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A couple of weeks ago we got the call that a Barred Owl had planted himself on a branch over looking my brother’s bird feeder. On first thought it would seem that this was not necessarily a good thing because, more than likely, all the other birds would give this “dude” a considerable sway over the area and vacate until he moved on. He sat there for a couple of days and nights but after a bit, many of the birds returned and went about their business considering the owl nothing more than a graduate student doing avian bird research. He didn’t seem to be out for a hot lunch.
We concluded , that while his day time activity seemed innocent enough, at night he was probably kicking some serious ass feeding on the rodents that were picking up scraps after hours, much like we used to work dumpsters when no one was looking. Owls don’t smile so it was hard to see if he was really content or if he was, indeed, laying the ground d work for a daytime frontal assault on the now profuse bird population. Was he simply building confidence in the song bird community? My brother mentioned he had actually seen Chickadees sit right next to the owl. It was like Disney Land where everybody and everything loves each other. We are all so special, so respecting of others. We are friends. When we visited for the attached photos he simply sat in the tree and on occasion opened his eyes to give us the once over, or maybe to see if we were indeed just large gophers like we appeared.
I visited him twice while getting wood and he perched there on his White Oak limb just hanging, doing time with the brothers and not really giving a hoot about much. I looked for spent fur from deceased rodents, a spot of blood, maybe a detached mouse nose but nothing.
On about the third day I called to see if Barred Buddy had flown or had taken to a more hostile path. It turned out that there had been a ruckus. It seeded the owl had become disgruntled, or distracted, or damn hungry and decided to have a go at some of the feeder visitors. Brother John had heard a thud on the large window next to the feeder and had remembered that there had been some devilish partying during the day. On inspection he noticed a diverse collection of feathers scattered about the feeder area. It seems that either in frustration from having a few bad nights, he took advantage of his accumulated confidence---much like the bankers handed out sub-prime loans to unsuspecting borrowers. “They like me. They trust me, so lets have lunch“. We don’t know if there were takers but Barred Owl moved on after the collapse of the banking system --or did he grab the goods and run?.
We found ourselves in Colorado for a couple of weeks. Mostly we tended to Jake, the larva human, better know as our grandkid. The little dude is growing so fast and learning so many new tricks it is hard to keep up with him. I would hand him this miniature football, probably with a Cal on it from his old man, and then smear him. This, I felt was a way of letting him know what the real world was like. Of course, he loved it and would run off to another room to avoid me, laughing all the way as if it didn’t hurt. So I’d smear him again. Just laugh. His old man would be cheering him on yelling about the Golden Bears of Cal and I’d be smashing him like the Badgers crush their opponents. In 20 minutes I was exhausted and he was still bouncing off the walls and his old man was still screaming for more action.
We finally got out of the house and headed up the trail called Big South. Four feet of snow greeted us there just off the Poudre River. No one had been on the trail up the south fork and we had it to ourselves. It was strictly a snowshoe trail and still packed by some from earlier travelers but covered with about 8 inches of new snow. Being at 9,500 feet was a little tough for us flat-landers but all and all we were cool, breathing a bit harder but still cool and most appreciative for the glory of the place. The snow was pristine, like my own morals, only soiled by an occasional Moose track of some age. Ann and Chester, our faithful but chubby dog, slogged (remember ‘slogged’ from that jackass Rumsfeldt) up the step grade at times almost seeming to near fall off the pitch. We did a handy 2 miles had a fine French beer, marveled at the setting and returned, not once being molested by Bigfoot or any other unknown primate. I suppose we miss the Mountains, the immense quiet, the lonely trails, the majestic valleys and the thin air but as long as we can visit we can still call it our own. We do own it. It is national land.
 
I finished the jam before we left. Mulberries are an odd lot, very sweet and full of stuff. I ran them through a screen to get out the heavies but it still had a thick, deep red juice that left me suspect. I was thinking I should call it “Sangre de Christo” jam which would give it a nice twist and a undeserved respect. Like all jams, there is always the doubt that it may not set but just sit in the jars as syrup, a immensely dark syrup, sangre. The following day I checked the jars to find that on tilting it was still rather liquid but by the time we left 5 days later it had gone to jelly and tasted quit fine on morning toast. I am pleased with myself. I am easily pleased.
