The Barn Dream

Posted on November 10, 2022November 24, 2022 by Greg Washburn

November moves ahead and the weather has been great! Warmer then usual and mostly dry. I have been busy at the farm property preparing for winter. Bush hogging the fallow meadows and preparing to fill a firewood order. I got my neighbor’s old Ford 3400 fixed a couple days ago. We use its three point hitch wood splitter up on the warehouse landing since our Troybilt wood splitter blew its hydraulic cylinder last fall. But firewood wasn’t center stage yesterday. Moving round bales was the task of the day.

I spent yesterday moving the round bales my Uncles had left for me when they cut the hay this summer into the old barn where I store them. It’s a huge structure and its mows hold a lot of hay. In the 1970’s we packed it with over three thousand square bales. There was room in the center area between the mows to store two hay wagons that were piggy backed one on top of the other. That was a challenging task but my father was clever and had devised a safe strategy for accomplishing it each autumn. Kept inside the wooden hay racks of the wagons wouldn’t rot away in the elements. My father liked to keep all the machinery under cover. It made a huge difference to its longevity. Most of our equipment was used to begin with and I call it “tired iron” these days. I wrote of it once. But today’s post is more about the old barn itself.

When I was a boy we housed our cattle and horses in the lower section of the barn.My father did a lot of work converting the barn over into a more modern functioning space. A gutter cleaner was added in the 1970s and a back addition was built to house more livestock. His system worked well to weather the brutally cold winter months. The stored bales in the mows were thrown down wooden chutes known as feed holes. They had sliding wooden doors to help keep the heat in the lower barn where the livestock dwelled from mid November until mid May. The livestock generated huge amounts of body heat and a barn fan with a thermostat controlled the inner space of the lower barn. There was a lot of work involved in keeping the animals fed and their manure removed each day. It’s how I spent a lot of my time as a boy. I liked it most of the time though. It’s a story that I plan to explain in greater detail sometime.

These days I mainly use the stable sections of the barn for storage. It’s gotten rather messy unfortunately. I tried storing firewood in there once but it was much too damp so I abandoned the idea soon after. The timbers in the lower section have been riddled by powder post beetles over the years and need to be replaced. The barn builders made the stable section low so it would heat easier. It’s not a space conducive to being used as a garage ideally. It was designed for livestock. So in our capacity it has limited potential.A plan has been perking in my brain for years about how best to utilize the barn to its fullest possible useful space. We have an idea!

I store most of the round bales in the upper hay mow in the center aisle. Most years there is a surplus of hay left over and we occasionally have some to sell. That’s what we are hoping to do next spring. I got a few bales into the upper hay mow yesterday but quickly ran out of space since it was already quite full still from the previous year. We hadn’t sold any recently. Having reserve hay stored inside is never a bad thing. A wet summer makes it in high demand sometimes. It will last several years when kept dry before losing its freshness. I often marvel at how green a bale of hay appears when feeding it over winter snow! My father had pointed that out many years and it still amazes me with its simple truth. The upper section of the barn stays super dry so it’s a fabulous storage area for more then just hay. I keep some lumber there as well.

If you have ever seen the upper section of a barn then you can probably picture mine. The upper hay mows are huge and the roof peak towers far overhead. The barn was built sometime in the late 1800’s or early 1900’s near as we can tell. My father told me that the original barn that had been on the property had been destroyed by fire accidentally by a young girl. Her parents were sheep farmers and their last name was Howe. I hope to research them sometime and learn more about them. Someone had vision and designed the present barn. It was built when the timber framers still utilized huge hand hewn timbers for the main bents and cross support members. The rafters of our barn were sawn on a sawmill so that dates them to the period we surmise. The reason the mows are so high also dates the barn’s age. It was erected in a time when hay was still put up loose. Balers were not around or were still in early stages of development. There was a track and bale hook system installed just under the peak that was used to get the hay placed into the mows. My father repaired ours and we used it to place round bales for several years. It really put it to the test though as the bales weighed in around 500 pounds. It worked well though but required a team effort to accomplish the task. It’s rope pulley system was powered by a tractor hitched to the main tether. The bales started out in the center aisle just below the trolley which was situated some 25 feet plus above. We had to manually pull the hay hooks down from the trolley and set the hooks into the bale each time we hoisted one. The bales were hoisted by the tractor driving out from the center aisle tightening the rope through the pulley system. This section of a hay mow is often called “ the driveway”. A second rope operated from up in the mow tripped the travel hoist. A third was used to dump the hay hooks. The whole process required focus and timing. I came up with a different system of loading the mows when I was raising beef cattle. I used planks and gravity rolling to load the side mows from the center aisle. This I could do alone. It worked well. Hopefully you can picture the process at this point. Check out the featured image of this post carefully. It shows the hook system partially and will perhaps clarify the apparatus better.

I have spent a lot of time working in the hay mows of our barn over the years and have always admired the framework. The timber framed bents are massive and must have been challenging to place without a crane. If you don’t know anything about timber framing a bent is an assembled structural framework mortise and tenoned together with wooden pins that were hand carved mostly out of hardwood. The bents were assembled on the flat deck of the lower barn structure that had been built first. Talk about a team effort! An assembled bent was very heavy and the joinery needed to be precisely measured to match up. It took skill and experience most certainly. The framers used hemlock for most of the upper structure. I will come back to that shortly. But first a few words about hemlock.

Hemlock. A conifer. It had many uses here in the northeast. It was used by tanneries for its tannic acid properties. It’s still abundant in the Adirondacks but under attack by an invasive species. Different story to share sometime. It’s a strong wood that’s considered a softwood actually. Easier to work into joinery but very heavy. Once our area was heavily forested with hemlock. It was a prized building lumber and most of the forests were cut down here in the St. Lawrence valley. We have no hemlock remaining on our farm property. It only remains in the barn and sheds of the farm now. In the 90’s there was one massive hemlock on our property. It had escaped being cut for some reason. Perhaps the builders had left it to reseed the forest but that hadn’t happened. It died suddenly and we cut it to salvage it. We had expected it to be hollow or a “shake” hemlock. Shake hemlock is the result of wind damage. When sawn it falls apart in the growth rings.Very common to that species. My father taught me how to identify shake logs in case I ever wanted to buy any hemlock. In a shake hemlock the growth rings visible on the butt ends will be gray or black. I learned to read a hemlock log although we seldom got to see many before we started custom sawing with our bandsaw mill in 2006. Our salvaged log surprised us when it’s 36 inch diameter was flawless. We turned it into some wonderful lumber on our mill. Great memories of time learning and working with my father.

The haymows and the upper barn itself were constructed using four bents. There are no cross members connecting the span of the haymows in the center. Instead the framers used four smaller width bents on either side of the haymow driveway. Very cleverly connected with ladders built in two spots. The open design of the center area allowed the hay to be placed with less restrictions. Our barn is very unique in several ways that I haven’t always seen in other barns. The framer’s didn’t utilize queen posts supported by main rafters which in turn would support the secondary rafters. Instead they used one long main rafter on each side using fairly large hand hewn timbers. This design saved time and materials as there was less joinery. They did sacrifice some overall strength I feel with their frugalness. The main rafters appear to be basswood instead of hemlock which isn’t as strong. They have sagged a tiny bit over the years probably due to snow load when the barn was roofed with asphalt shingles. The original roof was cedar shingles. It appears that there are three layers of shingles. One cedar and two asphalt. My father had a metal roof installed by the Amish shortly before his death. I didn’t care for the pitch and height of the roof so declined doing it. The metal roof sheds itself of snow quite readily so snow load is no longer a concern. It comes off like an avalanche on a sunny day! As for my critique of the rafters who am I to judge the framers? What they constructed has stood for over 100 years! Modern barns blow down and collapse all the time these days. The men who stood on those lofty perches and assembled the roof structure were some brave individuals! I wish I had some photos of the build! A frolic the Amish call a barn building when they join together and work on one. It must have quite an undertaking! For some reason the framers did not leave their initials or a date on the walls of our barn. It was a common practice back then. Maybe they didn’t have any of the black ink they typically used. Year’s ago in my custom designed office space in the farmhouse I had a hand hewn post that one of the barn buildings had carved into. It was initialed and dated 1897.Lost to the fire but not my memory.

Our barn is painted red and has some sections of red metal siding. It was last painted sometime in the 90’s by some traveling barn and roof painters.The outer structure of the entire barn was constructed using sawmill sawn lumber. The girts and siding are hemlock as are the secondary rafters. The roof boards as well. The volume of lumber that makes up the barn is mind boggling. I can see why the hemlock was cleared from the land here. The farmhouse that had been constructed near the barn was made of hemlock as well. It was lost to fire in May of 2012. It’s noteworthy to mention that the two stall garage that had sat between the farmhouse and barn had been constructed of pine. It had been constructed in a time when the hemlock was not as readily available anymore. The fast growing white pine of the area was being used more frequently by the 1950’s. The garage was lost in the fire and how the barn was even spared still remains a miracle. The fire crews managed to save it though and we were thankful for that!

