I did not post over this past weekend. It was Father’s Day and I was taking a break. From everything. Well, almost everything. Not the ferns.
Suzi and I have a weekend house in the Catskill mountains. We have a lot that is flat but tilts west towards a gully with a bubbling brook. Yes, a real bubbling brook. When we bought the land, before we built our house, that final slope to the stream was rocky and barren. A bit like the land you see at the far left edge of this picture. For twenty years, I have been reclaiming that land, planting 20 to 40 ferms a year.
Now, I can’t plant the ferns into the soil, because there isn’t any. An inch at best of granular “topsoil” and then a matrix of rocks, large and small, mixed with sandy soil. Or in places the stickiest clay you’ve ever seen.
I use my history of World War 1 to advantage here. I don’t just dig holes and plant into each one. I did ten foot long trenches and every so often I nestle in a transplanted fern from the far end of our lot where swampy soil lets them flourish. My trenches are not straight, but snake across the hillside. I make side trenches off going up and down the hillside. And the entire trench network is filled with potting soil. That generous potting soil provides an avenue for the ferms to propagate. Where last summer I planted two, now there are three and four. And the next year even more. It’s a slow process. There’s a half an acre I want to work on and my activity has really just begun. Another twenty years will really make a difference.
Whether you are raising children or ferns, some patience is required. A long term plan. Maybe you’d call it a vision. But in time, you would call it completely worthwhile.