frost warnings go out tonight
across the north country--
dark of the moon
covers new potatoes
with ice shadows
sky clear
with distant stars
from a planetarium of light--
not much heat gets here
lost in transition
Monday, June 7, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
wind in our sails
May 29, 2010
one hand on the tiller
another on the deck
we catch wind
winding us through the north channel
blue waters among green islands
tacking back and forth
new stories scatter in the breeze
later on at the song circle
guitar & drum
banjo & voice
lift up to a rising moon
tribal medicinal songs
one hand on the tiller
another on the deck
we catch wind
winding us through the north channel
blue waters among green islands
tacking back and forth
new stories scatter in the breeze
later on at the song circle
guitar & drum
banjo & voice
lift up to a rising moon
tribal medicinal songs
Monday, March 15, 2010
Saturday, March 28, 2009
maple syrup time!
there's a magic in the sap that's all
a syncopated mystery
boil the night and water away
maple syrup it has to be
3 score trees
and then another ten
facing south
and slightly western
its just a tap in the bucket
and then another stop
40 more times makes
a single syrup drop
the thought itself is distilled by 400
but what we're left with is more
than the steam of atmosphere
or maple streams to the reservoir
sleighs bring down the mountain
precious sugar to the shack
the patterns lay in crusted snow
lead you forth and back
the table is set
the pancakes are thin
the syrup is amber
let the pouring begin
a syncopated mystery
boil the night and water away
maple syrup it has to be
3 score trees
and then another ten
facing south
and slightly western
its just a tap in the bucket
and then another stop
40 more times makes
a single syrup drop
the thought itself is distilled by 400
but what we're left with is more
than the steam of atmosphere
or maple streams to the reservoir
sleighs bring down the mountain
precious sugar to the shack
the patterns lay in crusted snow
lead you forth and back
the table is set
the pancakes are thin
the syrup is amber
let the pouring begin
Monday, March 9, 2009
In Memoriam Alex Olar (Mar. 17, 1924-Mar. 1, 2009)
I can't pick up a squared timber, or a foundation jack, or a level, without thinking of Alex Olar.
When we bought our first homestead in the Wabos Valley back in 1983, there were several buildings that needed leveling or moving. “Go see Alec Olar” I was told. “He does that better than anyone else”. I soon became his apprentice on site, as we worked with small pieces of wood and steel, slowly coaxing buildings back onto their foundations. I was new to this and Alex was patient but persistent, reminding me of the details that could assure success or guarantee failure. He also went to great lengths to steer us away from folly, those building ideas that only looked good on paper. His methods were tried and true: keep it on the square and level from the footings to the rafters. Without the support and friendship of Alex and his wife Dorothy, Britta and I probably would not have survived here.
When it came time to construct a barn, we again listened to Alex. He brought us three straight 28 foot long black spruce from the swamp, “gun barrels”, he called them. These supported the gambrel roof of the second floor. The economic eight foot components of the roof allowed for easy lifting. When it came time to build a second barn, we followed the same techniques, although Alex was then retired from that type of work.
There was however, one last effort Alex helped us with when we bought this 80 acres back in 1999. Only one of the turn of the century buildings from Henri Salmi's homestead remained standing. The log design was typical of the early Finnish settlers; compound dove-tails, hand-hewn cedar logs and a cove and bead stacking system. It was well worthy of restoration, though it was mired in the soil, the lower logs rotted. We asked Alex if he could perform one more miracle. Fortunately for us, the word “impossible'” was not in his vocabulary.
The next three days were spent in preparation; lifting the building, removing suspect logs, laying track and steel pipe rollers towards the new foundation. The twenty foot transport was accomplished in an hour with Alex directing and coaxing. Together, we toasted the incredible success.
There was one bright May day some years back when I caught up with him in Searchmont. He reminded me that these days are best for “guys like us”. First of all, I was glad to be included in that category, but I knew what he meant: There's lots to do in those bright long sunny spring days with no black flies, yet!