Yesterday found us at the Denver Art Museum to view the works of George Carlson, Ann’s mentor. I was informed I could not take pictures of the work because the museum did not own them, so I offer none in my photo selection, but really would like to as they are some of the finest work America knows. I should have snuck one but------. I have included one of Ann, Tanya and I trying to steal one of Steve Kestrel’s stone pieces that the museum actually owns. Steve is a good friend and he would not have appreciated me skeedadling with the item. The weight of the piece prevented me from getting far as did the drawn guns of the swat team. I also fancied this other nice painting but I couldn’t get it under my coat.
We spent a day at Steve and Cindy’s a few days back and I worked this scam (not to snatch a sculpture) to secure a couple of culinary delights that can not be found in Wisconsin (I have mulberry jam, bluegills and venison). On calling Ms. Cindy I quietly inserted “chili enchilada” into my normal dry rap of everyday chatter. That way she doesn’t have to ask “what would you like?” There it was, looking me in the face on our arrival. Oh ya, To top it off, it was followed by this pecan pie that Mac referred to as FG pie. We had that for breakfast as well but noted that when Mac and Kathy departed they somehow managed to abscond with much of the remnants. These enchiladas are smothered with sour cream, avocadoes, cilantro, a selection of carefully chosen cheeses and filled with chilies of all ilk. Some will take your socks off, others gentle. I was really pleased.
Some afternoons we drift out in the direction of Skunk Lake to check the trap line , to touch the Wisconsin winter in all its glory. Not often do we see the sun just the overcast days of time on the trail. There is a song that refers to “Wisconsin’s dreary clime” but there is something about the confinement of the weather that we find comforting. Maybe it is what makes us appreciate the sun when it does show up a few months from now. Better yet, I think it makes us feel for the animals that have to pass through this time either confined in there winter dens, maybe we feel the struggle of those others like the deer, the turkeys and the possum we saw and how they have still find food or burn up the extra fat from the fall. With all this snow it has to be a fight. Unlike the years of some time ago, we had no trap lines just a walk along the old route.
Trapped by the cold. Confined to quarters, not because we have to be, not because we are candy asses, or sissies but it just feels good to do things inside and not be distracted by a million activities outside. It is dark at five and we get up late because the bed just feels good. We go to bed late. It is about to warm and then I am off to the woods for more fuel. Itseems I ran out for bad planning. Even though, if I recall, last winter I was able to secure wood all winter long and that gave me a false read on what I needed to do to get totally ready this winter. With the coming of warm weather, I can go out to the forest, cut up a cord or two of nice oak and drag the stuff out on my new plastic poke. Not a bad day’s work and I view it as exercise----no matter how much it hurts. Wood heats a person many times. Once cutting it, once hauling, once stacking, splitting and another time bringing it in, another time when it burns and then the final one when I have to clean up the mess. Still worth it just for the smell of wood smoke.
Ann is hard at her commission, and while she frets in the end I believe it will be significant. It will go in a beautiful home in Park City Utah and with a little luck get a nice showing around town.
I think tomorrow I will make Mulberry jam. We gathered these colorful jewels this summer and froze the suckers up not wanting to mess with them right then. The time is here. It is too cold outside and why not do jam? Mulberries are odd in that they grow on a tree of some size. The only way to pick them is to wait until they are so ripe that they begin to fall voluntarily from the tree. Then go out with a sheet and long pole. Shake the tree until they fill the sheet. The only problem is that other things fall from the tree and this includes some items that will not add to the jam. This list will include various insects from Cicadas, katydids, leaf hoppers and various colorful beetles. They all have to be removed unless one wants to up the protein content and crunch through various exoskeletons and antennae. We also had other parts of the tree ranging from large branches to fungal covered leaves. Thus, there was an initial berry cleaning that was more work than anticipated. Tomorrow though, we should have clean berries to run through the old press. A full report later.