The lower section of the barn is a mixed construction of various species. The large mow cross timbers and plinths I suspect are elm. They were often used for that purpose due to the size they once grew here in the valley. It’s difficult to say as the lower section was whitewashed so the grain of the wood is covered. A drill bit could quickly solve that question. The barn builders used timbers called 3/4 rounds to support the haymow floor system. Trees that were flattened on one side only and fitted onto the tops of base top plates on one side. The other end of the 3/4 rounds were set on the top of the cross members. Many of the 3/4 rounds are basswood and the powder post beetles have riddled them extensively. The barn builders left the bark on them unfortunately. It made them more susceptible to the powder post beetles. Some have needed to be replaced. More are in jeopardy of collapse now. It’s important to note that hemlock is not as susceptible to being attacked by powder post beetles for some reason. Hardwood and most other wood seem to attract their destructive habits. The lower section of the barn is still strongly functioning however. The main frame remains sturdy for now. The framing under the haymow driveway is very substantial. It was designed to carry a lot of weight. It will support the weight of tractor and all the bales that I stack on top of it. The barn was built into a side hill to make access to the haymow driveway easier. Also a clever design of the builders and very common to this hilly area. A large stonewall supports the framework of the east side of the barn. We even have an old concrete silo that is 30 feet high. It hasn’t been used in decades except by the pidgins who like to live there. We have to periodically shoot them when they try to invade the haymow. Their droppings are destructive to the hay and sometimes carry diseases.They quickly learn that they are not welcome and fly off to new places.

I have never measured the barn or calculated it’s square footage. There’s a lot of wasted space that has potential to serve a better purpose I feel since we don’t raise livestock anymore. I have often wondered if the old barn could be renovated into a large house after the farmhouse burned. It would be a monumental task of some magnitude. The lower section especially. But what is to become of it otherwise? Since the creation of MOONTABS Creative Expression in 2020 I have pondered it more frequently. Since the sale of Hill House even more frequently. The peaceful setting of the farm is a writer’s ultimate sanctuary. I can envision something when I gaze up into the sturdy framework of the haymows. Where better to write the stories of rural heritage? What better place to leave a legacy? Imagination can overstep the boundaries sometimes. And the budget! But there is a building already standing that could be turned into something grand. Rustic and totally country. I could have the large library I always wanted. I could dedicate a space for my collections of things. The Hoarder Museum I would call it. There’s an even larger plan that I won’t share just yet. We have our sawmill to customize the build out. We have skilled Amish barn builders close by. Heating it would present some challenges that’s for sure. Some of it might require winterizing. The demo process alone is intimidating but totally feasible with time and effort. The biggest challenge besides money is dedicating the time to achieve the goal. Its a planner moment of many aspects and decisions. A series of phases and deadlines. Hmmm… sounds familiar after close to 40 years on construction projects. Zane has expressed some interest in the project but it’s hard to say where he will want to fit in. But it all comes back to the basic structure itself in the end. A standing building with wonderful potential. It’s exciting.Daunting. Crazy. Overwhelming… need I continue? It’s connected to the MOONTABS vision somehow. A fresh start at the farm property possibly. I will keep you posted on our progress! Or lack of it be that the case.

It’s funny the things that show themselves as time passes. Just this week I drove down a road I rarely travel anymore. Years ago there were seven active dairy farms along it. Nice barns and decent homes. I was shocked at the change that time has brought to the property along the road. It’s got an almost post apocalyptic look about it now. Barns fallen in or gone entirely. Houses gone. Replaced by trailers and campers in various condition. Someone continues to cut some of the hay fields fortunately. There is only one actual active farm and it’s not a dairy farm anymore. The scene gave me cause for reflection when I reached my own farm property. No house and no longer an active farm. No dairy since the late 50’s. Most but not all of the hay cut. Rural upstate has changed immensely. I looked at our barn and seriously began to consider its future fate. The farm as well. The barn dream has begun to take on a new meaning since that drive Tuesday. That’s what prompted this story.It’s up to me now to make wise decisions and bring the farm property forward into the future. Its not too late to set a plan into motion.Someone once stood in the forest that once blanketed the land of the farm. They found the artesian well in the main meadow no doubt. They decided that this was the spot to homestead. How many generations worked to clear and improve the land? Picking rocks and piling them where they still lay today. Setting clay tiles and draining the swampy sections. Building a home for their family and living close to the land. As for the barn itself? One can only guess at the cost at building it in those long past days. One can only guess at the manual labor it took. I sometimes try to imagine what the land must have looked like in those days when stands of hemlock stood tall and sturdy on the rocky slopes of the farm. I try to imagine someone standing where the barn now sits and designing the build. It was someone’s dream once to make it happen. To build something that would last. To make a better life for themselves and their family. I think I know how that might of felt. I feel that too when I stand in the meadow by the barn and try to plan for the future. It’s hard to say what happens next. Maybe the answer will show itself to me today. Maybe it already did.✍️

Held In Trust

Posted on November 3, 2022November 17, 2022 by Greg Washburn

It’s another chilly November morning here at the house on Black Lake where I will be living for the winter. I will be calling it “The Duplex” from now on.It’s another temporary home for me now that the travel trailer is parked. The Airstream has been winterized and sits on a large concrete pad near the house. It’s difficult to say where it will be headed next or even when. No sooner then May realistically.It sits waiting to become my rolling home again.At the moment covered in a thin layer of snow. Held in trust for now and waiting for adventure.

It’s been a busy time since returning from my Adirondack sojourn and writing has been down the list unfortunately. I made two lists soon after arriving home and have been trying to knock them out every since. Lists are a great tool for achieving short term goals provided a person doesn’t make them too extensive. I have a tendency to do that even though I know that’s not a good idea. The good news is that quite a few things have been crossed off those lists! Things can often get postponed but usually get done.I started the rough draft of this post two weeks ago! Other subjects ended up jumping ahead and now things have gotten out of sequence. MOONTABS is like one of those time travel series on Netflix where it’s hard to keep up sometimes.

Awhile back Zane and I were getting some things out of the storage container at the farm. It’s 20 foot long and about 8 feet wide. Fully packed with contents from our former Hill House. Furniture,books, and antique furniture. Kitchen items and cookware. Camp Edith is pretty well furnished so we didn’t need to move much there in the spring of 2021. I can’t say for sure when and where all the stuff will end up being used but I am not ready to part with all of it. It’s being held in trust for now I suppose. The fire of 2012 changed the way I view things. I have gotten strange about having everything in one location. There’s a bigger story there to share sometime.

While we were in the storage container we uncovered our old cider press. Zane started reminiscing about it and how we hadn’t used it in a long time. He asked if we were going to make cider this fall and I gave him a rather vague answer. We had to move it outside to get at the items we were after and Zane continued to mention making cider. I was too focused on the task at hand to think about much else. We got the things we needed moved outside and I asked Zane to help me move the cider press back into the container. He surprised me by saying no! “It’s going to camp” he said. “Otherwise we will never use it.” I reluctantly agreed to his request and the cider press was loaded onto the truck with all its accessories. As we drove back to Camp Edith I realized it had been 3 years since we had last made cider. Time sure had passed by. Zane was right and had made a wise decision I decided. Things had been set in motion thanks to him.

The story of the cider press itself spans several decades. Let’s jump back for a moment. It’s the late 1980’s and I am living in the old farmhouse on Lead Mine Road that was my first purchased home in 1983. It had belonged to my Uncles and had been part of the Archie Downing farm at one time. My Uncles had rented it out for years since the 70 plus acre property had been purchased sometime in the 1970’s. I was renovating it and had been fortunate to purchase the 22.6 acres across the road from it that had been part of the original farm. I was very in tune with my rural heritage at that time. Hunting,fishing,and trapping. Working as an electrician and getting time off whenever I could wrangle it. I spent a lot of time just down the road at my father’s farm helping out. It was a busy life and I lived close to the land. I had a garden. Raised a meat pig each summer. It’s no surprise that I would soon discover the fun hobby of making cider.

At the time my best friend has an adopted second cousin of mine. He was two years younger and we shared many common interests. One fall day he mentioned having made cider with some people he knew near his home. We gathered up some miscellaneous apples and brokered a deal with them to make some cider for ourselves. Their cider press was ancient but fully functional. The whole process was new to me and I was fascinated with it. We came away with several gallons of cider. I also came away with the thought that I needed a cider press of my own. The search was on in a time when the internet didn’t exist and paper catalogs were the source for locating such things. Ads in magazines were a good source as well. I can’t say for certain where or when I found the ad for a cider pressing kit that could be purchased. But I had found one!It was time to get serious!

The company who sold the cider press kit was called Happy Valley Ranch. They still market cider presses today and the designs haven’t changed from what I can see. The prices have increased since 1989 but that came as no surprise. What confuses me is that I thought that my cider press came from Oklahoma for some reason. Happy Valley Ranch is located in Alabama currently. I am going to call them and ask them some questions! I wrote a review on their website this morning. I am waiting to see if they post it. Regardless the company still exists and still makes the “Homesteader” model that we own. I can attest to its quality after 33 years of owning it.

I ordered the cider press sometime in May of 1989. It was over $800 by the time I got it shipped if my memory is correct. It was delivered by UPS truck in two large and very heavy boxes. The kit contained all the wooden components,cast iron parts,and all the necessary hardware. The maple framework pieces were solid maple of excellent quality. They certainly didn’t use any junk hardwood. I was recovering from an acute appendicitis when it arrived. I wasn’t supposed to be doing any work but wasn’t good at following doctors orders and was totally bored being stuck at home. I got some of the kit parts inside and began assembling it. The wood that made up the frame was maple and it needed to be treated with a food grade preservative. The manufacturer had recommended this and sold an aerosol spray as an accessory.One application was recommended but I bought two cans so I was certain that I would have enough. It was a good decision and one that I have never regretted. I used all the spray in two different applications taking time to dry the pieces between. The finish has lasted for years and our press still looks great after 33 years! The treated pieces were assembled inside the house and taken out to my garage. It took some time to complete the assembly and it was a great way to stay busy during my recovery. The doctor wouldn’t let me return to work till July but by the end of June I had helped my father get most of his haying done. Physical therapy comes in many forms! The completed cider press sat in my garage covered and up on blocks. Cider season was months away.

