Ever been thwarted by nature?

If the answer is "no", then I must conclude you either live in a biodome or are homebound.  I had prepared a post on "The Five Ways to Know It's Spring in Alaska," to be completed with a picture or two, a short numbered list, and a question to get the comment juices flowing.  With a self-satisfied smile, I arranged for the post to be published on Monday (two Mondays ago, that is), and pressed the "publish" button.  And then it snowed.  And snowed.  And snowed.  The post was up for four hours before I realized my error.  Fill in your favorite exclamation here (I favor "whoopsie" for a family friendly blog, but to each their own).

Spring is not quite here yet.

For those that have never visited our great state, snow is the official state of oxygen accompanied by two hydrogen molecules here.  Liquid water enjoys but a four-month repast, and then it's straight on to solid ice and the lovely crystalline structure of snow.  We're used to getting foiled and frustrated so this isn't the first time the weather and its fickle nature have laid to waste my best-formed plans (and even the scatter-brained or spur of the moment ones, too). 

I've taken to playing the leafy version of Russian roulette: hardening off annuals before the last frost date, or even (gasp) planting my containers before that special day.  For Alaskans, it has traditionally been Memorial Day weekend, the last weekend in May.  These days I push the envelope by two weeks at least.  I once had a candidate for public office stop during her spiel at my doorstep, and tell me I had planted my annuals too early.  And yet, I felt no guilt.  Can you blame me, I mean, the last weekend in May?  Calendar, or "official", spring is more than half over by then!

  A couple of flats of annuals, waiting for me to plant them (too early).

My early push has resulted in the demise of many a good annual.  Some frequent casualties include Coleus, Impatiens, Helichrysum, and Heliotropium.  You'd think I would figure this out.  Instead I just throw my "emergency cover", a painting drop cloth, over the lot at night in (very early) spring when temperatures get too cold.  They sell real products that probably do a better job at this, but hey, I'm cheap.  The Coleus in particular doesn't care for this brutal treatment/low temperature and inevitably I kill all, or nearly all, of my precious, colorful acquisitions.  Well, as grandpa says, "You can't fix stupid." 

Do I get thwarted in summer, you ask?  Our summer reversals are usually of two types: too wet or too hot.  Just as the petunias are opening in their full glory, releasing their scent to great anticipation, we get rain.  We are quite dry here in Anchorage, with only 16 inches of precipitation annually (that makes us a desert sans cactus), so the rains in late summer, though welcome, are always a bit of a surprise.  I never plant petunias in-ground, and the better drainage in containers seems to help with too much water, but when it rains for an entire day, the blossoms do get damaged.  Actually, damaged is too kind.  They turn into a putrid, slimy mess.  The white-flowering varieties seem to fare the worst. 

                                             Petunias just waiting to be spoiled by the rain.

If it's not raining, it's the odd over 75 degree Fahrenheit day that toasts all the container plants and even stresses the in-ground plantings.  (Stop that laughing, 75 is a scorcher here.)  Two years ago, we had no days over that temperature, so I get lulled into thinking it can't happen.  And when it does, I want to be at the lake, not running around with the hose or watering can doing plant triage.

Before the snow, Scabiosa 'Butterfly Blue', looking good.

Fall has the same trick every year.  Firstly, I should explain "fall" or "autumn" if you're English, is a newer concept to most Alaskans.  Traditionally, it's the time between September and the first snow.  So about three hours or so.  Recently, gardeners here have taken to planting more annuals and perennials that thrive in cooler temperatures.  But it's a losing battle.  Around the first part of October we have our first real snow of the year.  The one that sticks, which means end game for annuals.  A couple of stalwart perennials can truck through a few light snows; Scabiosa 'Butterfly Blue' comes to mind.  I've taken to planting ornamental grasses, which look great in autumn and (many of them) into winter as well.

An Alaskan winter has many hidden tricks and traps to thwart even wily gardeners.  Ice, freeze-thaw cycles, rodent damage, moose damage...well, I'll end there, lest my list get too depressing.  Even after enduring many winters and their reversals, I still get snookered.  Hope springs eternal in the gardener's heart.  Read on for one example of this involving the hulking, steroid enhanced version of Bambi, pictured below.  

Snap!  There goes two hundred dollars.

I am an acolyte (as are all Alaskans who plant young, deciduous trees) of moose-repelling products.  My go-to choice is Plantskyyd, which might be Swedish.  (Don't they love of the vowel "y"?  Or is it the Russians that love "y"?  Perhaps a reader will clue us in.)  I know it can't be American because our vowels are: a, e, i, o, u and sometimes y.  A sometimes rating doesn't get you two "y's" in a row.  [Just realized my razor sharp editorial skills have served me well, once again.  The product is actually spelled Plantskydd.  That's right.  Two d's, not two y's.  My apologies to Sweden and other "y" loving countries.] 

This product, touted to repel rabbits, elk, and deer, has worked pretty well for me when applied monthly in the winter.  (Who is that disciplined?)  Any gardener who has had the good fortune of using this animal blood-based product also knows the stench that goes with it.  I'll try to paint a fair picture for the uninitiated: mind numbing, stomach turning, dry heave-inducing stench.  It also has a tricky nozzle that seems to get clogged after the first squirt and thereafter, somehow, sprays backward onto the human applicator, a bit like the magic bullet that shot JFK.  So the point of this is: application is messy and I don't like doing it.  I apply and expect the stuff to work for a month at least.  Here's the obstacle: it snows, or the snow melts, or a windstorm blows the snow away and I should reapply but I don't.  The moose know this: they have an ungulate version of The Force and can sense a disturbance.  One unprotected night and voila: where once a young tree proudly stood lies an homage to Marilyn Manson, the Addams family, and Nightmare on Elm Street.  Yes, quite shocking.  It's the only known case of the Last Frontier Gardener thinking dark, malicious, assault rifle-laden thoughts having to do with a four-legged animal.  For the calendar year at least.

I guess the point is (wow, there's a point here?) we can get lulled into whatever the weather (or fauna) status quo is, and then are surprised, dare I say outraged, when there is a change.  Doesn't some Harry Potter character keep barking "constant vigilance!!" or some such thing?  Reflection on my past behavior has led me to conclude that I don't think I can maintain the proper watchful, attuned attitude for more than one month, but a little more preparation and awareness would be good.  And if that fails me, I'll just have to find that door-to-door politician cum horticulturist to advise me on my next move.

      

I'm convinced Mother Nature is a temptress.

How are you and your plans frustrated or foiled by nature?