One of the author’s four deer-trimmed apple trees.
One of the author’s four deer-trimmed apple trees. Wire Mesh Fence
GHENT, N.Y. — Does Deep Woods Off really last eight hours? That was the question I asked myself as insects of various sizes, shapes and stinging proclivities swarmed me last weekend as I finally got around to completing the last of my spring chores.
You heard that right. I’ve been delaying addressing my apple trees and their woebegone condition since approximately April. The gathering bugs as I finally ventured into our apple orchard — and I use the term orchard aspirationally — were but one of the multifaceted plagues and brush-back fastballs, as well as a few curves, nature has been pitching at my head since I purchased four specimens at our local Agway a few years back.
I’d picked a spot at the top of our driveway where several ancient apples had been growing for eons. Their fruit, when they produced any fruit at all, was small and gnarly but, if nothing else, proved that apple trees could survive in that location. Of course, the soil first had to be prepared.
And by prepared I mean that undergrowth that had gone unchecked since the late 1930’s, the last time the property was farmed, had to be chain sawed, weed whacked, pushed, pulled and finally dragged into the woods and mostly out of sight.
What was left behind wasn’t the equivalent of a freshly shaved and perfumed face. It looked more like lethal stubble. But at least the area became accessible for the first time since the Great Depression. And what better way to celebrate my triumph than by planting a few trees?
Before one starts lecturing me, let me stipulate that I’m fully aware that the best way to protect innocent saplings is to surround them against the ravenous resident wildlife with concertina wire or some other barrier only slightly less prickly. Say a fence.
So why didn’t I? Reluctance to exert the required labor and expense may have had something to do with it. Back in the 1980’s we were sitting on our front porch when a car came down the driveway. An older gentleman emerged from the vehicle, introduced himself, and told me his family owned our farm in the 1930’s.
You’d assume he would have been overflowing with stories and nostalgia. But the only thing I remember him saying, with a pained far away, Tom Joad, "Grapes of Wrath" expression in his eyes, was, “This place was never any damn good for farming.” Or words to that effect.
The reason being that as soon as you venture beneath the soil more than a couple of inches you hit what feels like bedrock. Planting the apple trees required renting a gas-powered auger to make holes. The machine barely survived. So rather than bringing in heavy equipment to dig fence posts I decided to spritz the fragile Cortlands and Golden Delicious buds with deer repellant.
My admittedly unscientific assessment is that Deer Off is only slightly more efficacious than Deepwoods Off, and when I forgot to spray it one month, or more like two weeks, the deer saw their opening and turned the trees into twigs.
I take that back. I’m exaggerating. They denuded and broke some branches but not others. The result is that they manicured the trees into novel shapes and sizes. I didn’t help their appearance come autumn by wrapping them in deer fencing, further deforming them, quashing their natural desire to reach their arms toward the sun.
My daughter Lucy, known for thoughtful birthday and Christmas presents — I partially blame her for encouraging me to buy apple trees — had quaint wooden ID signs made with the names of the different varieties we’d purchased. But the poor trees were so stressed that they probably wouldn’t have been able to support the weight. They’d have bent in half. At least those that weren’t already bent in half.
The temptation might have been to throw in the towel, to give them up for dead, to declare defeat. But I’m no quitter. The deer fencing caused the trees to grow in unique ways, the way the feet of young Chinese girls were once bound. But at least they kept growing.
The purpose of visiting them last weekend was to stake a couple that were listing and to rearrange the deer fencing to offer the once again leafy stalks some breathing room. By the way, not one of the four trees has yet to produce an apple. And I’ve never sprayed them with disease prevention formula because all my energy to date has been devoted to their mere survival.
But I had a minor epiphany as I was hammering the metal rails into the ground, at least as far as they were willing to go. I’d embrace my trees for who and what they are. Like the Seven Dwarfs I’d name them based on their idiosyncratic personalities. There’s “Bushy” because while his height isn’t what one would wish he’s managed to develop a full head of leaves.
Then there’s “Slim.” He’s well over 6 feet tall, but doesn’t sport much foliage until you reach shoulder height. The deer had something to do with that. “Pisa” is named after the leaning tower because she tilts so dramatically. Finally, meet “Archy,” whose major branch arches over the rest of the tree like a mother trying to protect her young.
Then I sprayed the whole array with Deer Off again based on the totally unsupported belief that, capitulating to some Pavlovian formula our local does, fawns and bucks would associate the trees with stink and steer clean even once the scent wore off.
I often wonder how I got myself into this mess in the first place. Especially because, come fall, I enjoy visiting Samascott, our local commercial apple orchard and picking their abundant fruit without any of the accompanying heartbreak. Maybe they’d be willing to share their secret of how they manage to produce an apple crop.
Ralph Gardner Jr. is a journalist whose work has appeared in the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times and New York magazine. He can be reached at ralph@ralphgardner.com. More of his work can be found on Substack. The opinions expressed by columnists do not necessarily reflect the views of The Berkshire Eagle.
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