Autumn came quickly after a busy summer of working at Newton Falls paper mill in the Adirondacks. I had camped some while working there and had worked a lot of overtime during the different phases of the project. My annual strategy at the time.I was ready for a break so I took a layoff in October. I stayed busy getting my firewood done,hunting,and later trapping. I lived a very cost effective lifestyle and never worried much about money. It’s funny how things changed so many years later. But that’s a different set of chapters and is not important in this story. It does serve as a solid foundation of my desire to live in the season and in the moment. I was trying to manage and manipulate time. Still figuring things out. In that time and now my new hobby had gotten into motion and we were learning how to use the press.A new chain of events was being forged.

I don’t remember all the details of the first time we used the press and all my photos from then were destroyed in the fire of 2012. I don’t think anyone else has any either. But I do remember many things about that fall fortunately. My friends and I scoured the countryside for apples every chance we got! My bestie had a nice Macintosh apple tree behind his house trailer and we picked it clean. Those apples made fabulous cider especially when we blended in the tarter wild apples we found on an old homestead near there. Things were very different in 1989 where we lived. There were less houses and an abundance of unposted vacant land. We searched all the old farms we could find looking for apples. Getting permission when we could or just wandering unposted property. These days that would never be able to happen. We found trees right next to the backroads sometimes and stripped them of their small apples. The cider was tart from those feral apples so we experimented with blending apples as we ground them. We washed the apples first at my house where we made all of the cider. We usually were a group of three to four so that made the task easier. We split up the jugs of cider and I froze a lot of mine. We were young men in our mid to late twenties and liked to party some when we closed out the day making cider after dark under the outside lights in front of my garage. It was a fun and memorable time for us! One memory stands out!

It was November and getting much colder. We found some late hanging apples somewhere that were still in good condition despite the lateness of the season. They were golden colored and rather small. Tart but with enough sweetness to make a decent run of cider we figured. The night we decided to run them through the press it was very cold! Well below freezing and almost uncomfortable. The cider that flowed from the press was crystal clear has it hit the draw off catch basins. On warm days the cider comes off brown as soon as the air hits it. This cider was very different! I had begun experimenting with making a fermented concoction in my refrigerator with different batches of cider. It took about 3 weeks in the fridge to brew out a somewhat alcoholic beverage we starting calling “hooch”. (Hoochinoo is a word used by the Tlingit indigenous people from Alaska to refer to their fermented beverages made from fruit). We also knew that Hooch was a bootlegger prohibition term and we liked that comparison. I never tested our hooch for alcohol content but it was a lot like beer. We quickly learned not to overindulge on our tasty hooch however. It had a wonderful cleansing quality if you catch my drift! Sorry if I offend anyone with stories of drinking alcohol here! I promised honesty and directness on this site. Not to mention making the hooch would be leaving out a certain twist of the tale. This is why…

The wonderful clear cider from the November pressing gave me an idea. It was never allowed to reach room temperature and was placed directly into the fridge that evening. It stayed clear and after about 3 weeks began to have a effervescence to its content. We were amazed at the quality of this run of hooch! Bubbly and tingly to the tongue! It was like a sparkling wine resembling champagne almost! Very smooth! We made made it quite by accident and were never sure whether it was the apples themselves or the clear cider that made this special batch! We truly enjoyed it though! It was also special as it was the last batch of the season that fall. We had kept track of our progress each time we pressed. We were using one gallon repurposed plastic jugs so it was easy to keep the count. We had pressed 75 gallons that first season! The press had exceeded my expectations in so many ways! And it was only the beginning of a hobby that would follow me through time.

I have decided to leave the story here for the moment. There is more to this story that should be told with accuracy and detail. The fact that we even have the cider press still is a miracle. It was stored in a location that survived the fire of 2012. That makes it even more special. It also connects the dots to the outcome of part two of this series. The title of this posts sums things up well I feel. A possession that has been held in trust for over 3 decades. I hope the cider press will be around for many years and continue to provide memories for everyone who uses it. We take precautions these days to protect those objects that allow us to engage in our hobbies. It’s good to know that cider presses are still being produced. It’s also good to know that we have resumed our hobby once again!✍️

The Special Day

Posted on September 25, 2022August 7, 2023 by Greg Washburn

4AM. I woke suddenly while having the most bizarre of dreams. In the dream I was standing on a pile of logging slash next to a house trying to figure how how to get down. The pile was huge and was made up of entire trees,evergreen limbs, and brush. The bark hung from the fallen trunks in shreds as a result of being dragged and knocked about. There was no order in the manner the pile had been arranged.It was if it had just been pushed in place by a huge machine that was no where around. There was a house beside the pile and I was thinking about how strange it all was getting. I started getting anxious because I couldn’t see a safe way down from the pile.Each direction looked the same. Dangerous. Weird as I have no fear of heights. I loved to climb trees on the farm as a boy. In the dream I turned in a slow motion circle. The devastation around the pile was disturbing. A huge clear cut of stumps and torn earth. A road of devastation had been carved out of a landscape that definitely wasn’t upstate New York. It resembled the Canadian bush to a degree but seemed different. The road was leading to a lake that was just beyond an untouched section of forest. The machine of destruction was out of sight but I knew where it was headed. I was afraid suddenly. I needed to get off the pile and run to the safety of the forest. And I knew what I needed to do. The fear left me and I got ready to jump off….Ok! Alrighty then! Wow! Dreams are strange! I wonder what Freud would find in that one!

I got up shortly after and reassured myself that all was well in Camp Edith. Gracie was lying next to the wood stove near the door to Zane’s room. All was well! I checked the fire and the large pieces of firewood that I had loaded in before bed last night had been reduced to glowing coals. One small piece of unburned wood sent out a wisp of smoke that assaulted my nose. I refueled the wood stove and headed for the Keurig.Destination numero uno! Ok it’s showtime! Busy day ahead! Lots to do today and there would be no time for writing. Too bad I thought because my creative hangover had been replaced by a familiar feeling. I was suddenly overcome with warmth! It had been a wonderful evening. A meal with Zane, small research projects, and conversations. A phone call.The Keurig finished brewing with its squishing sound that pushed out the final drops of morning rocket fuel. I dumped in an random shot of maple syrup. Followed by a healthy shot of half and half. Talk about a constant! My first fix of the day to satisfy an addiction of over thirty years. Just how did I get addicted in the first place? A different sort of story with a different connection to nature. Natural selection they call it.Not sharing that story today.

I headed back here to my cluttered bedroom to prop myself up against the headboard and started gulping my sweet brew. I really need to do something about this room I thought to myself. But how about a little music first? I knew what would set the mood. Andrew Belle. His music can bring me to tears! Yes tears! I once read that tears aren’t the measure of a man. I once mentioned that to Zane. I often dose a writing post with the phrase blood,sweat, and tears. It was like that on the farm. We had lots of livestock. Cows,horses,pigs,and chickens in a rotating cycle of farm life in harmony with season. There was the magic of birth. The time in between. Then the tough one.Death. These animals weren’t all pets. I learned things fast in those years although I never recognized it until years later. But that is the magic of discovery! Discovery doesn’t always wait out there beyond that next hill. It’s already there sometimes. Already inside us.Under our feet and already there in places of our heart rarely visited. Buried in our memories. Sometimes buried on purpose.A different story for a different day.

I learned the true kindness taking care of the livestock. They depended on us. Their needs came ahead of ours quite often on the farm where I had learned to climb trees with no fear and little regard for the danger of a fall. I guess I trusted my own hands and my balance. I am almost ready to jump back into the next chapter of my rural heritage series. I am waiting for something though. The day of autumn that stirs up certain memories and a special feeling.I can’t stage it or mark it on my calendar like some random event.It is a revolving event though that is tied into nature and always a new discovery in itself. Enter the familiar phrase: if only I could bottle that feeling and share it.Why do I write like I am creating a screenplay? Because all the world’s a stage they say. Not going there this morning!

I can safely say that my “special” day will fall sometime between mid October and late November. I will get a inner spirit call coming in from somewhere from an unknown number and I won’t let it go to voicemail. I will drop everything to answer it. I never know the time or exactly when my custom ringtone will chime. Many times the call comes as the sun is setting and a busy day of firewood cutting on the farm property ends. Tired and dirty as we put the tools away. The custom ringtone that is now set inside me originally came from miles above me. In the sound of distant goose cries as they begin their migration south.It is a sound that can span decades in the fraction of a second. Backtrack to a small younger me playing in the backyard with my sister at the first home I ever remember. I don’t remember every single detail but what I do remember is the feeling of excitement I got that long ago day when I spotted the first flock of the season. I can picture myself pointing to the sky and yelling to my sister! Geese! This was the 1960’s and geese didn’t frequent our section of the St. Lawrence valley all that much. They came from much further north stopping occasionally to rest and feed in the post harvest corn fields.A lover of the higher places at a young age although I didn’t know where that would eventually lead.I was being a kid and the forests of Tasmania were mere seedlings far in the future. I envied the geese their lofty status and wondered why they honked as they flew. Enter the Canadian goose and the stage was set for a grand performance.(to be continued)

Oh btw! It’s a special day indeed! Ironic given the title I chose!You are not going to believe what just happened!