Am I going to get a rebate from GW? I’ll believe it when I see it. Where do they get this money? Print it? Inflation? What is going on? I think I’ll invest in beer. You should invest in art!
This is Chester enjoying ice fishing with me on a classic Wisconsin afternoon.
I‘m back and I am bad. Today it snows in Currier and Ives tradition. We have a solid foot of snow on the ground with piles high around town. The entire setting is classic Wisconsin winter the style of which has not been seen here in a some years. We have snow shoed many times in the last couple of weeks and are now considering doing the cross ice 10k walk/ski out of Bayfield in Feb. It is at night, in the very dark night, and the trail is candle lit by luminaries, no luminarios--it will be luminaries if we go!. The only sound are skiers in the night slipping past out of sight but just inches away. It would be a bit of a test but still the adventure is calling. Most folks ski but we would snowshoe. This may be my chance to “go out on the ice”.
Yesterday a chap from Canada wrote, a chap we met at Meat Harbor on the northern tip Cape Breton Island, and wanted to know about traveling through the USA. He was headed to McCall Idaho to do a national ski race for old dudes. He was actually from the Czech Republic and he and a few friends from the mother country were going to see the States in March. He was seeking advise on adventures and places to go. Where do ya start? I did suggest the above ski outing but then wondered what one does in the north in March. I do my 5 tree sugar bush to secure my one year supply of maple sugar and at the same time talk to migrating birds. He could still ice fish. Then there is the exciting sight-seeing across the great plains. I actually like the idea of cross country skiing to ice fishing spots, maybe topped off with a little polar dip in some pond. I’ll teach those foreigners to travel the US in the winter. How about stamp collecting or sitting around the pot belly stove which is what I am doing at the moment and it feels real good. They could come over for some of that cider.
Well, here we are in Jan of ‘08. It is zero out in the Wisconsin tundra, beautiful with all the stars twinkling like the millions of girls that wink at me each day as I head to the bistro for tea and biscuits. I have been thinking about ice fishing, tumblers of single malt Scotch in the evenings, and getting my PSA test, and that is not a professional simpletons association test. The ice fishing I have tried but have not been able to interest a lousy fish in my presentation. I stand out there concentrating, watching for that one little nip on my larva and nothing. Just cold.
The Scotch I have succeeded with on more than one occasion, just a finger or two, a pleasant dram if you will to stimulate my speech and slow my mind. What is the country song line? “My mind is just sputtering along but my mouth is in overdrive.” I am an artist so I can do that, much like my political days , but I was better than Bush. That I can tell you with great pride. I could think and talk at the same time without a stupid incessant grin of a half drowned cat and a swagger that looks like I was about to draw a gun. The gun part I probably would have done, but not the swagger.
Speaking of drinks of spirit, I just bottled my cider and if there is cause to swagger that is it. It is lip smacking good when chilled and offered in an appropriate stemware. I have pictured it and one might notice that there is a certain cloudiness but in time the yeast will settle and the astounding clarity will set in. I have produced a tidy hogshead of the swill and with luck it will last until I get around the horn. The taste is sassy but not pretentious, light on the nose but still a delicate floral waft.
Today oil hit $100 a barrel and that has them buzzing along with that little dip in the market, but gold is good and we just sold our gallery and are about to go long on hog bellies. Our kid, Ian, just sent us a nice selection of caribou jerky. It makes a pleasant touch to the cider and hard tack. A good choice for the revolution. No I am not into the cups---much. We’ll just see who reads this. Probably the CIA again then I’ll be back to doing fluff without any revolutions. Didn’t the Beatles do a song about Revolution. And so to bed.
Christmas is over and the goose is getting fat. No. I am getting fat. I was insulted by the scale a few days ago. It seems I was making sport of my brothers for in their age the cruelty of wear had changed their shapes. It is good to make ridicule of them because it raises my self-esteem. The problem is in my ridicule, I was forced to stand on this scale that I suspected from the start was unfavorable to me. 214 big ones ---but I had on 14lbs of cloths.