My hat's off to you Alex, and I'll remember to take full advantage of those days as they come around each spring.
When we bought our first homestead in the Wabos Valley back in 1983, there were several buildings that needed leveling or moving. “Go see Alec Olar” I was told. “He does that better than anyone else”. I soon became his apprentice on site, as we worked with small pieces of wood and steel, slowly coaxing buildings back onto their foundations. I was new to this and Alex was patient but persistent, reminding me of the details that could assure success or guarantee failure. He also went to great lengths to steer us away from folly, those building ideas that only looked good on paper. His methods were tried and true: keep it on the square and level from the footings to the rafters. Without the support and friendship of Alex and his wife Dorothy, Britta and I probably would not have survived here.
When it came time to construct a barn, we again listened to Alex. He brought us three straight 28 foot long black spruce from the swamp, “gun barrels”, he called them. These supported the gambrel roof of the second floor. The economic eight foot components of the roof allowed for easy lifting. When it came time to build a second barn, we followed the same techniques, although Alex was then retired from that type of work.
There was however, one last effort Alex helped us with when we bought this 80 acres back in 1999. Only one of the turn of the century buildings from Henri Salmi's homestead remained standing. The log design was typical of the early Finnish settlers; compound dove-tails, hand-hewn cedar logs and a cove and bead stacking system. It was well worthy of restoration, though it was mired in the soil, the lower logs rotted. We asked Alex if he could perform one more miracle. Fortunately for us, the word “impossible'” was not in his vocabulary.
The next three days were spent in preparation; lifting the building, removing suspect logs, laying track and steel pipe rollers towards the new foundation. The twenty foot transport was accomplished in an hour with Alex directing and coaxing. Together, we toasted the incredible success.
There was one bright May day some years back when I caught up with him in Searchmont. He reminded me that these days are best for “guys like us”. First of all, I was glad to be included in that category, but I knew what he meant: There's lots to do in those bright long sunny spring days with no black flies, yet!
My hat's off to you Alex, and I'll remember to take full advantage of those days as they come around each spring.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
strange yet true continues
It's not so far fetching as it might seem, big blue baleen and the mighty pine.
One spouting in the brine, the other sprouting towards the sun.
Divergent species sharing a similar fate.
Leviathan. The very name itself rises from the depth of our shared language, to sample the vapors. Blue whales, the unknown “sulfur bottoms”of Melville's book, are perhaps the largest living creatures ever to travel this earth. Diving for hours, living for a century, and reaching a length improbable, a width gargantuan. From the crow's nest, Ishmael cries out “there she blows!”, betraying an awe that transcends his time and circumstance.
Strobus. A name first given to describe the unlikely bundle of five soft needles. White pine, by far the thickest and tallest vegetable in eastern North America, questing for the light. An super canopy platform, living four hundred years, gathering a height of 150 feet and a circumference of twelve. Pine captures our attention, as we look 3 times to see the top and then to a point beyond our perception. We tromp the woods on the lookout for a stick nest. “Timber!”, perfect for eagle or osprey, raven or broad wing.
The fibre and blubber was easy plucking for the plunder. It was a massacre unexamined, a genetic and geographic separation, inevitable. Masts of pine were required for the sailing ships, lights of oil for the towns. And so the shouts went out: “Lower the boats/repair the sleighs/sharpen the harpoon and the crosscut/haul on the bowline/there's daylight in the swamp”. And no one paused, or it was not recorded amidst the pining and the wailing.
Hiking among the last remaining old growth we hug and release the giant stems. We bury the treasure in our arms.
Tacking among the whales, the tourist boats tilt, our penchant for the photo trophy remains.
We need some reassurance that the ocean itself has not drowned.
Oil and greed. Stupidity and the saw. The targets shift, old attitudes remain.
Now whole systems crash.
One spouting in the brine, the other sprouting towards the sun.
Divergent species sharing a similar fate.