I lost most of today’s post somehow! I had started it yesterday actually as a draft. I thought that I had it edited and published correctly. I went back several hours later to review my own work and was shocked to see what had actually uploaded. A total piece of something that had no rhythm nor reason. It dropped off in the middle of a sentence practically. What a disaster! So much of the once longer post is lost now! There’s some question as to what happened and why. The post was as heavy as a lead balloon but I was determined to try and fly it anyway due the amount of time I had spent on it! There must be a ghost in the machine! There’s only one possibility! A small mouse named Mr. Jangles! I know! I know it sounds crazy! You still are a little skeptical about Mr. Jangles and that whole story! Believe what you want! Ask Zane. He was there. After the post crashed I realized something. Mr. Jangles still wants to play! I don’t how he got the ghost virus into my tablet but it’s raising hell with everything! I know it’s him because of the photos and videos he hacked into my gallery. That one of me snoring? Horrible!So embarrassing and I am worried it may go viral!There’s also a cartoon version of himself that shows up like a screen saver and loops continually. His mouse laugh is creepy. He must have access to some sort of forest command post with satellite Wi-Fi and a backup generator. He’s pretty resourceful and I respect that about him! He hasn’t done anything serious yet I suppose. Unless you think destroying hours of my work is serious. And that notice from my bank that someone got in and tapped my checking account for a few hundred Canadian! I guess he’s just playing or he would have taken a lot more!I was mad at first and ready to go back up there tomorrow. But I don’t have time for that right now. I need to figure out a way to reverse hack him but he’s using someone else’s equipment somehow. I can picture him sitting hovered over someone’s laptop keypad.Hey it’s only a game right? I you know you get bored Mr. Jangles but how about a tv series or something. I can recommend one. I thought we were friends and I didn’t throw a fit over that last practical message joke of yours.

So here we are and I never got to finish my post. That’s ok as there’s always tomorrow!Just remember about the special day and the custom ringtone. Remember the farm property. Remember my promise to tell the stories of rural heritage. I keep my promises and tell the truth. Sure I have a big imagination. I told lots of true facts here. There is a mouse in Western Quebec. A cabin too and an actual Lake Dumoine.There was a big piece of blog post lost today. Can a mouse work a keyboard and understand passwords?Hack into someone’s system? Come to think of it I was missing some cash when I got back home last August. Maybe Mr. Jangles has a helper he pays. He can read as we already know. It’s difficult to say really.. ✍️

Beyond The Run Of The Mill

Posted on April 18, 2022May 19, 2023 by Greg Washburn

Several months ago I began the “Run of the Mill” stories as a manner in which to preserve some of my personal rural heritage history. People have told me that they wish to hear more of those long past decades. I have a tendency to wander aimlessly through those decades.It’s all connected though! Often my certain memories are triggered by the changing of the seasons. I feel that affords better story telling with greater emotional connection. One particular set of memories stands out with a certain clarity beginning in 1996. A series of events began to connect and would ultimately lead in unexpected directions. It started quite simply in 1996 with the purchase of 110 acres of rural property on the edge of the Macomb/Rossie town boundary. It was a mere 7 miles from my father’s farm giving it the advantage of proximity but there was a larger draw. The undeveloped potential of the land. There was a modern element of homesteading that appealed to me in some unique manner. In fact many years prior to purchasing the property I had driven past different times and noticed that very potential. I had always expected someone to develop it but it never happened. The main feature of the property that caught my eye was the open meadow that stood at the base of a wooded ridge line. There were no power lines on the property nor access roads of any kind. It’s difficult to say why it held such appeal but I suppose it was the sheltered way the meadow was tucked in between the surrounding ridges. Also the fact that there were no neighbors in sight either. One day in 1996 I noticed a small For Sale By Owner sign by the road. I walked the property with the owner and was immediately hooked.We had strolled through the numerous stands of tall white pine and found ourselves on the bank of the Bostwick Creek. A group of ducks gave flight from the lower end of a large beaver pond and flew up over a steep ridge of red oak trees. A small meadow sat adjacent to the beaver pond in a basin of sorts surrounded by forest. I knew that the property was perfect at that point. It would take some work to make it a homestead but I found that exciting actually. Perhaps I envisioned myself as some type of pioneer. Some trimming and clearing began later that year along the edges of the meadow. I laid out the driveway first and it was installed in 1997. It was built right along the edge of the forest so it would be minimally invasive to the meadow’s appearance.The site for a 26’x40’ garage/barn was staked out for construction that fall.Some test holes were excavated to determine if a cellar was possible for the future house. Macomb is known for its veins of bedrock that reach the surface with no predictability.No bedrock was discovered but the hard clay soil of the meadow’s side hill would require custom drainage systems. Big plans were brewing for 1998.The hard work was truly about to begin! As winter approached I cut a logging road into a back section of the property where some of the white pine was beginning to die off. In January my father and I began to harvest white pine logs from the property using a team of horses that he trucked in on Saturday mornings.An area of the forest was targeted and we constructed a landing in a slightly open spot under some large pines that were to remain. I did all the felling and limbing in addition to hitching the logs for skidding. The logs were skidded a short distance to the landing then loaded onto a horse drawn wagon and taken out to the edge of the highway to be piled on a side hill staging area.Mid day we would eat our lunch right in the woods while the horses munched on some hay my father had brought in a grain sack. It was busy work and we left tired at the end of the day. We worked the same section for several Saturdays and made great progress due to the lack of snow. I clear cut my way through the stands leaving plenty of young healthy trees beyond the slash. A buffer zone now lay between the dead trees and the living. The pine logs were high quality and very fun to fell! Tall and straight with few limbs near their bottoms. There was a certain thrill in the prospect of turning them into lumber as they fell one by one with crashing roars. I would get lost in the work and move from one to the next. Using a chainsaw requires focus especially when limbing. The large pines often crush smaller hardwoods when they land. These bent over saplings possess incredible stored energy and are very dangerous to the feller. Spotting them is crucial to avoid injury! I call them “slap sticks” and for good reason! I employed a “layered” approach to the felling. I would fell a pine and trim it into skid logs which my father would then extract with the team. The next tree would be felled on top of the “slash” layer. The aftermath looked a little raw but the amount of young pine that remained standing was impressive to say the least. We would never lack for building materials provided the forest remained healthy. It is interesting to note that the slash areas healed quickly over the subsequent years and the skid roads became handy access trails for harvesting firewood.Later that spring we targeted another stand of healthy trees close to the future garage site.Another access road was carved in following the lay of the land. Staking out the access roads was a pleasant job that I truly enjoyed! A large network of potential trails began to appear to me at this point and I envisioned the true potential of a sustainable,healthy forest plan. That story must wait for now. I crafted a landing near the targeted ridge where we would be extracting logs. This area was experiencing a die off similar to the one we had just harvested. The cutting yielded some very large logs that were perfect for creating pine siding boards. This section of forest contained more hardwood species so felling was a bit tricky! The logs were hauled by the horse drawn wagon out to the driveway area to a second staging area.A higher section of the ridge had been heavily damaged by a wind event. I began to map out a future trail system to reach the area for a salvage cut. It was a fun part of the homestead process for me. The raw and undeveloped property was an ideal project of future forest stewardship. The property was so much different than the semi-open farm property where I had grown up.It was a true forest of some magnitude and I loved exploring its rolling terrain.From the clearing of the second landing the ground fell away into a deep valley.The back meadow and beaver pond on the Bostwick Creek were visible from there. It was a lovely place to relax and dream. We decided that our stockpiles of logs were adequate so the logging was concluded. Sometime in April after maple syrup season we trucked the logs to the Amish sawmill to be custom sawn for our barn/garage framing requirements.All the lumber was trucked back and unloaded by hand. I stacked and “stickered”it up on top of crib piers that I constructed from concrete blocks. Stickering lumber allows it to air dry by keeping the pieces separated by narrow strips of lumber. We hired a backhoe operator to prep the hill side garage site and managed to it leveled for building. An Amish crew began to work shortly after. Footers were poured and layers of block were laid to build the garage into the side of the hill.The barn/garage was tucked into a notch in the meadow at the end of the driveway. The gambrel roofed barn/garage went up quickly and was soon finished minus the doors. I made some temporary doors from plywood that fall and stored extra lumber inside. Electricity was brought to the corner property a year later after reaching a deal with the power company. Conduits were buried to bring power and phone to the garage to keep the pristine appearance of the meadow intact. . The stage was now set for the next part of the homesteading project. Planning began for the actual house. It would be constructed in 2001. The logging project that led to the barn/garage being built brought a sudden realization to the table. Why haul logs from the property only to haul the lumber back again? We began to consider buying our own sawmill from that day forward. My father pushed for the purchase and in 2003 I agreed to buy one with him. We chose a portable sawmill that was popular with the Amish. The Brubacher . Made in Canada using minimal hydraulics and no high end technology. We chose the gas powered option with a 25 horsepower Robins Subaru engine. Capable of cutting a 20 foot log with a 30 inch circumference. Solid and sturdy in its simple design. The new direction began to show itself that year as I learned to become a sawyer. I began to recognize my connection to my late grandfather as he had been a logger and sawyer in the 1960’s. My father had worked in the woods his entire life as well. I was already close to my father and frequently worked with him at the farm but something new was beginning to take shape. A new era of bonding and deeper father/son friendship formed as we began working together with our new sawmill toy. If only I could gift that feeling to the world and truly emphasize what it meant to me! A transformation was underway. One that would no unnoticed in the busy task of daily life. But the spirit energy would find me on the weekend when I walked the trails of the homestead property. It radiated from the scent of the pine lumber of the newly constructed barn/garage. Something much larger called out to be acknowledged in the hidden recesses of pine groves where nature ruled with quiet dominance.I suddenly began to question everything that was my normal vocation and began to yearn for something different. Looking back now I am truly thankful for all that followed. I can’t say it was planned and executed with a larger strategy. It just kind of showed itself and was decided along the way.It’s a story that deserves to be told in greater detail to truly capture the spirit of the moment. Many things were bound to happen. Many things did happen. These would be the years of self discovery and ultimately the start of something that continues to grow. The years of blood,sweat, and tears I’ve called them. They passed fast it seems now. I found a part of myself in those years that had laid dormant like a seed waiting for it’s time to grow. The spirit energy flowed strong and fast. My heart told me to chase the possibilities so I did. There are few regrets and oh so many blessings. Those memories I have named MOONTABS.