I took to the lakes the other day to secure a meal or two by fishing . I went in the evening, which at this latitude is around 3:00 and found that I was not appreciated by any fish. A presented a fine flurry of wax worms and a nice setting of minnows but attracted not one stinking fish. I did see a well dressed Bald Eagle at Spring lake. He strafed me thinking I might throw him a bone and then sat in a distant White Pine occasionally looking to the open water up stream. I saw him lift a single eye lid, purse his beak and consider nabbing one of those noisy geese lounging up in the frosty and misting stream. He viewed me as being worthless and uninteresting. I did notice a dead minnow left by some other luckless fisherman and thought maybe that would be the small gift left to the Eagle or one of the noisy crows working the edges for leftovers from another time. I walked home in the creeping dark, 12 degree air with squeaking frost under my snowshoes. I was as solitary visitor upon the lake of life, a lonesome visitor on a lonesome blue temporary wilderness. No lights, the only sound a distant nuthatch and thought of fish sitting motionless on the bottom of this cold lake.
Ann is knitting me a camouflage hat so the fish can not see me.
Saturday the Audubon Society let us count birds for them and unlike Audubon himself we did not count them with the use of shot guns. We looked at them with a glass and a good time of it. However a number of folks called out to us and inquired why we were looking in their backyards with binoculars. That took a little explaining and had the local newspaper not had an article about the birders being out I think we would have been hauled off. All we have here is a bunch of Norwegians but I think they may have been worried we were checking to see if they were eating or preparing lutefisk, which is not out-lawed but should be. When they outlaw lutefisk only outlaws will have lutefisk. Yikes.
We had a big run on woodpeckers and scored a Downy, a Hairy, a Red Belly and the Pileated like the picture shown. What a sighting. A first I thought it was a Ivory Billed but settled for the rather glamorous Pileated. We also so spotted one Robin that was clearly having no fun on this 15 degree day. He was hiding in a apple tree all puffed up and clearly freezing his ass, do they have asses? Figuratively speaking.
The cider is working here next to the fire. It smells smashingly good but it did get off to a slow start which gives me the willies because that means other growing things could get in there and party. I’d like to think I have this down because it could mean many hours of traditional inebriation as opposed to untraditional. If it goes aloof then I might get vinegar or if really off the wall, ethanol for my chain saw. So far so good.
Catch my new pick up. I got this rig in the fall to transport some of my crap around town. It is very exciting and saves gas with every trip. Even starting the Subaru up takes lots of gas and running around town that much more. At 15 degrees and no wind it still works like a charm even though many people are looking at me like I am just out of the institution, What they don’t know is I am environmentally sound and have more beer money. I figure each trip to town is probably a buck or a small Miller tap at the Ambrosia. Ya gotta love it and I can haul big weight. I believe I have done 50lbs at one time and am hopping for the day I can get Ann in this unit. Now that would be real cute--back to the institution for sure. But ya gotta picture that---this charming lady of say fifty all scruntched up , little head sticking out the top, goggles of WWI vintage and a pleasant red scarf of her own making. I love it. The only draw back is the distain.
The sun has taken a nap it would seem. This is not uncommon here in the Midwest. I don’t mind because in Colorado it was sunny and beautiful every day. This leaves little time to do inside things, like work on this site or read a book, or collect my stamps, or make apple sauce. I like the cloudy days, at least for now. I am also told by those that live here to embrace the day no matter what it should bring. Just jump into it and revel in the cold gloom. Maybe work at staying warm or watch the Chickadees work the feeder. Notice how they grab that one seed and then head for the protection of the cedar. That is what I am doing today, plus we have to get ready for the Audubon bird count this Saturday. I am warm and the blue jay was on my case when I went to fetch the wood. Here is Ann's version of a Cardinal.
