Tag Archives: Farm

The Special Day

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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 Too bad I thought because my creative hangover had been replaced by a familiar feeling.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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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. ✍️

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Winter Whims

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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

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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.✍️

November Speaks (Where October Left Off)

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Time has flown and my writing has taken the backseat recently. Actually it’s totally missed the car ride. Life hasn’t stopped most certainly even if my creativity sometimes remains furtive. I have managed a small amount of sharing on my Facebook groups even if I don’t find my way here. It’s not that my days have lacked adventure or travel. The Adirondacks have been like home to me these past few months as my 14 week work tour continued last week. We spent some quality time camping prior to my work assignment. Gone are the weeks of camping out of the Airstream that I enjoyed until almost the end of October. My last week of boondock camping at Fish Creek State Campground just before they closed proved to be quite the adventure! No hookups there.Rainy weather and cool nights would tax my batteries despite the addition of a portable Zamp solar charger system. I ran the furnace after returning from work while the generator was running before crawling under my thick stack of blankets each evening. The campground had made the decision to close the shower house early this season. No problem I decided. I had my fresh water tank full, a propane water heater, and a nice shower of my own in the Airstreams! Perfect right? Yes at first! Then my circuit board failed on the water heater and the hot water ceased. I troubleshot it in the dark with a flashlight to no avail. Too bad they didn’t still use the old style propane hot water heaters with a basic pilot light that you could hand light easily. No board means no hot water. But being stubborn (not to mention in need of a shower ) I did what any lover of a clean body would have done. I began heating pans of hot water on my propane stove. I had plenty of propane and plenty of water. I had considered for a nanosecond bathing in the lake itself! But after a day spent working outdoors in the cold rain that was not really a pleasant option.The next trick would involve bringing a dishpan into the shower itself. I filled it with a mix of hot and cold water to begin the shower experience. I won’t go into great detail of the entire process but let’s simply say it was mission accomplished if not mission supreme! I followed this procedure for a couple days then bide the camping season farewell. The Airstream has sat vacant for several weeks now at Jennifer’s.As for its departure south that is a rather obscure subject for the moment. Some plans had to altered while others were still being developed. Things can be quickly set in motion when your home is on wheels. It’s winterized at the moment. The nighttime temperatures continue to plummet and we decided it the safest course of action. The past few weeks have found me living in rentals in Saranac Lake. One has become my favorite after I discovered it last October. The owners have taken the time to make the space a cozy, warm retreat. They are friendly and welcoming as hosts! I consider myself fortunate to have found them. The Olympic Center Revitalization Project inches forward with substantial progress having been made since August. My time working there almost finished as the critical manpower shortage winds down into its final days. It’s been a blur of work, travel to the valley for weekends, and back up for the next week. I have watched the transition of autumn from the moment it began in the Adirondacks. The St. Lawrence valley autumn has lagged slightly behind and it’s been fun observing the differences. I had one memorable hike about mid -October when I decided to take on Cascade Mountain after work one evening. I hit the trailhead at 6:16 pm chasing the sunset after a beautiful warm day on the project. Darkness would overtake me before I could summit however. The views were still remarkable and I stood there gazing off to the horizons of flickering lights in the distance. It took me much longer to descend the mountain than I intended. Lucky for me Jennifer called and chatted me down! I reached the car close to 8:45 pm. What a hike! Hiking adventures have been replaced by farm tasks recently. A wood order that needs to be filled. Hay to store away for our two remaining horses. Many different tasks present themselves as winter approaches. It’s best not to get caught short I have learned even if I struggle to get it together! We cruise the farm woods searching for firewood and sugar wood trees sometimes. There is still an over abundance of dead maple to be found although some of it has begun to move past its prime. Time is bringing change to our devastated forest as the upper canopies continue to fall. We have made some inroads of harvest into some sections while others remain untouched. It’s been a rather disturbing cycle to witness since 2017. The dual deadly tap of tent caterpillars and drought of 2016. The subsequent die off has been far reaching across the high ridges of the farm. We hope to begin some forest cleanup attempts in the time before us. Time flies and progress comes slowly at times but nature throws us some pretty stiff challenges from time to time. Ice storms.Insects. Invasive species. The future of the farm landscape remains unclear and hazy. We have a basic plan and hope to further our stewardship efforts moving forward. So that’s about it really. Work and commutes. Packing bags and moving around each week. Travel back and forth. Balancing time with Zane and Jennifer on the weekends when home. The shortening daylight throws a twist into everything. As much a part of autumn as the falling leaves themselves. All this I chose I must admit when I question my trajectory some days. This is a temporary path I hike. The objectives begin to be completed. Time can’t run backwards nor can the courses of action that decisions created. It’s strange the energy that drives those decisions. And the energy that steers the feet back to the farm property in the valley. For some tasks can’t be postponed indefinitely. Winter changes everything. A sugar season must be prepared for with no further delay.New goals take the stage and there’s still time to fulfill them. That becomes the new focus. November speaks and I listen closely. It’s a familiar song. The northern breeze in the trees of the farm property. A time to enjoy a simple lunch next to the farm cabin wood stove. A time to enjoy a few minutes of silence. A time to reflect and a time to reconnect. There is a calming peace in the simple accomplishments of farm tasks preparing for winter. It’s an adventure of a different sort. A destination where you travel back to simple roots. A familiar feeling in an old place. It’s a new autumn in a year well underway now. Many things have changed and many things have not. It’s a powerful place to stand and count small blessings. Spirit energy is ever present on the rocky turf of these Macomb hills.