Leviathan. The very name itself rises from the depth of our shared language, to sample the vapors. Blue whales, the unknown “sulfur bottoms”of Melville's book, are perhaps the largest living creatures ever to travel this earth. Diving for hours, living for a century, and reaching a length improbable, a width gargantuan. From the crow's nest, Ishmael cries out “there she blows!”, betraying an awe that transcends his time and circumstance.
Strobus. A name first given to describe the unlikely bundle of five soft needles. White pine, by far the thickest and tallest vegetable in eastern North America, questing for the light. An super canopy platform, living four hundred years, gathering a height of 150 feet and a circumference of twelve. Pine captures our attention, as we look 3 times to see the top and then to a point beyond our perception. We tromp the woods on the lookout for a stick nest. “Timber!”, perfect for eagle or osprey, raven or broad wing.
The fibre and blubber was easy plucking for the plunder. It was a massacre unexamined, a genetic and geographic separation, inevitable. Masts of pine were required for the sailing ships, lights of oil for the towns. And so the shouts went out: “Lower the boats/repair the sleighs/sharpen the harpoon and the crosscut/haul on the bowline/there's daylight in the swamp”. And no one paused, or it was not recorded amidst the pining and the wailing.
Hiking among the last remaining old growth we hug and release the giant stems. We bury the treasure in our arms.
Tacking among the whales, the tourist boats tilt, our penchant for the photo trophy remains.
We need some reassurance that the ocean itself has not drowned.
Oil and greed. Stupidity and the saw. The targets shift, old attitudes remain.
Now whole systems crash.
Monday, February 16, 2009
the strange but true tale of the white pine and the blue whale
Snowshoeing again, this time into the Wabos North Wilderness area with Seamus, Ted, Josh and Jeramiah. I should the say the ages of J & J add up to about 17, whereas Ted, Seamus and I together are a hundred and something. But we are all but mere infants compared to a particular white pine we are seeking. Its rings tally over two hundred and fifty years. We are therefore searching for the shade of an elder, one whose life began long before there was a political entity known as Canada.
Alongside Station Road, we strap on the snowshoes for the steady climb to the north. Just as we begin, a lone coyote crosses our path. Everyone catches sight of it, then coyote suddenly stops to look back at us. There is a mutual recognition and it's gone. It is a reoccurring theme. A lynx or a wolf or a moose will cross your path quickly, then pause at the edge of sight for a brief moment. It may be a curiosity between species or an imperative of cross purposes. Either way, we are enriched by the encounter, as we climb to the highest lookout afforded us.
To the south, we can see the downhill runs of Searchmont where we all were yesterday. Because of this shared February holiday, the mountain is fully occupied today. Seamus' binoculars betray that the dozens of dots we see are really snowboarders and skiers, shredding the gnar.
Below us and to the east are the Sky Bear Chalets and the backdrop of Wolf Mountain. I can barely discern the snowy roadway that connects the two. I adjust my sunglasses to take in the nearby rainbow sparkles at my feet. Snow crystals dazzle the eyes in the bright sunlight.
Together, we turn away from this view to drop into a pocket paradise to our north. Seamus and I have taken to calling this place, the oasis. As the glaciers retreated, a shard of ice remained, carving out a cold acidic bog. Slowly, at glacial speed, it has filled in, first with sphagnum, followed by black spruce and now cedar. Among the cedar, there is one very tall white pine.
When I think about the plunder of the many white pine that populated the Great Lake regions a hundred or so years ago I can't help but consider the leviathan and their similar fate. Great blue and sperm whales, and the great white and red pines were each magnificent and widespread in their own realms. A 19th century way of thinking soon reduced both populations to a scattered few left to tell the tale. Call me Ishmael or call me Aldo Leopold but I cling to a scattering of what remains as the ecological ship founders. The genetic pool has been drained and the friendly giants have run aground, separated from their nearest mates by a cruel division of time and attitude.