The Many Changes Of A Season

Posted on March 20, 2022March 20, 2022 by Greg Washburn

March 20th. We have been maple sugaring for a full two weels now after tapping our first trees on Saturday March 5th. The weather continues to challenge our efforts with its roller coaster swings but we have managed to make some good quality syrup. Thursday’s temperature was a bit extreme though (70 degrees) and the nights have remained above freezing since. Zane and I decided to tap some additional trees Friday regardless since I feel it will boast our sap production this upcoming week as temperatures begin to drop at night. Freezing nights and warm days make for good sap flow typically. We targeted some of our larger maples that survived the 2016/2017 die off in two different sections of our former sugarbush. We call them the reserve trees. They have sat fallow for the last two seasons as we waited to assess the fate of our forest. The reserves sit in a mixture of dead ones sprinkled with the stumps of some we removed as part of the salvage project. It’s taken some mental acceptance to move forward in these devastated woods. It’s been heartening to note the number of young saplings that are going to replace the fallen giants in time. The trails continue to require clearing as the upper canopies continue to fall during each big wind event. It’s getting better in some sections though. This season many of our taps are on our neighbor Tom’s property again. Similar to last year actually. We call the trail system we carved out two years ago the “Big Loop”. It takes some time to gather all the buckets around it’s meandering route. There are four runs of “mini-tubes” that collect from small clusters of hard to reach trees. I have covered some of these facts in previous posts if you have been following our stories. At the moment we have close to 500 taps set after Friday’s work adding about 60 more. Things are pretty normal in the sugar house once we got set up and rolling. A leak in the drop flue back pan gave us some concern but luckily the fire sealed it off. We will need to have it reconditioned this summer after we finish up boiling. We still have plenty of firewood for the evaporator but will use up most of it if the season lasts long enough. We are using a dry slab wood/hardwood mix again this year. It works great at keeping the evaporator stoked. We usually need to fire up the evaporator twice between batches. Our old 4×10 foot unit produces about 2 gallons of syrup per hour average. A full storage tank of sap is about 400 gallons which translates into about 5 hours of actual work boiling. There’s lots of activity in the sugar house during a fully fired boil. Constant firewood to handle and move in from the attached woodshed. Jen or Zane usually assist with that when they are available. There’s hot syrup to strain and pack after each batch is drawn. I don’t sit much if I am working alone some days. The evaporator is a engine of sorts where the air damper acts as a carburetor and the firewood is the fuel. Keeping a steady constant boil takes practice but isn’t too difficult really once you learn the needs of the evaporator. Monitoring the flow of sap into the evaporator is crucial for maintaining the needs of the evaporator. This is accomplished with a simple device known as a float. The float rises and lowers with the evaporator level opening or closing a simple valve. Once set up it just needs to be watched. I listen for it actually. Immediately after firing the evaporation the boil intensifies and more sap enters the raw sap chamber of the back pan. This produces a certain sound that you learn to recognize as a properly functioning float system. You also learn to recognize when the sap trapped in the finishing pan gets close to becoming actual syrup. Tiny golden bubbles rise to the surface and prompt the operator to start testing the batch. We use a simple hydrometer in a test vial for hot testing boiling sap. It works fine and I keep a new one on hand to verify the accuracy of the one that I am actually using. All this may seem a little boring perhaps but this is a snapshot into a typical boiling day. We test each batch of syrup for color grade before tagging the containers for sale. I also taste test each batch for quality. Especially as we move into the mid-season and the sap quality deteriorates due to tree budding and increased bacteria count. No worries about the bacteria!They are destroyed in the intense boiling procedure and merely contribute to altering the color of the finished product. We have been producing good quality syrup to date that is graded as Amber Rich. Probably the favorite of the majority of our customers. Myself I prefer the hearty syrup that is graded as Dark Robust. Full maple flavor with a darker color. Eventually the syrup will pass into a commercial grade product that we will barrel up to sell. These are just a few of the changes we experience in any given syrup season. This year we are experiencing a number of other changes as well unrelated to the maple syrup season. Friends and family who are facing serious health issues and treatment decisions. Some who are losing their battles to ongoing health situations. I shun from politics on my blog but the state of world affairs at this moment is disturbing and troubling. All this things can burden the heart and dampen our spirits at times. They press on us and occupy our thoughts far too often. In the forest gathering sap and in the sugar house I seek a peaceful place of reflection where I try to count my blessings and find inner strength. Not just for myself but to help others as well. These are trying times and I seek to find a positive momentum forward. We are in the midst of great change. Both in reality and in season. Spirit energy can guide us I feel. To a place where we might relax with natural connection and wholesome reflection. Today we move forward into the ever changing syrup season of 2022.

The Annual Run Of The Mill

Posted on February 23, 2022February 23, 2022 by Greg Washburn

The story of logs,logging, and sawmills encompasses several decades of my life in its entirety. It’s important to note though that much of my time in the woods each season was spent harvesting firewood. I burned wood for a good many years after leaving home.All told some 27 years or so overall. I also would help my Father cut wood for the farmhouse in my spare time. We used smaller firewood in the sugar house to fuel the evaporator as well. All that wood cutting kept us rather busy each fall and winter. I have never cared for cutting wood in the summer so typically would take a break in the warmer months. We didn’t own a wood splitter until the fall of 2004 so all our wood was hand split up until then. Big blocks of dead elm were burned without splitting them given their stringy composition. I sometimes used a hammer and metal wedges to split large blocks but usually used an eight pound splitting maul. It was an excellent workout and kept me very fit! Heating with firewood you harvest yourself is a time consuming labor of love. The benefits have always been the draw for me however.For years my cost to heat my home was almost nonexistent. Harvesting the dead trees helped keep the properties cleaner and less unsightly. Coupled with the physical aspect it was a no brainer really! There’s a certain satisfaction in harvesting firewood that can only be found in the experience I have always found. It’s a connection to nature like no other. There’s an independence in not relying on other types of home heating fuels. For years our wood furnaces were located in our homes basements so that meant stacking after throwing it in each time a load was brought home. It would fill the cellar with a certain smell as it dried out depending on the species we were cutting. Burning dry wood was imperative to avoid chimney issues. Chimney cleaning was a part of routine maintenance as was handling ashes and hauling them out of the basement. In 2001 I purchased my first outside boiler system. This would make life a whole lot easier as the mess of bark and ash was kept outdoors. The wood was stacked outside as well. Tarps were handy to keep some of the snow off the piles. Outside boilers brought a greater safety to burning wood as well. No longer were chimney fires a concern. A new era of wood burning was ushered in for me. My Father purchased one shortly after I did and built a woodshed to store his supply of wood. It worked well for him and made things easier overall. We moved to the farm property in 2008 after renovating the farmhouse about a year after my Father’s death in 2007. We continued use his original outside wood boiler for several seasons. New York State pushed to control the use of outside boilers at one point around 2010. New models purchased needed to fall under EPA compliance regulations. I purchased a gasification unit in 2011 to replace the older one at the farm that my Father had installed in 2002. It was a clean burning boiler but required labor intensive cleaning and could only burn super dry firewood. We only used it one winter at the farm before the farmhouse burned. The outside wood boiler was spared luckily. We made the decision to relocate to the small village of Hammond instead of rebuilding at the farm. The house there used fuel oil for heat but I figured out a way to house the outside wood boiler in the large garage and pipe the hot water to the house through an underground thermopex piping system. It was quite the project and a ballsy undertaking as outside wood boilers were not welcome in the village if not entirely banned. I got the project finished before winter and we were once again burning firewood!The gasification unit burned so clean and efficiently that I never had any complaints from anyone in the village. We had added several smoke stack extensions up through the two story garage roof and launched our minimal emissions high into the air. Inside and out of sight the boiler worked well! We trailered in our firewood and stored it under cover in a lean to we build onto the garage.We used the boiler for three winters in Hammond before moving to a new location above Black Lake. The new house we purchased needed a heat source so once again I made the decision to move the boiler! I found a perfect location for it behind the garage there. The big project relocation project was undertaken and completed before winter. It worked well there for five seasons before I began to have serious issues with leaks. Something the manufacturer refused to address properly but that is another story! The house was sold in 2020 and I believe the outside wood boiler was scrapped out. Presently we continue to burn some wood in our cottage wood stove and at the farm. The sugar house still requires its share of firewood each season as well. We also use a small wood stove in the small farm cabin.(we call it “the warming shack”).Most of the firewood we now harvest leaves the farm and is sold to a local customer. My seventeen year old son Zane has been learning the basics of firewood harvesting for years now. I started him out driving the tractor when he was nine. Safely wearing his seatbelt he learned to dump loads of firewood stacked on the tractor loader into the trailer. He enjoyed the task and I felt it helped make a work day fun for him. We would usually take a break and go for a farm walk before heading home to Hammond before dark. Zane continues to learn new skills and has become a huge asset on the landing as we build the loads. He often runs the wood splitter and has begun to learn chainsaw basics. I have hesitated to let him run the chainsaw but I will need to at some point. It’s a dangerous tool and lots can go wrong! It’s a rite of passage for a rural kid though and I once was in his shoes myself. Moving forward I will continue his training and try to insure his safety. I sometimes ponder my fondness of collecting firewood and the time it consumes. I suppose it’s in my blood and given the over abundance of it on the farm presently nowadays it’s not a bad thing. Woodcraft is a skill I want to pay forward to my son as it was paid forward to me. Rural heritage often comes with time consuming menial tasks. But for me there’s a different type of reflection and reward that follows it. The smell of fresh sawdust. The crashing sound of a felled tree. The sight of a finished load of wood next to the warm wood stove. The taste of a simple lunch enjoyed on a break at the farm. The feel of the chainsaw doing it noisy job. The sixth sense emerges as the spirit energy soars into the large skies over the farm property. In simplicity there is peace and a greater understanding of life itself. That is the greatest reward of time and task. Tomorrow we will return to the forest and reap the benefits once again. The evaporator will need the fuel and we must meet its demands. Father and son together.Sharing and making memories. MOONTABS we call them. ✍️