Occasionally I find myself trying to think of new fuels for the future, particualrily after hearing some rant how oil is going to run out. Today, I hashed this over with Alaskan son Ian, because he has been shopping around looking at thermal generation up there. I have lived with a solar powered home for 13 years. Exploring new possibilities is interesting and maybe useful. But today he came up with what may save the environment and supply tremendous amounts of biofuel. He wanted me to look at a youtube site called airial bow fishing. Well, how good could this be? Having come from a family where "slapping" carp was a spring time ritual ,where we as youngsters would go out with every hand help weapon we could muster and destroy as many of those lousy bottom sucking fish as we could . There would be fish swiming all over the marsh with my old man's arrows in them. Well, as it should pass, Ian also had this affliction, thus his interest in this airial bow fishing for carp. The first time he told me about this adventure, I thought he might be down on the next flight to revel in a carp slim fest. What has happened is many of the rivers in the midwest have been infested with an exotic species of carp, the silver carp. Their numbers have grown beyond imagination and have destroyed aquatic habitat in every river they infest. However, they have a strange habit, (not to confused with a type of religious dress) of jumping way out of the water when a motor boat goes by. The archers in the boat then shoot at the carp as they fly throght the air, and I mean fly. On the video the shooters are actually hit by the jumping fish.
Now this is sport, shootin an air born carp. Well, Ian got to looking at this spectical and besides froathing to be a part of it, and thus fullfill a live long dream, he quickly thought of the times we tried to eat a carp only to be repulsed by the vast amounts of repugnant grease oozing form the heated carcus. In fact, we found the best way to eat a carp is to roast it on clean pine board for three hours at 275. Then, throw away the carp and eat the board. It was the grease he remembered. A classic source of biofuel! There are untold tons of these goggle-eyed, lip-extended, flying carp. They destroy the ecosystem. They are easy and fun to catch and one 12 pounder could push a tractor trailor from Chicago to Detroit. So we are thinking about going long on carp futures and as soon as we can get our steam driven hyralic press up and running and we will join OPEC.
Been a few days, a few miles and a few more good times in the midwest home of abundant food--and I mean abundant.
Yesterday, I walked into the woods one more time, flintlock in hand, snowshoes afoot, through the new snow in an effort to try one last time to secure another deer for the freezer and thus assure ourselves of winter survival. Fifteen degrees and a light west wind made it all perfect. The crust on the snow made going a bit tough as the old ankles didn't like the twisting and turning. I needed a different set of shoes, bigger ones, ones made for stability, ones that would have made Jack London proud. As I approached, again I could see that the deer had been feeding close to my stand and could also see they had been in my stand--lounging. This was good but this was bad. It was rather like an insult to stomp on my sacred ground, home of the mighty hunter. I took up my position and waited as my mind for some reason drifted off to thoughts about how our ancestors survived under these conditons. Better yet, how the Native Americans handled this winter test. It was not like they had a freezer full of supplies back at the hut, or that they necessarily had anything. Getting a deer may have been the one thing that prevented them from being subject to attrition. I had a gun to top it off, yes a gun that was ignited with a flint and steel, but still a gun. The natives had tricks and no rules but the thought of killing a deer with a fllimsy bow and arrow just doesn't seem possible. I don't think it was, actually. I suspect thay set snares on every trail they could find and then went out every day to see if they had one hung up in their trap. They then clubbed them or used spears and arrows to kill it and prevent it from injuring one of them. They had tricks. Clearly, they had to have patience and the ability to not eat for awhile. I didn't have either so after one hour I packed it in , deerless, and headed back to the warm house realizing I had it easy. But still I had learned a few things about what it must have been like. To top it off, before leaving in the car, I had to fire the gun to remove the powder and ball. It missfired on the first try. Yikes. Life looked even more brutle for those poor devils. No room for errors. I am lucky.
Today we also got a new range for Ann. It came in by rail from Chicago and in a few days it should be up and running. Cooking outside on the open fire has been a bit much in December with the 15 degree temperature. Inside cooking should be easier. She was consistantly over cooking my biscuits and venison.
Ever since my arrival here in good old Wisconsin I have noticed many apple trees and many apple trees that have fallen in to disuse. I remember as a kid going to orchards and getting apples. I was very young, it was back in the Eisenhower administration, but I do not remember what we did with them. I remember the huge Wolf River variety that was as big as my little brothers head and I felt, at the time, probably had more content, but how we used them I do not know. We made no cider but I am not sure I would have been interested. I was intersted in maple syurp poured into snow. That I recall, but not the apples. Just big damn apples and that it was cool to be in an ochard. I must have been 6 or so because after ten I would have seen them as something to throw at cars or other kids--we did lots of that later.
