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 Canoeing
I don’t like the north wind in December. It blows so fiercely down our
bay. The waves smash violently on the shore. The near-freezing water roils, black and
ominous. It chills me to the bone.
Overnight, it blows itself out. I wake in the morning to stillness. The dawn
sky is a delicate blue. A light mist rises form the lake. Ice begins to form.
I haven’t been in the canoe for weeks, but now, as the opportunity to do
so diminishes, I am drawn to the water with a passion. I have to go now! The water calls.
The beauty of the cold scenery pulls me out of my comfortable cabin. I dress warmly.
I have to carry the canoe along the shore, past where the ice has already
claimed the lake. Carefully, I set the canoe on the deep snow near the water. Carefully, I
step near the edge of the shore, watching for ice on the rock. I slide the canoe across
the snow, slipping it into the water. Carefully, I step in.
Needle ice floats on the calm water all around. Some of this new ice joins
together with other feathery patterns of new ice. Jack Frost paints the surface of the
lake with a paper-thin wafer. The canoe slides through with a soft shhh.
Further out, there is no ice…yet. The cold water appears black. It seems
to have lost the sunny blue/green hues of summer. 
As I round the corner of the bay, heading south, a raven flies overhead. He
calls with a raw beauty. Ravens have a wide voice range, many ways of voicing their
actions. This one chortles a bit before landing in one of the taller trees ahead.
The snowy shoreline shows little evidence of any creatures. The snow lies
undisturbed on the bedrock, right down to the shoreline. The shoreline itself is decorated
with millions of icicles where the wind blew the waves to crash on the rocks, the shrubs,
and the overhanging logs. The low-rising early morning sun glistens on these candles of
ice.
Further along the shore, there are tracks in the snow. Otters have been here.
They have a climbing path, and a sliding path. The chill of the water doesn’t bother
them, and the snow simply gives them another opportunity to play.
Turning back toward home, there are more ice crystals growing on the lake
surface. I paddle through some large patches of ice that formed in the bay while I was
out. The canvas of the canoe slides noisily through some ice that’s half a centimetre
thick.
I pull the canoe out of the water further along the shore than where I had
launched. Ice. Ice is growing. A rim of ice froze on my paddle in that space just above
where the blade pushes through the water. Little droplets of ice stuck to the canoe at the
bow.
Wistfully, I bring the canoe in. For the last time. Until April.
Received December 8, 2008
Buried in Leaves
Suddenly, it is cold. The drop in temperature came quickly, and I was not
ready for it. Like every autumn, it took me by surprise. Once again, the summer is too
short. But now it is early November. Time to adapt. Time to tuck in and bundle up.
The forest I live within has its own way of preparing for winter. For weeks
now, the leafy trees have been drawing in the last of the summer’s accumulation of
energy from their leaves. The chlorophyll was taken in, stored away. With the green all
gone each tree showed through the true colour of its leaves. We had a marvellous show of
reds, yellows, oranges and deep browns. Until the wind came and blew them all to the
ground.
Now the bright colours have faded to dusty brown. Yet the leaves have still
one more job to do before they disappear. All those fallen leaves in the forest will
provide a sort of blanket to the ground, and to the small creatures who live on the forest
floor.
Some will be gathered by the little red squirrels, some by moles and voles to
line their winter nests. But most of the leaves will stay right there, on the ground under
the trees. They will provide just enough insulation to delay the freezing of the ground.
With a little luck, the snow will come before the frost gets a chance to go too deeply
into the earth. And if the snow stays, the forest floor will be tucked in nicely under
that dual coat of leaf and snow. The air temperature may drop to 30 below, but the ground
will keep its heat, comforting all the many tiny creatures that spend their winters here.
We too gather leaves to keep our little log cabins warm in winter. We fill
bags of leaves to tuck around the edges of the cabins to keep the wind out. The leaves
also provide insulation, keeping the ground under the cabins from freezing deeply.
Overall, the thick blanket of leaves we tuck around the cabins adds greatly to the warmth
and cosiness we feel inside.
We don’t gather our leaves from the forest though. The forest needs
those leaves to do their jobs there. We gather our leaves when we visit the city. We fill
the back of our truck with bags of leaves stuffed and ready to go. Most of the work is
done for us!
And so, November will be spent tucking in; packing the leaves around the
edges of the cabins and bringing in abundant stores of food to get us through the cold
times. Just as the forest and creatures within prepare for the winter to come, so do we.