Bugs,Brush,and Brown Gold

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It starts with that first find of the season and grows into a weekly obsession as the warm days of spring bring that most special of treasures into our home. What is this special treasure and why does it deserve a blog post? The morel mushroom! It’s reputation is world renowned and for good reason. It’s earthy,almost nutty flavor and exotic shape make it prized as an addition to fine cuisine around the globe. Know for it’s good taste and rareness it’s a valuable commodity that drives morel hunters into the forest in search of it. For a boy growing up in the hills of Macomb,N.Y. it was nothing more than another excuse to run wild across the pastures and through the forests. I spent hours hunting morels as a boy. A brown paper A+P grocery bag would carry my finds back to the farmhouse where a visiting aunt would pay me a dollar if I had a good quantity to deliver. Like a good many other country pursuits of mine it was never really about the money anyway. Today finds that mindset well ingrained and well grounded. I never really knew all that much about morels until recently. My father had taught me what they were and the basics of locating them but little more. Little more was needed anyway. But I have read more about them recently and even joined a couple social media groups dedicated to the morel mushroom hunters of the world. It seems that I am part of a special clique as a morel hunter! Not everyone is so fortunate I’ve read. The morel is the star of the mushroom world!For many will search and not all will find them. Those skills and good fortunes that we often take for granted truly do represent a status symbol to certain groups of people. As I get older I realize that the rural heritage that I enjoy without really thinking about it is something that can’t be purchased easily. It doesn’t give me an ego trip or anything like that. It’s more of a reminder of the blessings my country upbringing bestowed upon me as a way of life was lived. Being a forager was a part of that upbringing. As was being a hunter and trapper. Fisherman to a certain degree as well.The different seasons of northern New York offered a variety of foraging opportunities for a boy of Macomb. The first forage crop of a north country spring is the leek. Some call them ramps or wild onions. They emerge from the layers of autumn leaves as the sun warms the ridges and valleys. They make excellent flavoring for spaghetti sauce, burgers, or as pickles. We’d also forage a green called cow slips. They resemble spinach when cooked down. We’d gather in low wet locations typically next to runoffs and small streams. The month of May belonged to the morels though. Also to the swarms of biting black flies that plagued our time outside for a few weeks each spring. Ticks are a problem now that we didn’t have years ago. We spray our clothing for them but they are a constant and potentially dangerous threat to our health. Post gather tick checks now as part of a normal outing. The 1970s were a morel hunters dream in upstate New York but not for a good reason. Dutch elm disease was killing our elms in sickening numbers. The morel mushroom enjoys a symbiotic relationship with trees but on our farm they grow without question next to dead elms most of the time. It is the red elm that they truly favor for some unknown chemical balance that they seem to derive from them. Find dead red elms in May and you will find morels at some point most springs. The wide open cow pastures and ridges were blanketed with dead elms when I was a boy of 12. We harvested them for firewood and some farm grade lumber. Morels came easy and I never needed to search too hard. I didn’t eat them however. I didn’t care for them! Boy did that change! I didn’t hunt them much for quite a few years but would notice them from time to time around the farm doing spring fence repairs. Fast forward to more recent times.2019.. We still own the farm property of my youth. A 14 year old Zane has developed a love of foraging. Leeks mostly. But a friend asked us about getting a few morels after a turkey hunter mentioned he saw some on our farm. So Jennifer and I headed out to the farm to search for some. We harvested a nice gather next to a red elm stump where we had cut the large tree the