Well now that I am back, I thought it proper to explore apples and see what could be done with them other than say an apple crisp which is sure as hell is good but loaded with sugar and butter--now considered rather off limits. I said the hell with that and froze up lots of apples and apple parts for pies, and apple sause. Preparing for the winter if you will, or the revolution as I like to say. This is when I got a book by Annie Proulx called "Cider". Bingo. In the past cider was a real big deal and folks sucked it up in huge volumns, not like the crew of the Endurance sucked rum, whisky and grog but it was a part of the American scene. Now, I am talking about hard cider, not cider for the girly man. They made barrels of the swill. They distilled it. They made viniger out of it and for all I know they used for enimas-which by the way used to be real popular when I was a kid. Everything required an enima.
The first thing I did was get out the old apple peeler,and I mean old. Like 1890. This baby really works. Throws off the peels like there was religion falls off the Pope. After I did a flat peck , I realized you don't peel apples for cider but they did work fine for the freezing . I tried my press and it was to whimpy to crush the damn things so I reverted to buying 4 gallions of already pressed juice and am now ready with my new brewing gear to put out some mighty fine hard cider which I will report on later. Please catch the photo of me and my peeler--no, not peeelling the carrot. With luck I have found a real and genuine use for all the abundant apples that populate this place.
Yesterday I went hunting for the wiley and illusive deer--with my flintlock rifle. As I was looking at the post below, I found myself wondering, "Was I out of touch?" Here I am rather living in another century, or maybe two, and here is this rockert ship of the roads. Who is closer to the future? Who is closer to reality? Boy that is a tough one.
I will tell you my trip into the forest on snow shoes was a delight but work. The snow had managed to develope a nasty crust that would hold up a forty pound rabbit but not my 200 lbs of mussle, or what ever form of flesh I seemed to have recently developed. I am not elephantine but slightly encumbered. I made it to may stand to find that most of the tracks in the forrest were around my well chosen site. I stood there a good solid hour talking to my self about George Bush and Carl Rove, his brain, and a number of other nonsensical things. I saw not one deer. I saw no stupid turkeys. No porkopines. Nothing. I didn't get cold. No one yelled at me and the only noise was a distant barking dog and 3 or 4 chickadees doing business in the trees. I was not a deer slayer but I was a player.
Can you believe this? . I think we might get one now that oil is only $90/barrel. Sweet Jesus! I mean, is oil going to last forever? Have we no pride? 
This is me all full of myself, but Jesus, look at the fish I caught on my flyrod while fishing with the famous Colorado fisherman, Glen Colton--the same guy who goes faithfully by the 30-30 rule. That is the rule that says you will continue to fish wihout complaint with a 30 mile an hour wind in a 30 degree temperature. On this Nov. day it was 60 and beautiful on the classic Sheboygan River.
Today the snows fell and I made apple sause from Crow's apples. I also am trying, with some sucess, to work this programe while sitting beside the old wood stove. It is a perfect night here in Wisconsin. A glass of wine, a warm dog and a fine woman to sooth my weary soul. Oh hell, I am not weary. I am ready to go for a walk into the depth of the storm and confirm my maniness or what ever that fool hardy ego thing may be. I am excited about writing and have an idea for a short story called, The one Dollar Bone. Yesterday while picking up my venison, I bought Chessler a one dollar bone because he is a good but insecure dog. He was beaten in an earlier life but now is only spoiled. There just has to be a story there.
So we just had 8 inches of clean, somewhat wind-blown snow and we got ready to go for a delightful walk and what does it do? It starts to sleet. I mean, what a lame-ass shot to the butt. We went but I am considering a small lawsuit. Maybe I'll settle for a nice single malt. Ya, that is where I am headed now.
The Packers lost, and the weather was a nice 22 degrees. Now isn't this a cool posting. Oh I have more, its just that at the moment I don't have time. Right now this entire thing is a test but as things move along I will, indeed, tidy it up and you will be able to read about ice fishing, political banterings, hunting and God knows what. |