Received October 31, 2008
Perfect Autumn Morning
The fall colours are so beautiful, especially with the backdrop of fog. Fog
is a common visitor at the lake this time of year. Sometimes a low cloud lies heavily on
the world, and sometimes there’s just a mist on the lake as the heat of summer
dissipates into the cool morning air.
This morning dawned perfectly foggy, and perfectly still. The quietness of it
all drew me out onto the water. How could I stay inside to work with all the beauty
staring at me through the window?
A heron flew in just a few minuets after I launched the kayak. Have you ever
seen a great blue heron up close? They are BIG. Its massive wingspan spread wide to slow
the flight as it dropped to the shore. This magnificent bird comes to this shore every
morning to feed on minnows and frogs. It doesn’t seem to mind being around people, so
long as we move slowly.
I watched as it blended into the background. Had I not seen it fly in, I
might not have seen it at all. The dusky-blue-grey plumage gives it perfect camouflage at
the lakeshore. It kept an eye on me, as it kept an eye on the shallow water at its feet. I
kept an eye on it, trying to drift in close enough to get a good photo.
The heron waited for a long time. I drifted for a long time. The fog lifted a
bit. The colours of the maples reflected in the water. The heron lifted its wings, and
flew further down the shore. Magnificent!
I followed slowly. What started out as a brisk paddle on a foggy morning had
shifted to a slow, quiet, passage. Instead of getting a vigorous workout for my body, I
enjoyed a deep, relaxing journey on this perfect autumn morning.
The great blue heron stood patiently at the shore. She took another few
steps, to the very edge of the water. Her long neck shortened into a lovely S. In an
instant, she struck at the water, and came up with a minnow. Reaching her bill high, she
chomped a few times and swallowed. Then she tucked her neck way down, into the feathers of
her body. She rested. Then slowly stretched her neck long again. It would take more than a
few minnows to make a good breakfast for her.
Eventually, she lifted her wings again, and flew gently above the water, just
a few feet from the trees, just a few feet above the lake. I dipped my paddle, left, then
right, left then right. Quietly, I kayaked trough the silence of the perfect autumn
morning.
Received October 2, 2008
Dreaming of Daylilies
As summer draws to a close, memories linger of the magnificent meals prepared
with fresh gifts from the garden. A summer full of flowers made the meals beautiful to
look at as well as delicious and nourishing.
Tender lettuces of early summer made wonderful salads that were decorated
with deep purple Johnny-jump-ups. The cultivated pansies came along to garnish spring
rolls – their brilliant yellows and deep blues gave a lovely hue through the
translucent rice paper. Zucchini flowers were stuffed with sunflower seed pâté, chicory
flowers were sprinkled over fresh summer tomatoes, and borage flowers decorated the
breakfast bowls of yoghurt and strawberries.
My favourite flower of summer, and the one we ate nearly every day from the
middle of July through the middle of August, is the lovely daylily. Who says you
can’t have your flowers and eat them too? Daylilies are the most delightful of edible
summer flowers because no matter how many you pick to eat one day, there will be an
abundance of new flowers just as big and beautiful as the day before. This is why they are
called daylilies – each flower only blooms for a day, then fades away.
The only problem I have with daylilies is that the season is far too short.
As the last few flowers bloomed on August 20th, I felt the end of summer rushing in. Oh
sure, we still have borage, chicory, Johnny-jump-ups and other pansies for keeping flowers
in the menu. An abundance of squash flowers are still around for stuffing. The marigolds
look pretty in the salads. We will be dining on delicious daisy leaves and sprinkles of
the flower petals for another month or more.
Still, I already miss the daylilies. I stuffed the big orange flowers, used
them in place of lettuce on sandwiches, sprinkled the petals and sepals on top of salads,
decorated bowls of dip, put the wilted flowers in soup. Sometimes I simply picked a couple
dozen flowers and put them on the lunch table in a shallow bowl of water so everyone could
use them however they liked.
The variety we grow is the common orange flower. It is hardy in our poor
soil, and the patch manages to get a little bit bigger each year. A friend gave us a
pretty yellow variety a few years ago that blooms lightly in June. Last fall we got a
clump of roots of a small yellow daylily that we hope will bloom in September, once we get
it established.
Allan was visiting a friend in early July, and noticed a large blooming of
deep red-orange daylilies in his yard. He brought some rootstalk home so we can hope for
some of these next summer. Daylily roots tend to grow in tight bundles. It does them good
to take a clump out of the middle now and then, to give them more room to grow.
