The Mast-Head: A Cranberry Connection

There haven’t been a lot of cranberries in the bog down our way in Amagansett lately, and there haven’t been all that many foxes either. It is probably related.

There had been a frost or two out on Cranberry Hole Road, a sign that it was time once again to go gathering. Since Sunday was a pleasant day, our son, Ellis, and I walked over from the house to a spot that in my own childhood memory was always full of cranberries.

With our trousers tucked into our knee boots, Ellis and I avoided getting wet as we pawed among the grass to expose the plants and look for the ruby-hued fruit. We found a few handfuls, enough for a small dish of turkey-side relish, I suppose. But more interesting, as we crept about, we noticed tiny, winding trails in the mud.

Walking a bit farther into the bog, I flushed a deer mouse, which dashed off toward the edging pines. It was gone by the time Ellis ran over for a look. That got me to thinking.

If mice eat cranberries and foxes eat mice, then fewer foxes might mean more mice, which would mean fewer cranberries, all other things being equal. There were more foxes around when I was a child and my father took us to get cranberries in advance of the Thanksgiving meal. Maybe it made sense.

Of course, plenty of other factors might be at work. There is an absolutely prodigious acorn crop this year; both the red and white oaks have been dropping them like so many tan hailstones. Ellis and I were at the town youth park on Abraham’s Path the other day, and the bike track there was studded with them.

I offered up my idea about the relative lack of cranberries to Russell Bennett, who lives about a half mile to the west of us on the road. His take, considering the number of rabbits and pheasant he has seen lately: “Next year will be a very good one for the foxes.” He might have a point.