Archives for posts with tag: Hurricane Sandy

Still playing catch up, we thinned the beets and turnips today. Doing the turnips was easy: we had placed the seeds with one and a half to two inches in between them; to thin, we simply pulled out every other sprout. The remaining turnips, now spaced at three to four inches, should not need to be further thinned.

Thinning the beets required a bit more attention. Their seeds are clustered so even though we used the same initial spacing, each cluster produced multiple tightly-bunched sprouts. Rather than pull them out, which might damage the roots of those left to grow, we used clippers to cut off the extraneous stems and leaves. As it turned out, because the beet seeds did not germinate with the same success as the turnips and radishes, there was less thinning to do.

To wrap up in the garden, we harvested the first of the radishes. And we were just in time, too. Shortly after we went inside to sauté them with the beet and turnip greens, a rainstorm of nearly biblical proportions came crashing through.

These strong summer storms are very exciting and not a little alarming. They arrive with next to no warning—unlike hurricanes and tropical storms which are monitored closely as they track up the Atlantic seaboard—and can dump a huge volume of rain in a very short period. In fact, today’s storm brought a higher precipitation rate than either Hurricane Irene or Hurricane Sandy. Our road nearly washed out.

Luckily, however, the tempest had subsided after an hour or so (unlike the hurricanes which take a day or two before they run out of energy). No real damage had been done but the runoff washed around the raised beds and redistributed the cedar mulch. Still, it underscores the need for more risk analysis (see May 7, 2014).

With climate change clearly in progress, heavy rains such as the one this afternoon have been and will continue to be much more likely. The consequences remain moderate: flooding of the pool and garden area. So far, the impact to the house has been minimal although the long-term exposure to moisture—to the point of saturation—may eventually lead to rotting timbers and a leaky roof.

It is apparent that I need to assess the topography of the yard and devise surface drainage routes to relieve the low-lying areas where rainwater accumulates. The big unknown for us is what exactly to do to mitigate the flow and how much it will cost us.  Because although it is true that I can’t do anything about the weather (despite talking about it a lot), I can do something about its consequences.

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After reading about it in the paper, we tried a new trail (new to us, I mean) in Fahnestock State Park.  We’ve been hiking in the park for years and it is exciting to realize that there are still significant portions that we have yet to explore.

We checked our trusty—and well-worn—trail map and found that the trailhead for the Sunken Mine Railbed Trail is located just a short distance (about half of a mile) closer to us than a trailhead we have been using for many years.  We’ve passed by the parking area a hundred times with only a vague notion (at best) that another convenient hiking opportunity awaited us there.

As its name implies, the trail follows an old mine railroad.  This seemed apparent for the first quarter of a mile from the trailhead as the path was wide and flat.  However, the trail then traversed up and over a ridge (where several trees, toppled by Hurricane Sandy no doubt, made passage difficult) and dropped steeply down to a pond.  I don’t think even a mine railcar could manage that terrain.  While we were enjoying the view, we noticed that the night had been cold enough that a thin scrim of ice had formed over the pond’s surface.

From there, the trail widened and continued in a straight and level alignment along a raised berm; clearly, this was the former railbed.  Although not physically challenging, I enjoy flat, roomy trails because they allow two or three hikers to walk side by side with less fear of stumbling or tripping.  This, in turn, facilitates conversation making for a much more social experience; walking and talking in the wilderness.

When we’d been hiking for half an hour, we came to a sharp turn in the trail and again checked the map for potential routes back to our starting point.  A loop was possible and would have been preferable except that another quarter hour of outbound walking would have been needed.  We didn’t have the energy for what would wind up a hike of 90 minutes duration and so decided to turn around and head back the way we came.

Further study of the map revealed that the comeback point on the loop we could have taken is the same trail intersection that we passed, from a different direction, on a hike last month (about which, for a change, I did not blog; for photographs, however, see October 7, 2012).  I was reminded that everything, potentially, connects to everything else.  (And I wonder, for instance, whether this section of mine railbed connects to a similar section of the Appalachian Trail; see January 1, 2012.)  With today’s hike, I have filled in a gap in my mental map of the park.

On the walk back, the sun was in our faces and its warmth felt good (even if it was also blinding).  There is a quality to the light at this time of year that always makes it feel later in the day than it actually is.  Even at its highest inclination, the sunlight remains oblique and thus heavily filtered by the atmosphere.  In the summer, this condition only occurs near sunrise and sunset but in winter, it lasts all day.  As a result, the look of early morning quickly transforms into the appearance of late afternoon.  It is a strange sensation to completely skip a time that feels like midday.

On the other hand, the low angle of the light is great for studying textures.  The shallow rays accentuate the smallest surface irregularities so that even tiny pebbles and diminutive tree roots cast shadows that drape across the full width of the trail.

I don’t know if our remaining parsley has been to hell and back (we grew it from seedlings) but it has been through a lot:  a long, dry summer; an early freeze; Hurricane Sandy (which came, bizarrely, after the freeze); and Winter Storm Athena.  It is the only plant left in the vegetable garden and it is shows no sign of stopping.  But I think it might be getting lonesome down there.

The problem is that the parsley needs to get out more.  It has spent too much time at home and might benefit from a short trip.  So I replanted the parsley into terra cotta pots (we have several spares on hand) and moved them upstairs to the adjunct herb garden.  There, its fellow herbs will keep the parsley company and with luck—and fair weather—it will survive at least until Thanksgiving.