Last summer I learned that there are dozens of varieties of daylilies in a
rainbow of colours. Their blooming cycle could begin as early as June, and last well into
October. I want them all!
So, I’m making a plea to gardeners everywhere to help me find more
daylilies for my garden. Do you have a clump you’d care to share? Drop a line to me
at vikimather@yahoo.com or RR 1, Wahnapitae, ON P0M 3C0. I can trade if you’d like
the common orange variety – and I’ll share my favourite flower stuffing recipes.
Received Aug 29, 2008
My Canoe
I love my canoe. If I could, I’d spend the whole summer paddling through
the awesome beauty of this land. Just me and my canoe.
The canoe is the most perfect of vehicles. Big enough to carry everything I
need to eat, sleep and travel; small enough for me to carry when a bit of land gets in the
way.
My favourite canoe is a 14-foot cedar and canvas affair, now 12 years old. It
has a yoke in place of the centre thwart, which makes it ride comfortably on my shoulders
when I need to carry it across a portage. It carries me endlessly along the clear blue
waters, I carry it short distances across the land to the next jewel of water.
I did manage to get out in the canoe for a whole week this summer. Maybe next
year for a whole month? I went to a little lake that’s far from any road network. I
paddled upstream for five hours to get to the lake, against the wind, against the current,
with a thunderstorm half way there just for punctuation. I was tired at the end of that
day. Tired in a very good way.
I found a sheltered place to spend the night, emptied the canoe of all the
gear it had carried for me. Then I lifted the canoe onto the land, and turned it over for
the night. Its perfect beauty is visible from every perspective.
The next day I gathered all my things and put them back into the canoe. We
continued to travel northward, my canoe and I, exploring the shoreline all along the way.
The beauty of canoe travel lies in the closeness to the water as well as the
closeness to the land. I glided silently along, just a few feet off shore.
In amongst the trees at the shore, a buff-coloured face peered out at me. A
serene white-tailed deer watched curiously. I held my paddle still and barely drifted
while the quiet animal and I wondered at each other. Next evening, another deer appeared
on the shoreline across from my island campsite as I ate dinner.
Paddling into a long skinny bay the next day, I saw a point that might make a
good campsite. As I got closer, I noticed that it was already occupied – by someone
in a glistening black fur coat. Again, I drifted slowly and was able to watch as the bear
dug for ants in the rock crevices.
Over the course of the week, I saw eight deer, the bear, a magnificently
large snapping turtle sleeping on shore in the evening sun, a five-lined skink skittering
over the warm bedrock, two tiny bird nests tucked into the blueberry bushes, each with a
clutch of tiny speckled eggs.
One morning I watched a tiny rock bass in the shallow water by my campsite as
he guarded his nest. It was amazing how he was able to defend his nest from fish four
times his size
On the last day I packed everything back into my little canoe and headed
south again; a sunny day, the wind at my back, the current pulling me along and a quiet,
peaceful heart. Just my canoe and me.
Received Aug01, 2008
Adopt a Monarch
The monarchs are back! Monarch butterflies have returned to our neighbourhood
for another summer. We love to watch them flitter about, sipping nectar from the wild
flowers in the yard. Over the next few weeks, the will lay their eggs on the milkweed
plants in our orchard. We keep watch for the tiny stripy caterpillars, then watch them
grow quickly as they munch upon the growing leaves of the milkweeds.
Monarchs are totally dependant on milkweed for their reproduction. The
caterpillars can’t eat anything but milkweed. And in return, only the monarch
butterfly can pollinate the dusty pink flowers of the milkweed. Many other insects drink
the nectar, but only the monarch has the perfect proboscis to take the pollen to where it
needs to go.
Monarch butterflies have been classified by the Species at Risk program as
being or special concern. The habitat needs for the caterpillars are simple, but limited.
You can help to protect this habitat, and thus, adopt a whole patch of caterpillars –
which will magically become butterflies within weeks of their birth.
The common milkweed plant is classified as a noxious weed. This is because it
spreads easily and abundantly through its root system. The sticky white sap of the plant
is toxic to many creatures, including farm animals. So, many farmers despise milkweed.
However, there is an abundance of milkweed that grows happily along the
roadsides of Ontario. And happily, many thousands of butterflies lay their eggs here. The
caterpillars hatch, eat the leaves, and accumulate the bitter taste of the milkweed sap
into their bodies. This makes them distasteful to birds and other predators. When they
mature, they transform their soft bodies into a hard green jewel of a chrysalis.