fall before. Our friend cooked them up and we were hooked! It turns out my adult palate found them delicious! So the love of the hunt returned after many years of hiatus. Zane was totally into the hunt and enjoyed eating them as well. We enjoyed a late but productive season and vowed to try harder in 2020. The spring of 2020 was very dry and morels were difficult to locate. We covered a lot of the farm finding almost nothing. Around May 19th we located a few but were terribly short of enough for a decent meal. Our hot spots of 2019 were dry and barren except for a few small ones. We continued to search and were about to call off the effort for good that afternoon. There was a clump of vine covered dead red elms on a rocky outcropping beside a small meadow of ours. Surrounded by thick thorny brush we call prickly ash. I suggested that Zane should do a quick scout since it’s difficult terrain had kept us out as we searched easier spots. As had become his fashion he dropped to all fours and scurried under the old rusty barbed wire fence. He crawled through the impenetrable brush like some type of predator in search of prey. He disappeared from sight eventually as I waited in the scratch free,safety of the meadow pondering our meager harvest. Zane’s excited voice carried down to me from his invisible perch above me. “Dude you’ve got to get up here! This place is loaded! I smelled them before I saw them!”. (Calling each other Dude is an excepted manner of addressing each other). I found a less brushy route and made my way closer to Zane. Sure enough there were morels all over! The thick brush forced me to my knees as well as I began to harvest a variety of different sized morels. Zane and I continued our search in a epicenter type circle around the original finds. Satisfied that we had plenty we returned to the side by side to count them up. We had collected 70! Not bad! They made a superb addition to a dinner with our friend once again.We once again vowed to make the next season even better.Spring 2021 would find us searching earlier than normal in hopes of finding a few morels but the weather remained a little rainy and unseasonably cold. Despite that I continued to check our previous hot spots but it wasn’t until May 4th that I finally had any success. At Zane’s hot spot location of 2020 I found a few small ones poking out. I decided to leave them until he could join me on the hunt that Saturday. I searched other prior spots but found nothing. I thought about a location where I had spotted dead red elms while collecting sap in March and April. When I arrived there I was rewarded soon after with a nice morel. More would follow as I broadened my search pattern. I find Zane’s drop to the knees method highly effective and use it all the time now. My count ended at 69. A couple quick messages and a dinner was planned on short notice with morels as the featured appetizer. We enjoyed our first taste of the season immensely! Dip fried breaded morels with hand crafted dipping sauce. We’ve returned to the woods in the weeks that have followed gathering as many as we can find. Our harvests have met our needs and we’ve enjoyed the morels prepared a couple different ways now. So if you desire to hunt these members of the Morchella genus welcome to the club! They’ll be found sometimes where you least expect! Post forest fire locations in the western states and Canada. In groves of pines or Iowa river bottoms. These highly sought gifts of the forest truly are brown gold. For me the thrill resides in the time spent hunting them with Zane and Jennifer. Eating them is the tasty bonus that foragers of the wild embrace in our ongoing connection to nature. We seek the symbiotic relationship of spirit and earth. Under large and open skies on property that we are blessed to own. Quiet and comforting in the passage of time and season. The echoes of our happy yells as we make that bountiful find of a new morel patch will last forever. They are ripples of harmony and balance. Who knew such power existed in a simple fungi of the forest? Or that we could find such peace so close to the very ground itself. The hunt for morels is more than just a hunt. It is so very much more. The secret lives in the seasons themselves within the circle. Can one enter and never leave? The question that time may answer.