The Turn Of Thoughts

Posted on February 11, 2022February 11, 2022 by Greg Washburn

We approach the middle of February and last night on the long drive home from Lake Placid I had plenty of time to think. My work there is only part time now since December. That’s fine with me because I have more time to write and get caught up on some of the things I let slide. Speaking of time it’s become a frequent subject of discussion with a young coworker of mine on the project. In his late twenties his perception of it is noteworthy given my obsession with it. Despite the differences in our ages we walk common ground when discussing time and how we choose to manage it. We also shared thoughts on memories or lack there of sometimes. The realization that we can’t remember everything and certain things are lost in the haze of busy existence. I exposed him to the blog the other day. I then encouraged him to consider writing private life journals as a way of preserving his own memories. I kept hand written journals for years. (long before the creation of this blog and the very public sharing of my personal life).Just before beginning this post I did a quick review of my previously published titles and content.Time is a reoccurring subject and one I mention rather often. Some of my followers have told me they enjoy the stories of my life on the farm and roaming the forests of Macomb as a boy. For me those stories bring back many memories! I hope to continue to blend the old with the new this year as the seasons bring the different tasks and hobbies into play. A warm stretch of weather these past few days has certainly aided in turning my thoughts to the upcoming syrup season. Mid February does that to me regardless of temperature typically. I begin to consider those activities of winter that must be experienced before syrup season begins or they will need to wait till next winter. That’s a fact of time.There’s a certain energy in the sunshine now that can’t be denied or ignored. Dripping icicles and tiny rivulets of runoff that begin to flow bring a certain expectation to lovers of producing maple syrup. It’s almost that time of year again! I wrote several posts last year about sugaring if you haven’t read them. I will no doubt take a path of redundancy again this spring writing about sugaring. I suppose that I am trying to set a stage of sorts. One where the actors perform a yearly tradition. If asked what my message might be I would have to say that it’s one of the magic of seasonal transition and the power it brings to my now. Something that I have written about many times. Something real that can’t be bottled or sold. Something elemental in its simplicity and interconnected with nature as only certain experiences can be. If this seems like my same old story it’s because it is! There is a solid positive energy in traditional hobby and task. In a world of ever changing circumstances there is comfort in the approach of sugaring. Predictable to a degree yet still very variable. As I enter the forest as part of a daily routine I will find peace there despite the physical challenges the weather may bring. Or the challenges of life itself. I learned this fact of time most painfully once. The year 2007 was to be the final syrup season that I would share with my father although I didn’t know it at the start. I was busy with balancing the realities of time. A household, a young son, and my barn wood salvage business. Being able to help my father with the annual syrup season was a big part of why I wanted to be self employed in the first place. It was a time thing make no mistake of it. I temporarily left construction suddenly in March of 2006 after becoming ill with a double lung infection from breathing fire proofing all winter on an inside project. The year from March 2006 to March 2007 was a year that I will never forget! Freedom and a new lifestyle where I chased a dream of controlling time. I had done it! Taken control of time! But life is never that simple it seems. That year changed me though. So many great memories and then those I would like to forget. My father began to have some changes in health in the winter of 2007. It started with some strange accidents and memory quirks at times. But things were pretty normal for the most part. We tapped trees in mid March as was our custom but my father was not feeling all that great and went to his doctor. He underwent some tests soon after.He was fearful of dementia he told me one day while we were working together. His sudden changes in mental state were a concern. And then the fateful day. I was boiling sap in the evaporator and could see him walking towards the sugar house. He seemed bent over and I knew something wasn’t quite right. He stepped into the sugar house and we exchanged some simple banter about the quality of the syrup or subjects of that nature. He surprised me suddenly with an sudden outburst. “ I have good news! I don’t have Alzheimer’s! But I do have brain tumors. Two of them on one side of my head.They don’t know much more than that right now.” To this day I can’t remember what I said to him then. But I will never forget my sudden thoughts. I knew at that moment that we would be losing our father. Me a trusted friend. My son his grandfather. I know it sounds very negative but I was being painfully honest with myself. There were times in the coming weeks when I would be hopeful and positive. The doctors would operate and cure him we prayed. But lose him we did by the middle of June. To honor him I wrote my first ever rhyming story “For Pop”-A son’s story of life. And just like that, the aspiring writer in me began to evolve. Why do I share such a sad personal story? Because of time. It is not certain and not without circumstances. It is not guaranteed. I am forever thankful for whatever force told me to become self employed in 2006. The time that I shared with my father that year and into 2007 cannot be altered by any circumstances.It was carved out with deed not words of wishful thinking. I ultimately returned to construction for another 10 years but never again questioned my drive to manipulate time itself. As for what followed in 2009 when cancer was found in my body?Life would take on new meaning and purpose. Time would be on my side throughout that fateful journey. As in “they found my cancer in time to rid my body of it”. And in these moments of my present now I know of several who wrestle greatly with time and much more.Just how much remains for them? A stark reality for all who love them.All this may seem dark and cloudy in the face of a large storm. I apologize. It is not dark to me. It is just very real that’s all. Immortality is not a gift of natural world nor should it be considered.Acknowledging our own mortality need not be dark or foreboding . It’s rather the opposite really. It’s that chance for us to truly reflect on our choices for today and for tomorrow. How best to spend our time and are we happy with our choices. It’s about saying why not do that? Why wait? Why not take that vacation or visit that person? There’s not always a clear path in front of us. It’s not always easy to make the best choices or recognize them as the best ones. For me the answers may be found staying in motion I have decided. Chasing the seasons of nature and finding the magic hidden in each one of them. For time and love are greatly connected I feel. That’s a tough one to explain. If you took the time to read this far thank you! After all I took the time to write it for you! I promise a fun story soon! I simply ask you to reflect on time today and find the small blessings that surround you. ✍️