The butterflies that emerge from the chrysalides are also distasteful to
predators, so the monarch butterfly flies freely through our summer days.
Perhaps the greatest threat to monarchs in Ontario comes from the mowing of
roadsides in July and August. You can help to save a generation of butterflies by taking
an active role to prevent the cutting of these roadside patches during this most critical
time of the lifecycle of the butterflies. Adopt a milkweed patch!
Make a couple of signs to post along the road where the milkweed grows.
“No Cutting Please” in large letters, with “Monarch Breeding Zone”
below.
Find out who does the cutting, and talk to them about the monarchs and their
needs. Give them a copy of this article!
Write a letter to your city councillor, explaining that the monarchs that are
born in Canada are the ones who migrate to Mexico. Ask them to make sure any roadside
mowing is delayed until late August, after all the new butterflies have matured.
There are many sources of information about these beautiful butterflies. Do a
search for “Monarch Butterfly habitat Canada” for an excellent selection.
Received June26, 2008
Wild in the City
I don’t often stay overnight in the city, but when I do, I make an
effort to get out for a walk in the cool of the morning, or for a break in the warmth of
the afternoon – just to keep my sense of sanity.
I woke early one spring morning, and went out for a walk down the street,
toward the lake. As I walked along, peeking between the houses to catch a glimpse of the
water, I heard geese cranking up for their morning flight. I love the sound of geese! Then
I remembered, this is the city. City folks don’t like geese. How sad.
Geese flying overhead in the wilds where I live are a welcome sound. We watch
their long Vs waving through the sky as they feel the call to go north. Of course, they
don’t land in our yard. They don’t clip our grass and leave their fertilizing
droppings.
The geese we see at home are wild geese, not city geese. The wild geese are
shy of people. They would not be comfortable in the city.
As I walked along, I admired the lawns and landscaping of the houses along
the road. The ones I liked best had a sprinkling of yellow, dandelions were in bloom! The
diversity of plants living in a lawn indicates a healthy ecosystem. The best lawns also
have a smattering of clover and creeping charley. Lawns that have a mixture of plants are
most inviting. The manicured monoculture lawns make me nervous. Like the geese of the
wild, I would not be comfortable there.
A few lawns had pretty blue forget-me-nots in with the grass, and the deep
purple and yellow pansy known as Johnny jump-ups. Mix these in with the white clover
flowers, the yellow dandelions, and the tiny pale purple flowers of the creeping charley,
and these lawns bring on the beauty of perennial flower gardens.
The best part of my walk that morning came when I got to the end of the
street. A narrow path led into a few hectares of undeveloped land, lightly forested with
young white birches and a few red pines. I walked along as the sun began to warm the air,
and was greeted with an abundance of blueberry flowers. This would be a place to remember
for my visits to the city in the summer!
The path led to a beautiful high spot overlooking the lake and the city. Here
lay a huge erratic, a boulder left behind from the glaciers 10,000 years ago. Rock and
trees, lake and flowers all around, here is a little bit of wild in the heart of the city.
Received June6, 2008
First Canoe Trip 08
Living on a lake, in the middle of the forest,
people sometimes ask where do we go when we want to ‘get away from it all’.
Deeper into the wilderness, of course. With our little canoe we can go just about
anywhere.
As soon as the ice goes off the lake, we pack up our gear and head north.
Just one portage away, a beautiful blue lake has called out to be explored every spring
for more than a decade.
Allan carries the canoe, I carry the packs, Kate brings the paddles and her
own pack. The familiar trail has gentle ups and downs over its kilometre length. When we
get to the highest place, tiny pink flowers reach up from the broad leathery leaves of the
trailing arbutus plants. I set down my pack and get on my belly to get close to the
flowers. I stick my nose into a cluster of the delicate blooms and drink in the marvellous
fragrance of spring.
It takes just a few minutes to load the canoe with people and packs, and
we’re on our way. The sun is low in the sky, and the water dark as our paddles swirl
through. We’re lucky on this trip, because there is a strong south wind, and we are
headed north.
We practically sail by ‘house rocks’. A few hundred meters off
shore, a group of squarish boulders rise a metre or so from the water. Surprisingly, a
spring of green crops up in a crack on the sunny side of the rocks – pale corydalis,
a member of the poppy family. Gulls nest there, but it is a bit early in the year, so we
don’t see any of them. There are loons in the distance though.
