing. We know all too well that August “is icumen in”.

For us, it has already arrived. Our new neighbors to the south have just reduced two acres of towering old oaks (28, to be precise, some 3 feet in diameter) to something resembling the battlefield of the Somme in September 1916—no colour, mounds of dirt, a blasted landscape.  You’ve seen the photos. A shock to us as it must have been to those soldiers who left a verdant English summer for the French countryside around Albert where an tonne of explosives were deployed for every square metre along the front. We gaze on a similar landscape. Our neighbor used chainsaws and a track-hoe but the effect is the same. And of course the only lives lost were squirrels, some nesting Cooper’s hawks, and whatever acorn woodpeckers were caught sleeping. But it looks like a catastrophe. For days, confused birds circled, landing on the enormous slash piles where once their trees stood. In January we had a wall of Oregon white oak sheltering our southern porch; now there’s a lone power pole and some withering ferns. Local climate change. A big section of green is dun and dust—which I suppose is the universal tendency.

But the upshot of all this—besides hours of handwringing, is that my wife is revisiting the vanishing art of plashing hedges. In addition to wondering how often you get to use the word ‘plashing’, this debacle offers an opportunity to investigate natural fencing techniques that have been used for a thousand years—fencing that achieves its functional goal while at the same time creating and improving habitat. In Europe, hedges are disappearing in favour of twisted wire and steel posts that eliminate habitat in the name of efficiency.  Although, as farmers know, you have to re-fence every so often: with these, it’s never. In 1997 England actually prohibited the unregulated destruction of ancient hedgerows (we have no such hedgerows in the US but we do have stone walls which are now attracting preservation strictures). Can you imagine a move afoot to preserve woven-wire fences? I know people who collect early forms of barbed wire—we even have some antique strands around here from the late 19^th century—but seriously. It’s nice on the shop wall, but not as a contributing testimony.

Plashing—or pleaching—requires no tools beyond gloves and a simple axe. And most local species already growing alongside roads and lanes furnish the raw materials; hawthorn and ash (locally abundant) are ideal. If you’re ambitious and want to introduce traditional sloes (Prunus spinosa or blackthorn) you earn an added bonus; they repay you with tiny, astonishingly astringent fruit from which you can concoct a brilliant liqueur. Plus they are resilient—they thrive in marginal soil, and fluctuating temperatures: last January’s freeze, for example, made absolutely no inroads into our flourishing colony of sloes although it whacked pretty much every other shrub on our place. And because they propagate so easily, planting a row of them now will enable you to begin plashing in only a few years, and before you know it you’ll have a man-high hedge of interwoven, fearsomely-spikey, fruit-bearing sloes.

Good hedges make good neighbors. Now if only there were a species that grew to 150 feet. . . .

As we enter into the final months of winter, drought has become a very common word.  Typically, Willamette Valley residents are carrying umbrellas and hunching their shoulders against blowing winds and rain this time of year, but not this winter. Large lumbering high pressure systems have kept the Pacific west in dry conditions for much of the fall and winter.  The U.S. Drought Monitor says that much of California is in extreme or exceptional drought while Oregon is mostly in severe drought.  Snow packs are at historic lows on the high mountain slopes. The lack of moisture and winter winds also produces air and temperature inversions.

A few days after Christmas we hiked through thick, cold fog up the slopes of Mt. Pisgah wearing gloves and heavy sweaters.  The very top of the mountain was basked in brilliant sunshine and 65 degree weather.  Spencer’s Butte and nearby hills poked through the dense blanket of fog like islands rising off the surface of the ocean.

Sitting atop Mt. Pisgah

Drought means different things to different people.  Farmers fear that enough water may not be available to irrigate their vegetables and orchards.  Fish biologists shake their heads and point to lakes with little water and streams with no flows, and wonder if salmon will be able to spawn in dry gravel beds.  City officials monitor declining reservoirs and worry about providing enough drinking water for their citizens.

Water law in Oregon is very complex and historic.  All water in Oregon is publically owned, however water users such as farmers, landowners, and cities must obtain a permit or right to use water from any source.  East of the Mississippi River, the right to water was based on whether that resource flowed through your property.  West of the Mississippi, these rights are governed by “prior appropriation”, in other words, whoever has the oldest rights is the last to be denied water during low flows.  However, if a drought is declared by the Governor in Oregon, then the Water Resources Department can supersede the rights of prior appropriation and allocate water for household consumption and other uses.

This time of year I typically look for the first signs and smells of an early spring.  Yesterday,  Becca pointed out a clump of yellow crocus flowers in our  back yard.  I am looking forward to seeing the emerging leaves on early flowering Indian plum shrubs and the first arriving swallows soar through the meadows at Bald Hill Farm. I am also muttering a few incantations and prayers for a wet soaking spring with continuous downpours and blustery winds.  I would not mind struggling with wind-blown umbrellas and hunching my shoulders against horizontal rains and stepping over numerous deep mud puddles on city sidewalks.  I want muddy pathways, overflowing streams, and wet shoes and trousers.