Tales Of An Ice Walker: The Origins

Posted on February 3, 2022February 3, 2022 by Greg Washburn

Yesterday we were rewarded with our warmest day in recent weeks. It’s been a cold winter overall with a respectable amount of snowfall. We haven’t had the up and down weather patterns of the past few years either. The strange thaws that bring rain and high winds to diminish our snow accumulations. It was late freezing up last December in 2021 but eventually it happened. January was more traditional with subzero temperatures and savage wind chills. So when the forecast yesterday called for temperatures in the high thirties with sunshine I decided to postpone everything and go snowshoeing with the dogs. My destination was easily decided without a moment’s hesitation. Beaver Creek. It’s my ground zero I suppose. That place where the Great Wander began decades ago. A place of countless stories and adventures that span over 50 years now. It begs an introduction. Then I will introduce you to the Icewalker.A me that you probably don’t know yet. Just what encompasses Beaver Creek? It’s the large gorge and wetland system that passes through an outer portion of our farm property. Rugged and tough to access with steep ridges on both sides for much of its distance. We own about 20 acres of it near the road but it’s difficult to travel until the winter ice forms. It can be paddled in sections but it’s impossible to remain in the canoe for long. Fallen trees and beaver dams choke it’s winding channel along its entirety. Once the winter ice has formed it becomes more hospitable for traveling. Snowshoes or cross country skis work well most of the time but there’s never a broken trail. Almost one one ever goes there. Sometimes I hike on fresh ice before it gets snow covered or immediately after a thaw/refreeze event. Ice creepers or crampons become necessary for comfortable walking. This vast wetland system covers some 10 miles beyond our property before another road crosses it. It then continues several more miles where it empties into the Oswegatchie River near Heuvelton, New York. Numerous small creeks add to its flow along its course adding to its size as it nears the river. It takes an east to west path basically. About a mile west of our property the gorge flattens somewhat into large hills and continues but Beaver Creek enters it from a different direction and joins a small runoff creek. There’s a lovely waterfall there on private property. If I was to describe the gorge itself I would say it’s close to an eighth of a mile wide with large wooded ridges on both sides. There are steep rocky ledges along many sections of it that are difficult to climb. There is almost no shoreline that allows for easy walking as you travel west along it.The steep ridges come right down into the edge of the swamp for miles. Large rock piles enter the swamp in a few spots. A geologist told me years ago that the gorge was created by a “shearing” event not from a glacial event. Time has eroded the vertical sides mostly but some remain. As for the wetland itself, there’s deep mud and grassy bogs beside a meandering channel of various depths. Beaver dams cross it entirely in certain spots in various stages of repair. The presence of beaver has altered the swamp dramatically since they were reintroduced to upstate New York sometime in the 1950s. Their dams flooded the stands of soft maples that grew throughout much of the shallow water along the main channel. The dead trees would fall into the swamp over time choking it and making paddling almost impossible until they rot under.What followed were large open areas of grassy vegetation and swamp plants. Jagged stumps remained above the water as a reminder of the forests that once grew here. Our property once had two large stands of soft maple forest. Two huge beaver dams that spanned the gorge would eventually kill them. Their bark free trunks and tops stood for years before we had the perfect winter conditions to salvage some for firewood. We clear cut about 40 cord one winter with horses and a sleigh. I harvested another 30 cord a few years later with a snowmobile then a four wheeler. Another winter we were able to use tractors to harvest. Needless to say the wetlands are constantly changing. Tag alders cover sections still as they seem rather resistant to the changes in the water depths. Just below our property a stand of soft maples has survived despite the beaver activity. The swamp is shallower here and the channel necks down into a choke point. In a canoe it is a wet portage point. A wade and push location where you need hip boots. Further down the channel widens and the wetland is open with few trees. It once was a soft maple forest but that was long before I first began exploring there. Now the gray, bark free stubs I remember as a boy have fallen and are no more. I have a stark memory of my first seeing them but it’s brief.To describe the creek and wetlands is to describe the scene of a constantly changing habitat. The invasive weed purple loosestrife started growing here sometime in the 1970s along the road on our property. We didn’t know what it was then or that we should have destroyed it. It spread quickly and its floating seeds have allowed it alter the wetland forever it seems. The grassy sections that were home to hundreds of muskrats each winter now lay covered with loosestrife bogs. Unfortunate and disturbing to me. So this was the playground of my youth. A place I spent my winters whenever conditions allowed. The early ice of December was perfect for exploration when I was a boy on foot. I didn’t venture very far though at age 9. That would come later. The deep snows would come and the creek would become the haunt of snowmobilers. The late 1960s and 1970s brought a snowmobile craze to our area. Beaver Creek became a popular trail system and saw a lot of traffic. We had a snowmobile by 1975 and I would follow the packed trails myself sometimes. We also would accompany others on occasion and travel larger distances. It was then that I got to witness the full magic of the gorge and it’s natural wonders. Ice falls with huge hanging icicles and giant cliffs that hovered over the wetlands. Trips to Huckleberry Mountain sometimes miles from our property. The snowmobilers have left the creek these days mostly. It remains wild and untraveled. It was on foot that I explored most of the territory near our farm. I became a fur trapper at a young age. 10 if I remember correctly. The Beaver Creek gorge was a trapper’s paradise! Muskrats everywhere! I later learned how to trap beaver. But that is another story in itself. Being a former trapper doesn’t always make a person popular these days. But it’s a proud part of my upbringing and rural heritage. Something I was taught that shaped my youth and taught me to appreciate the natural world in a manner some can never understand. Trapping would turn me into a great wanderer. It conditioned me to endure all sorts of weather and challenges. It fueled my imagination through history and the stories of the American west. I no longer trap but the love of wandering remains. I read the swamp like a book. Tracks and signs of wildlife activity like the words on a page. These days I wander the swamps to read the signs and reminisce about my youthful pursuits. I suppose you could say that the ice became my highway to discovery. It was the perfect flat road to travel. It could be covered quickly and great distances could be traveled in a day.Imagine that you are high above our farm property and could look down upon my adventures of wandering as I matured. It would resemble an epicenter of sorts. An ever growing circle that extended from the home base of the farm house. Each year to venture further and further away. My father worried constantly when I would disappear for hours. Especially when he knew that I was out on the ice. I eventually named myself the “ Icewalker” and coined the Icewalker’s motto. “The distance in must be traveled out”. Good advice that I learned by making countless mistakes. Potable water was never a problem years ago even in winter.There was snow to eat when necessary.I knew of numerous water sources that were safe for drinking. Springs we call them. Eventually however they became unsafe ( the snow as well!)and woe to me finding out the hard way! A sudden hot flash and the rumbling in the stomach a few times would end that habit. I rarely carried much food. A couple hard maple sugar cakes in a plastic bag would fuel me through many of my trips. My grandmother made them for me and they were a lifesaver when hunger set in. My garments were simple and effective. Rubber boots with thick wool socks. Wool pants and chopper’s mittens. A Carhartt style jacket with a vest underneath. A wool toque to cover my head and ears. I rarely used a set of snowshoes in those days. I would wait for perfect conditions to wander. The thick crusts that followed the annual January thaw were a signal to wander. Sometimes the snow would get so heavy on the ice of the creek that it would flood and refreeze on the channel. The ultimate highway for safe passage! I also learned to carry a walking stick or two for probing the routes ahead. It saved me from falling through many times! As did my ears! Ice “talks”. Especially thin shell ice. The kind you find around bogs and beaver dams. Ice walking hones the senses of eyesight and hearing. Did I always arrive home dry and warm? Hardly! It was inevitable that I would break through and quite often. Ironically the deeper sections of the creek are the safest to travel. Most of the time falling through meant a wet leg and boot full of icy water. Lessons learned through discomfort mainly. Never life threatening at any rate. I learned to react quickly when the ice broke underfoot. I would throw myself forward and usually escape mostly dry. Looking back I must seem a bit reckless and lacking common sense. Perhaps. But I learned to read the ice itself. Black ice was the early ice. Clear and predictable if not covered with snow. It’s depth obvious. Thin is strong when dealing with quality black ice. Then there’s snow ice. Also early.Gray and unreadable until you test it by probing or gently stepping out onto it. It’s the ice of caution. Best kept off of most times. Snow ice often forms later on top of black ice that becomes flooded. That’s usually ok. Your footsteps will tell you of the thickness. The trickiest of ice is the late season “honeycomb” ice. It will lay silent like a trap and offer no warning. You will be walking on some solid late season ice when suddenly there will be the sound of air and water rushing to the surface. Too late! By the time you hear that you are usually on your way down! That’s when the walking sticks become so important. The two stick walk where you are constantly probing ahead. Not fool proof regardless. You may be asking why are you even out there to begin with fool? For the adventure! To cover the distances that only ice walking provides. Snowshoes and cross country skis are great for weight distribution and you are less likely to break through but if you do? Not good! If I wear snowshoes or cross country skis I take extra precautions! So here ends the introduction of my story. Yesterday was everything I hoped for and more! A tough workout on a beautiful day that filled me with awe. The creek never disappoints and I managed to stay dry throughout the trek. This is the first of the Icewalker series that I hope to share! I’ll take a crack at telling the stories in time and try to stay off the thin ice of redundancy. There’s a deeper side of my time spent on the ice that I hope to capture sometime. A place of greater connections to nature. That place of peaceful presence mixed with excitement that only the ice can bring to life. ✍️

Winter Whims

Posted on February 2, 2022February 2, 2022 by Greg Washburn

A big part of writing is research I find. Reading and gathering facts is important to truth and accuracy especially with historical subjects. I take great liberties with word usage most of the time when engaging in my writing projects. I apologize for improper sentence structure and blatant mistakes with pronunciation. “Mega-editing” has never been my goal here on the blog site.Telling stories in a “real-time” manner is however. I tell a story as if you were standing next to me. In my own words and in the emotion of the moment. What some refer to as “living in the now. It’s that rawness I often mention. There’s a connection to rawness in words and rawness in nature that surrounds my thought process I suppose. That place of truth and simple facts which brings me to today’s subject. Whims. Defined as a sudden idea or turn of the mind. Or even as a sudden desire that is unexplained. Anyone who has ever spent any time around me will attest to the word whim as being a description of my mindset at times. I enjoy playing with words and even creating some. MOONTABS was a creation of mine in 2018. By now you must surely understand my fascination with my own word. I tend to think of it as a word where everyone can find a piece of themselves. As for whims it means more than its definition. It’s also an abbreviation for “Winter Has Its Moments”. Those things and thoughts that only the season can deliver in this four season region of the world. I often associate it with fun recreational pursuits and hobbies. Cross country skiing,snowboarding, snowshoeing, and ice fishing. As for current WHIMs, we recently returned from volunteering on the Saranac Lake Winter Carnival Ice Palace project where we assisted in harvesting the ice blocks for the walls and sculptures. It’s hard work and rewarding at the same time. Zane and I also snowshoed our final two peaks of the Lake Placid 9 hiking challenge. The challenges of winter trekking make it a thrill of a different sort. Heavier layers of clothing and extra safety gear to carry than we would require in other seasons. The knowledge that staying out all night would only happen in an extreme emergency. Far different than a summer hike! There’s a certain “buzz” to be found on a winter trek though. One we chase at times. Staying inside on cold,stormy days can be relaxing and rejuvenating most certainly but only in small doses. So we choose to engage in a variety of winter activities to balance our lifestyle. There is a less glamorous aspect to winter however. Those WHIMs of challenge attached to the rural heritage of the farm property. In the interest of positivity I simply mention them as obstacles. Those things which slow a winter farm workday. In this direction of thought there are profound observations of my dependency on modern technology. Consider the following: upstate New York winter. Cold and snow are the normal here. As a result gaining access to the farm property becomes difficult as more snow continues to accumulate. I typically plow out the driveway and trail to the warehouse about once a week. This involves getting a cold diesel tractor started. Jumper cables, starting fluid, and plugging in an engine block heater often occupy the first couple hours of the workday. A fire is usually kindled in the farm cabin (or “warming shack” as Jennifer calls it!) for lunch break. Once the tractor is started there is hay to feed to the two horses after the trails are plowed. If we have decided to cut and split wood them we also need to break a trail to the wood landing. All this is pretty typical on any given farm outing during the winter. As we approach March we will need to break in the maple sugaring sap hauling roads depending on the snow depth. This can be very difficult at times especially when we get larger accumulations of snowfall. The bottom line is the amount of time needed to accomplish some simple tasks. There’s nothing negative in any of this really. It’s just that every task takes extra effort! Frozen locks and barn doors to shovel out. Slow hydraulics on tractors and wood splitters. Getting the picture? It is in these moments that I realize our dependence on modern machinery. At this point my reflections swing years into the past. Our ancestors who called this winter landscape home certainly faced many challenges. They lacked electricity and modern medicine. They had no gas vehicles with heaters. Traveling was cold and preparedness was key to survival. Heat came from burning wood not from fuel oil, natural gas, or propane. All that being said I like to think that they adapted more to winter than we as a modern society have chosen to do. In nature winter is a time of things becoming more dormant. Trees without leaves but with tiny buds slowly developing. Some animals hibernating while others slow their activities. For some it is the hungry time and they must expend energy hunting to survive. The beavers feed on brush sunk below the ice until spring. Talk about preparing! The pulse of life continues but seems to slow somewhat overall. Our ancestors adapted well to winter living. They broke out their horse drawn sleighs and cutters. Fed hay they had stored away for their livestock. They butchered their meat and used the winter temperatures to freeze it outside. They ventured into frozen swamps and over streams to harvest firewood that was usually off limits. These things I learned talking to my father and grandparents. For my family those things were commonplace and they spoke of them with a certain reverence. Rural people enjoyed certain comforts that we do not. They didn’t worry about airline cancellations or impassable roads. Delayed school buses and power outages. I won’t romanticize their lives as easy or perfect. Just very different that’s all. In comparing their lives to mine I find myself wondering about what may have been lost in all that was gained. And then the inevitable question: without our modern conveniences would we survive the upstate winter? And so begins the questioning of my preparedness or lack there of. All this as I sit in a warm house fueled by natural gas. Electricity and hot, running water. Tv, internet, and the technology to launch this post into cyberspace. Have I become soft and too modern? Is there a better balance to be struck? Should we follow the migratory birds south each fall? Perhaps it is our stubborn love of the four seasons that keeps us here. All these questions and more. Does winter have its moments? Absolutely. The sun is out and it’s warming up some today after our recent cold snap. I have a sudden whim! Travel to Macomb today with the dogs and snowshoe down the Beaver Creek gorge to the ice falls. Embrace this February day and connect to nature as the winter season advances forward. A story waits for me in frozen wetlands. Today is meant for simple pursuits in search of something more simple in its truth. The now is here and the past can be researched tomorrow. The future will show itself. Today is waiting with the thrills of adventure. The recharging of my spirit energy. Whims are good! ✍️