We get to our island home at dusk. Allan brings the canoe in to the lee of
the island so we can get out away from the wind. We choose a sheltered site, and set up
the tent oriented to give the best view of lake and land.
There’s a little waterfall across the lake from our island. It runs all
winter long, building up a huge ice falls on the eastern shore. By the time the ice goes
off the surface of the lake, most of the winter ice has melted from the falls as well.
Now, a few patches of ice remain, including a huge spire that fills a crevice in the rock.
When the wind dies down, we can hear the spattering of water all through the night.
Other sounds of the night include the wonderful songs of the loons, a chorus
of spring peppers, and a crash and splash when one of the ice chunks falls from the steep
wall beside the waterfall. Deep in the night, I wake to hear an owl….Ooooooooooooooo.
Received May 2, 2008
The Loons are Back!
First thing each morning I go out to have a look at the ice. This last
remnant of winter is slowly receding from the lake. The solid surface we travelled on for
the past four months is melting away. Last Saturday evening I crossed the lake on the ice
for the last time. On Monday, I walked out a hundred metres to measure the thickness of
the ice.
Wednesday, I launched the canoe! Oh it did feel good to be afloat
again…even if the travel was restricted to a two to three-metre ribbon of water along
the shore. By evening, all the ice from the lodge out to the island was gone.
This morning there was twice as much water showing. I stood on the sauna
dock, looking out toward the end of the bay. Packs of ice had shifted halfway out,
blocking off the shoreline route I had paddled yesterday morning. Then I heard the loon!
Ahhhh! They are back! Our loons made it through another winter, another
migration. This loon came from the southeast, as it does every spring. First I heard its
‘I’m Home!’ tremolo. Then I heard the beat of its wings. I love to hear the
whoosh of wind as the loon pushes its way though the air.
Next I saw the reflection of the loon in the lake as it rushed by. The clear
still water of morning gave the perfect mirror image – a sight we’ve not had
since late November.
The loon kept on flying, out the bay, then over the hill to the south bay of
Kukagami. I walked along the shore toward the boat dock so I could catch the warmth of the
morning sun.
As I walked, I slowly became conscious of another call. It seemed so
commonplace that at first I hadn’t noticed – then suddenly, I recognized another
of the loon’s calls, the wail. Another loon was calling from MacDonald’s pond,
just a half kilometre to the south. The ice likely went off the pond yesterday. One of the
loons who will spend the summer there was calling for its mate. Wooooooo………
From the bay to the north, a third loon called out with the yodel. The first
loon called its tremolo from the south bay, and the second called from the pond. A
pileated woodpecker tapped its resonant call on a hollow tree, the white-throated sparrow
sang its clear sweet song, and the chickadees are courting too.
With the return of ‘soft water’ to the lake, the silence of winter
ends, and the joyful noise of spring begins.
Received April 24, 2008
Walking on Thin Ice
April is the most stressful month. Not because of taxes, but because April is
the month when the ice begins to melt from the lake. We have to cross six kilometres of
the lake to get out to town, and more importantly, we have to cross six kilometres of the
lake to get back home again.
Most of the time, I try to avoid making commitments for any time in the month
of April, because there is no way to tell when the ice is going to become unreliable for
travel. I am a student of the ice. I love when it comes in November, and I’m sad to
see it go in April. Most of the time in between when the lake freezes over and when it
melts out, the ice is just another surface for the snow to blow across. The beginning of
ice, and the end of ice, are the two most exciting times of the year. And if I have
promised someone I’d do something in April, the ice can bring a lot of stress.
This year I volunteered to work at a local Earth Day celebration, on April
19th. With the late winter we had, I thought the chances were good that the ice would hold
well into the month of April. I started watching more closely as the weeks marched on, and
the days got quickly warmer.
On April 16th, there was no doubt that the ice was thick enough. On the 17th,
we took an ice pick to the middle of the lake and chipped through more than 40 cm of ice
to find the water below. Chipping with an ice pick is no easy task in the middle if
winter, when the ice is rock hard. That day, in the middle of April, it took only a few
minutes.
Still, it was an effort to break through, especially the last 20 cm. This is
what we call “lots of ice!” So, that was 40 cm in the middle of the lake. Near
the edges the ice is almost always thinner. We measured 30 to 35 cm of ice in several
holes, 20 to 100 metres off shore. “Lots of ice!”