Five pairs of snowshoes drop down into the boggy oasis of Wabos North to seek the sage advice of Pinus Strobus. A stunning greenery awaits us among the dormant hardwoods counterpointing the predominant colour of winter. Cedars of all diameters tilt and weave in the spongy moss. One cedar in particular has a daunting task, as it lends supports to the sole surviving pine. Without this extra effort, the curving lean of this sun loving giant might have long ago been its downfall. The two species are anchored here together in a curious coupling. In cameo at least, cooperation has trumped competition.
Alongside Station Road, we strap on the snowshoes for the steady climb to the north. Just as we begin, a lone coyote crosses our path. Everyone catches sight of it, then coyote suddenly stops to look back at us. There is a mutual recognition and it's gone. It is a reoccurring theme. A lynx or a wolf or a moose will cross your path quickly, then pause at the edge of sight for a brief moment. It may be a curiosity between species or an imperative of cross purposes. Either way, we are enriched by the encounter, as we climb to the highest lookout afforded us.
To the south, we can see the downhill runs of Searchmont where we all were yesterday. Because of this shared February holiday, the mountain is fully occupied today. Seamus' binoculars betray that the dozens of dots we see are really snowboarders and skiers, shredding the gnar.
Below us and to the east are the Sky Bear Chalets and the backdrop of Wolf Mountain. I can barely discern the snowy roadway that connects the two. I adjust my sunglasses to take in the nearby rainbow sparkles at my feet. Snow crystals dazzle the eyes in the bright sunlight.
Together, we turn away from this view to drop into a pocket paradise to our north. Seamus and I have taken to calling this place, the oasis. As the glaciers retreated, a shard of ice remained, carving out a cold acidic bog. Slowly, at glacial speed, it has filled in, first with sphagnum, followed by black spruce and now cedar. Among the cedar, there is one very tall white pine.
When I think about the plunder of the many white pine that populated the Great Lake regions a hundred or so years ago I can't help but consider the leviathan and their similar fate. Great blue and sperm whales, and the great white and red pines were each magnificent and widespread in their own realms. A 19th century way of thinking soon reduced both populations to a scattered few left to tell the tale. Call me Ishmael or call me Aldo Leopold but I cling to a scattering of what remains as the ecological ship founders. The genetic pool has been drained and the friendly giants have run aground, separated from their nearest mates by a cruel division of time and attitude.
Five pairs of snowshoes drop down into the boggy oasis of Wabos North to seek the sage advice of Pinus Strobus. A stunning greenery awaits us among the dormant hardwoods counterpointing the predominant colour of winter. Cedars of all diameters tilt and weave in the spongy moss. One cedar in particular has a daunting task, as it lends supports to the sole surviving pine. Without this extra effort, the curving lean of this sun loving giant might have long ago been its downfall. The two species are anchored here together in a curious coupling. In cameo at least, cooperation has trumped competition.
While the two boys eat their lunch, we three take turns interviewing each other in front of the pine-cedar juxtaposition. It is a tradition Seamus and I began here at this site some years ago, providing dramatic perspective for our projects, http://www.lowcarbonhomes.info/ and http://www.skybearchalets.com/ We bask in the power of this place, and let the words channel out.
Ted speaks about his love of the ancient bur oaks of Illinois and Wisconsin. The openings of these prairie breakers resisted fire in much in the same way as this old pine has done. Ted puts his hands on the thick folds of bark that has ensured the tree's health and longevity.
Seamus refers to the dominance of nature in our lives. Here, that unwavering truth is self evident, but the same is true in other less obvious settings. In his words, “You don't have to look any further than your own back yard or to a single tree surrounded by concrete to see the same compelling principles demonstrated”.
It has been often repeated, although without a clear understanding, that we can't see the forest because of the trees. Perhaps we should look more closely at the spaces in between the trees, because therein stirs the magic. If we leave our preconceptions behind, we may notice a connectivity unimagined before. This unlikely oasis is linked to all other refugeum across this blue and green planet. Lands and oceans. Trees and whales.
As the shadows lengthened, we retraced our steps back down the mountain. The coyote has moved on, but the tracks remain, as do ours. When the snows return tomorrow, the mountain map will be redrawn.
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