Back in the main garden, I removed the trellis (in one piece; it will be easy to reinstall in the spring), raked out the leaves (many of which were deposited by Hurricane Sandy), pulled out the weeds (that had taken advantage of the otherwise empty beds) and scooped out the old, decomposing mulch.

With the top surface now clean, I dumped four bags of compost into each planter and raked it out until level.  On top of this, I sprinkled blood meal at a dosage of one pound per 1000 sq. ft., as recommended in the soil testing report (see October 4, 2012).  I think that I probably should have done this sooner (while there were still plants growing) but better late than never, I guess.

At this point, I decided that the soil level is still a bit low—I wonder whether the planters will ever be full—and I will need to get more compost before putting the garden to bed for the winter.  It was just as well.  Due to the return of Standard Time (and my late start), it was getting dark.

Only a week after Hurricane Sandy, the northeast was visited last night by Winter Storm Athena (are all weather systems going to get named from now on?).  The storm brought strong, cold winds and dumped several inches of wet, sloppy snow on many people who were still without power (or had only had it restored shortly beforehand).  Rachel’s parents, for instance, who were without electricity until Sunday, were again plunged into darkness after the storm brought down power lines that had only recently been repaired.  (Fortunately, they were not in the dark for very long this time.)

For some, the storm seemed to add insult to injury.  Clearly, Mother Nature is very unhappy with us.  What must we do to appease her?  And, perhaps more pertinently, what must we stop doing?

We were planning a trip to the city today but an unexpected consequence of Hurricane Sandy is that gasoline is in short supply.  Apparently, many of the stations in New York City and New Jersey are completely depleted and either cannot get deliveries or cannot pump the gas (due to power outages) if they do.  The stations here in town have been getting daily deliveries but shortly afterwards, long lines form and they quickly sell out.  We decided to take public transportation to the city (instead of driving) but went out to investigate the situation farther north.

We found gas in plentiful supply in the next town up.  After filling our tank (not an act of panic; it was less than half-full), we drove home along the river to see what was happening on a sunny fall Sunday.  We found another farmers’ market that had set up in the train station parking lot.  This market has a different set of vendors from our own Saturday-morning market (the baker was the only one who did both) and could come in handy as a back-up.

We also discovered a small park that we had never noticed before (its entrance is on the river-side of the railroad tracks).  It looks to be new and very contemporary in its design (it is not far from Dia:Beacon and shares a similar aesthetic).  The park houses a boathouse (serving a small boat basin) where kayaks are stored.  The structure must have been inundated during Hurricane Sandy.  Two paddlers were emptying the boats of water and debris as we walked by.

The park also includes a pier that juts into the river between the boat basin and what might be called a lagoon.  From there, a path extends south along the railroad tracks.  We didn’t have the energy to hike to its terminus but vowed to return again for another expedition.

I’m very happy—and grateful—to say that we made it through Hurricane Sandy’s passing with very little impact.  The storm made landfall far enough to the south of us that we did not get much rain (and it was never heavy) and the winds were limited to no more than 45 miles per hour.  We’ve had summer thunderstorms that were worse.

A few trees fell, along with several large branches and many, many smaller ones.  Just as we were preparing for bed last night, a tree opposite the road from a neighbor’s house toppled onto the power lines and caught fire.  It was burning in three locations—the point of contact with the wire, at its base, and at mid-height where it was pressing against another tree—and with each gust of wind, showers of sparks went flying across the yard.  It was very dramatic (and not a little frightening).

Eventually, the trunk burned through where it was resting against the power line and the top of the tree dangled onto the road, blocking passage.  By then, an emergency responder had arrived to keep an eye on it.  It was not clear whether they did anything more than direct traffic (where were these people headed at the peak of the storm?) but by midnight, the tree had burned out and the responder had left.  Amazingly, we never lost power.

Of course, most of the State of New Jersey and New York City did not fare so well.  Millions of people are without power and any location near a shoreline was inundated.  I’m thankful that we made it through without any severe impacts and hope for a speedy and effective restoration of services—and normality—for those who were adversely affected.

The middle of last week, 90 percent of the computer simulations reported by the Weather Channel predicted that Hurricane Sandy would drift off into the Atlantic after wreaking havoc on Cuba, the Bahamas and Bermuda.  Only one or two models indicated a trajectory over the mid-Atlantic coast of the United States.

By the weekend, all of that changed.  Apparently, a region of high pressure in the north Atlantic was blocking the normal eastward path of the hurricane.  To make matters worse, a mass of cold air descending from Canada and the Ohio Valley was threatening to combine with Sandy to create a storm—a la Groundhog Day—of epic proportions.  The pressure systems were bumpers and Hurricane Sandy a steel pinball in the giant arcade game that is the earth’s atmosphere.

Consequently, the National Weather Service is now predicting the end of the world.  Well, not quite but the forecast is very dire.  The expected storm could be like last year’s Hurricane Irene and October snowstorm combined, a rainy, snowy, windy mess.  The pressure at the center of the storm is extraordinarily low and when combined with tonight’s full moon, will result in record-setting tidal surges along the coastline.  We’ve been warned to prepare for the worst Mother Nature has to offer.

So now we are waiting for Sandy to arrive, with an emphasis on the waiting.  This storm is moving slowly—only about 15 miles per hour—leaving us to agonize in anticipation of its potentially dire impacts.