Hen Chronicles: The weather outside is frightful

This is not the easiest time of year to be keeping chickens in Maine. Nor, for that matter, is it the easiest time of year to be a chicken in Maine.

I’ve read, and confirmed through personal observation, that chickens have what it takes to cope with almost anything that winter throws at them (although frostbite can be a problem).  The experts say it's harder to keep chickens cool in summer than warm in winter. We’re now heading into our third winter with hens out in the backyard, and during that time, I’ve seen them troop out of the coop for breakfast at dawn when it was as cold as 15 below zero.

Chickens are hardy souls. But they aren’t immune to the cold, and it’s clear from watching their behavior that they’re a heck of a lot more comfortable on a balmy morning in May or a crisp autumn afternoon than they are when the frigid, merciless world takes on various shades of gray and the mercury struggles to nose up to the freezing mark.

Last week, an early storm dumped 11 inches of heavy, wet snow here in Augusta. When I shoveled my way back to the coop in the pre-dawn darkness on Thanksgiving, I found the chickens' lodgings literally buried in snow. Not only was the coop blanketed by several inches of the white stuff, but weighed-down branches rested atop the outdoor pen, which was itself snow-covered.

I had to clear the snow all around the coop, just to gain access to it. I brushed snow off the roof of the coop, as well as from the tarps atop the pen. Then I cut back the bent barberries and hollies that had sunk onto the run.

All of this took some time, during which I heard nary a peep within the coop. It was as silent as a tomb in there, despite the noise I was making outside. That made me wonder how the girls were faring, especially because two of the hens are molting, and some of their new feathers have yet to grow in.

But all was well, or as well as it can be at this time of year. When I scattered a bit of chicken feed in the pen and placed the food bowl on the ground right outside the coop, a faint clucking finally emerged from within. This was followed by the telltale thump, thump, thump of three hens hopping down from the roost to the wooden floor of the coop, which is covered with a thick layer of pine shavings.

I opened the door. One tiny, red-combed head peered out to assess the dire situation in the great outdoors, followed eventually by the rest of Nellie as she descended the ramp to breakfast. Snow and Hope trailed behind within a matter of seconds.

And so it will be for months to come. Saturday morning, the thermometer read 13 degrees when I released the hens. They were moving a bit slowly and they were not at all thrilled by the early-morning chill, but they made their rounds nonetheless. Our feathered friends — domestic and wild — are much better-suited to the hardships of winter than we are.