There are some things I know about snow. It’s wet. It reflects light, making our dark Alaskan days a little brighter. It’s insistent and surprising, meaning that my snow shovel is always at hand from October through May. Since moving to Alaska, I’ve heard several times that Native Alaskans have hundreds of words to describe different types of snow. Makes sense, when you live with so much of the stuff.

I thought that would make a great intro to what I really want to address in this post, which is “snow as a garden insulator.” This is another fact I’ve heard a number of times. So when I discovered that the whole Eskimo language factoid is actually an exaggeration verging on hoax, I had two immediate thoughts: 1) Sure glad I looked that up before passing it on as truth, and 2) Better look up snow as an insulator… what if that’s an old wive's tale?

In English, we say “blanket of snow,” which would lead one to believe that snow does indeed have insulating properties. Whether it’s a toasty blanket for your plants, or a wet blanket…now that’s the question.

I’m not sure there’s one authoritative resource on snow. The Federal Department of Flakes and Snow-Related Garden Questions didn’t answer my email. So in a blizzard of Internet searching, I’ve come up with the following:

• Snow is indeed an insulator, and will increase the temperature of the soil at the base of your trees, shrubs and plants.


• Too much snow can weigh down certain plants and trees, so after a heavy snowfall, you may consider clearing them off – think of it as a new outdoor winter sport.


• It’s not the snow that’s the problem, really. It’s the freeze/thaw cycle and whether your plants’ cells explode with all that rapid freezing and thawing. Not a pretty picture.


• Snow may not be enough of an insulator, depending on your plant hardiness, how cold your winter is, and whether you get enough snow. You may want other insulators, such as a mulch of leaves or straw for certain plant types.Take additional precautions for potted plants.


• Snow-melt, depending on its make-up, can damage your plants, so be cautious using it near plants lining your driveway or sidewalk.


• Snow can actually improve your soil by adding nitrogen.

Finally, I should say that I have a chart from my cross-country skiing lessons last winter. It is a complicated-looking grid that is supposed to tell me which kind of wax to use on my skis, depending on the air temperature and whether I’m skiing on “fine new snow,” “old powder snow” or “granular snow,” taking into account as well the moisture content of the snow. This is more snow science than I need in my life just to do a little skiing. Might I suggest that we could use a few more words in English to describe snow? The meteorologists could help us out here by just announcing whether it’s “skiable snow,” “stay-by-the-fireplace snow,” or “your-plants-are-happy-now snow.”

Resources

• "Blanket of Snow is poor man's fertilizer" by Jeff Lownfels, Anchorage Daily News, October 2008


• Inuit Snow Terms: How Many and What does it Mean?


• If you enjoy linguistics as much as you do gardening, check out The Great Eskimo Vocabulary Hoax and Other Irreverent Essays on the Study of Language

Last week I attended a local Master Gardener's meeting to learn about what other gardeners do to get ready for winter. The guest speaker, Rita Jo Shoultz, runs Fritz Creek Gardens near Homer, Alaska. She had interviewed a few garden designers on this topic, and one thing they all agreed on is that they do not cut back foliage in the fall.

Some of the foliage is left for insulation. Seedheads are left for birds to eat. Still other plants provide some visual "winter interest" when left intact under the snow.

Another tip was to "Plant, plant, plant!" Last week it wasn't too late to take advantage of sale perennials and a variety of bulbs.

A few days later, it felt like a different story. Fall is officially here, along with freezing temperatures in Anchorage. Termination dust has given the mountains their first powdering of the season. (Although I'm unsure of the origin of the phrase, "termination dust" refers to the first dusting of snow, visually signaling that winter is close at hand.)

Other indicators of Alaska's quick journey from summer to winter include:


"Topping off" of fireweed. According to some folk tales, once the fireweed blossoms have topped off, there's just six weeks until winter. This usually happens sometime in July.

End of the salmon runs. By late September, most salmon have made their long journeys from ocean back to birthplace. They will spawn and die, their bodies providing nourishment for small fry next season.

Forest smells. To me, fall in Alaska smells a little like dog poop. I've not determined whether it's just normal leaf decay or a specific plant, like the highbush cranberry, which has been described as having a "musty" smell. I don't think this particular sign of fall is something one can learn to appreciate.

More dramatic loss of daylight. From now until April we'll be getting up in the dark. I think it's hardest to deal with before the snow falls. After that, the reflection of sunlight, moonlight or streetlights on the snow brighten up the world here considerably.

Many Alaskans are eagerly anticipating snow, for both recreational and economic reasons (snow plowing is a big cottage industry). I for one am not quite ready for the cold. While I may still get out and plant bulbs in anticipation of a far-off spring, I do feel a bit sad about those plants that didn't even get a chance to bloom due to our chilly summer. I have cosmos grown from seed just budding, and a liatris that is tall and ready to bloom. I doubt that either will get a chance to show their stuff.

I guess I'll leave them for winter interest.

We found the fat and sassy blueberries all the way at the top of the mountain. "They're warm!" exulted my 4-year-old.

The sun, in a rare showing, was gracing Arctic Valley, just 20 minutes or so from Anchorage. The dark blueberries and crowberries were ripe, and the bright red low-bush cranberries weren't far behind.

In Alaska, this season usually only lasts a few weeks before the snow arrives. The colors of the changing arctic tundra, with their yellows and reds, are incredibly beautiful. Berry picking is a tradition in Alaska, one my family looks forward to each year.

As the Fiddler on the Roof character Tevye says, tradition is what keeps us in balance. Continuing family traditions -- and creating new ones -- pulls families together for brief respites in otherwise hectic lives.

For some Alaskans, berry picking is a vital part of subsistence culture. People take off from their day jobs so they can gather gallons of these nutritious fruits to put up for winter. For others, like me, it's a chance to get out and enjoy the outdoors and a community spirit of shared wonder at nature's bounty.

With backpack and three young ones in tow, it's quite a hike up the mountain. But a few pickers on their way down had confided that the best blueberries were further up. The trek was worth it.

We climbed high enough so we couldn't even see the parking lot. A breeze kept away the bugs, and there were no signs of bear. Plopping down in the middle of a low-to-the-ground patch of berries, we began to eat, gather and pretend we were on top of the world.

We were, really. Just like the blueberries we were picking, days like this are sweet, healthy, and worth the effort to gather in abundance.