The Run Of The Mill

Posted on January 20, 2022January 30, 2022 by Greg Washburn

I recently Goggled the term “rural heritage” to learn exactly what it means in terms of its usage today. It’s often used to describe buildings of historical nature. My usage differs as I use it to describe those things learned from living in close proximity to the soil. Not necessarily farming either. Rural heritage can span any number of subjects in the context that I freely employ. For me it’s a story of learning. One of family history and that of my own. It is a connecting piece of my story that has profoundly shaped my life in more ways than I sometimes even recognize.It’s easy to take for granted those things we associate with normal in our locales. Those things that we are accustomed to may not give us any pause for reflection. But when we engage in a conversation with someone who has lived in another part of the country or perhaps in a more urban setting we can suddenly realize our differences. Our normal may be very foreign to them. Our daily routines as we live out our existence in the places we call home could be considered “run of the mill” in terms of weather conditions and seasons. There’s a larger observation that deviates from my intended story. When I hear the term “run of the mill” something far different enters my mind. I think of a series of events that spans decades. The “run of the mill” in my life is a story uniquely my own. One with many gaps and unanswered questions. In my story are many small stories. I suppose they could be considered branch stories. True to the nature of my written work I leave clues buried in my stories for those who wish to dig deeper and search for larger meanings. In deeper reflection there can be a greater destination where a reader can arrive with a better understanding of themselves. I charge you the reader to remember your personal journey and your memories from that journey. As for this story? I hope to take you to a place of my youth where I can almost smell a certain memory! A story that revolves around a much younger me in the beginning. My memories are often gray in the misty years of time passage. It concerns me at times honestly. But that is another story. This I do remember and commit it to cyberspace.As a young boy we lived in a renovated farm house on the site of the original Washburn homestead in the Township of Macomb,New York. It’s the first place I ever lived and the source of my earliest memories.The house was set back from the road a short distance and had a huge lawn that was dominated by giant elm trees. Their sprawling branches nearly touched the ground in spots. They were a favorite nesting tree for families of colorful Baltimore Orioles each spring. The woven nests always amazed me as they swayed in the summer breezes. Our property also contained a small horse barn and two garages. Further back was a hay barn that was part of my grand parents dairy farm. We had a large garden area as well behind the house. I suppose I could write an entire post about my boyhood home at some point! My earliest and fondness memories are being outdoors playing in that large area. Some distance off was my grand parents large dairy barn. Beyond that their house and out buildings. A fence that surrounded our property was a boundary not to be crossed although as my parents would learn that my curiosity and desire to wander would challenge that boundary often. Living close to an operating farm was a source of ever changing sounds. Machinery and mooing cows. The milk truck with its throaty diesel as it slowly entered their bumpy farm driveway. But one noise stood out with a clarity all its own!The loud noise of the sawmill operated by my grandfather. I was taught to avoid the sawmill and the huge piles of logs in the stockpiles when visiting at my grandparents house. (I was there quite often as both my parents worked). My father would take me up to the sawmill sometimes and I was fearful of the large circular blade mill with its many moving parts. But the scents were the draw. Fresh pine sawdust from recently milled lumber in a huge stack where a drag chain piled it. Racks of milled lumber covering the ground in dimensional piles of certain lengths. And the logs. Everywhere.Always a big pile lined up on the landing where they were rolled onto the sawmill. My grandfather had built a large building that covered the entire operation. At the back there was a truck landing where slab wood and finished lumber could be loaded. It was large and intimidating to me in its layout. The building still exists to this day on my Uncle’s property but it’s only used for storage now. I have a faint memory of my father talking to my Grandfather about something while I stood safely beside him as my Grandfather throttled the engine down and the huge blade stopped spinning. Other than that I remember very little actually. But some memories still possess the ability to transport me. Those of playing in our lawn on crisp autumn days while searching the sky for migrating geese. I always hated going in at night! Winter memories also have retained their clarity. Cold and snow. Sleds and toboggans to slide down the steep hills in the pastures. One winter the snow became so crusted that we could walk on top and explore beyond the lawn. Far over back the pasture was covered in thick layers of slab wood where it was dumped each time the truck was full. I never got to really know my Grandfather all that well. He passed away when I was still quite young and the sawmill was no more. My two Uncles were too busy running the dairy farm to continue operating it. My parents moved us to our farm property about 1 mile away around 1970 and I lived there throughout high school. Sometime in the early to mid 1970s the elm on the farm began to die from Dutch elm disease. Everywhere elms of every size were dying in large numbers. My father decided to begin burning wood again in the farmhouse to use up the over abundance of dead wood. Some was used in the sugar house as well. It was during the fall and winter months of the 1970s that my training to become a woodman began in earnest. Most winter Saturdays were spent in the forests around the farm using a team of horses and a set of sleighs to draw loads of firewood. We also saved saw logs from some of the larger trees. One spring across the meadow from the farmhouse my father cleared out a huge section of large dead elms for logs. They were trucked to an Amish sawmill about 5 miles away on a wagon. The Amish had moved into our area and set up sawmills where they would do custom sawing if you delivered the logs. Elm is a heavy and difficult lumber to build with but very strong. It doesn’t hold up well to moisture though so must be used for interior construction. I spent a lot of time loading and unloading lumber from all those logs. Red elm was a prized saw log on the farm. They grew to large proportions and made wiry but strong lumber. One log in particular stands out in my memory. We labored long and hard to get it skidded out and loaded. That one log made an entire load for the mill. It sawed out nearly 1000 board feet of lumber! I learned a lot about hitching chains and skidding logs. The dangers of felling trees and chainsaw safety. I learned a variety of tricks for loading logs and safely binding them down for transport. My fear of sawmills hadn’t subsided entirely either.When we would deliver a load of logs to the Amish sawmill I would stand back and watched as the large circular blade ripped through logs at what seemed an unreasonable speed. The sawyer was an Amish named Ben Shetler. A friendly man who became good friends with my father. Ben’s manner of sawing was not my idea of fun I decided. Fast and furious! Regardless I learned to handle plenty of lumber at a safe distance from the blade. Eventually my father trusted me to draw loads of logs with the tractor to the sawmill. I learned how to unload them after marking them with our name and the “cut specs”. We used a simple lumber crayon to accomplish this necessary task. After unloading some logs I would need to load up any lumber that was ours and draw it home. I spent hours on a tractor in those days and wish I could remember more but much of that time escapes me. I just remember working very hard and how much I enjoyed working at the logging. Eventually the elms were mostly gone but occasionally we would find a dead one to salvage around the farm. My Dad used that tough elm lumber for everything around the farm. Once nailed in place it was almost impossible to break! Another memorable logging event occurred in my Uncle’s woodlot near Heuvelton, New York. My uncles hired my father to fell and skid out a large bunch of white pine logs. I loved the woodlot property! Sandy soil and low swampy sections full of blueberry bushes. Huge stands of white pine growths and stands of white birch and soft maple. Very different than the rocky ridges of our farm property. My father brought a single draft horse to skid the logs. A black Clydesdale/Percheron horse named Don. He was a true gentle giant! I was given the job of leading him to the log landing with single log hitches where the logs were loaded onto a truck owned by a bachelor named Claude Rayburn. I will write about him sometime! Don was such a good horse that he would actually pull a log to the landing without leading him! I don’t remember much more than that really. All I know is I found the logging venture fun and exciting! Beyond that the years on the farm continued with a “run of the mill” change of season and task. Each season with its own challenges and menial jobs to be performed. But the responsibilities I was given were to shape the form of the future me. I became more of a woodman. A farmer as well. I learned to care for cattle and horses. I became a lover of horses and riding. A great wanderer of all the surrounding land in an ever larger circle of travel. I hunted and trapped for fur. I was a wannabe mountain man I suppose. But my roots were grounded in nature and the many changes that awaited me would not tear those roots free. Yes I lived a run of the mill existence. One I treasure as a gift in my older years. The farm property is sacred ground to me. A place where I can go to escape in mundane task even now. There is a larger story that I will tell of logging and sawmills. But not today. It must be told with many words and great detail. For it is the second chapter of myself in a different time. A story of gains and losses. I must assemble the words with loving reverence.✍️