The way the ice melted this year, is different than any of the other 26 years
I have watched the ice go off our lake. Every year is different. This year the difference
is that there has been no rain. And there has been no frost for more than a week. The ice
is melting into thin air – sublimating.
Early each morning and late each afternoon we measure the ice. We walk out to
a spot that lines up with the same three points every year, and poke a hole through. This
year, the hundred-metre walk has been creaky. All that sun beating down every day is
melting the ice from the top down. With each step it creaks a bit. I give it a good whack
with my pole, which just bounces of the hard ice. It’s ‘safe’, but
unnerving.
So as it turns out, I crossed the ice to do my volunteer work in the city.
The day was sunny and hot. All day long I thought about that sun beating down on the ice.
I though about the snowmachine we had parked on the ice. Should we just run it up on shore
nearby? Or could I get it across the 6 km safely?
It is all this wondering that is so stressful. When will the ice no longer be
safe?
When I got back to the lake late Saturday afternoon, I walked out to a spot
where I’d poked a hole that morning. It was 5 cm thinner. It creaked. It was very
rough and pitted on top, but hard and smooth for at least 4 inches on the bottom.
“Lots of ice!”
Lucky for us, our lake is safer than most. It is a big lake, but long, not
wide. It is deep, and has only little streams in and out. No surprising currents, no
mystery melting areas.
I knew the ice was not the same thickness, nor the same hardness everywhere.
I knew there would be places close to shore that had no ice at all. I knew that the spaces
between some of the islands could be ‘soft’. And I knew that I could avoid all
the known pitfalls of crossing the ice just a few days before it disappeared from the
lake.
But knowing intellectually is different than knowing emotionally. Thus the
stress. Once I got out to the middle of the lake, I breathed a little sigh of relief. The
middle has the coldest, thickest, strongest ice. I enjoyed the scenery, enjoyed the cool
breeze. I kept an eye out for pressure cracks. I didn’t expect any, but watched for
them anyway.
As I turned the last kilometre into our bay, I had to prepare for my
‘landing’. This would, of course, be the last crossing of the ice this season. I
had to get the machine from the ice to the land. Of three possible exit points, I decided
to go to the old portage trail, tucked back into a shady corner. The snow/ice/slush
bridged the land to the lake. But how much ice was under the snow and slush?
Hesitation is not a good thing while moving across uncomfortable slushy ice.
I lined up my path, aiming for the narrow break in the forest. It wouldn’t be
dangerous if I didn’t make it to shore, the water being half a metre deep, but it
would not be good for the snowmachine, nor the lake, if it went in.
As it turns out, I made it easily to shore. I drove though the soft snow and
slush, along the narrow trail, and home again.
Now, I can spend the rest of the week watching the ice melt…comfortably
from shore.
Received April 24, 2008
The Hundred-Mile Diet
One of the easiest ways that we can help reduce our impact on Earth’s
resources is to be mindful of the food we eat. Over the past year, the “Hundred Mile
Diet” has gained a lot of interest. The basic theory is to buy food that grows near
where you live.
The less distance the food has to be transported, the less energy it takes to
get it to your table. Less energy consumption means cleaner air. But the benefits go far
beyond saving a few hundred litres of fuel.
Locally grown food retains its fresh flavour and nutritional value. It often
employs more people on smaller farms. Smaller farmers have closer ties to the land, and
are more likely to use fewer pesticides.
Many small farmers have banded together to market their wares. Community
Shared Agriculture (CSA) is just one program that strives to bring small farmers and
consumers together in a sustainable way. Simply put, consumers by a subscription with an
individual farm. They pay a fee in the spring, and then receive a box of farm-fresh
veggies every week of the summer and through much of the autumn.
This benefits the farmer, who has a secure source of income at the start of
the growing season. And it especially benefits the consumer who gets abundant food as
fresh as if they grew it in their own garden.
For more info on CSA program in Sudbury, go to www.eatlocalsudbury.com.
Local farmers produce more than just veggies. Locally grown meat and eggs are
also easy to come by. And they also have better flavour and freshness than food that is
imported or has to travel long distances.
Organically grown foods are what our grandparents grew up with. Chemically
supported agriculture was born after WWII. Now organic food is making a big comeback.
Every grocery store now carries some organic foods.
Organic food is what most of us have in our home gardens (the best local
produce available!). We fertilize with manure, we grow small patches of things that are
not prone to major insect infestations, and we harvest just before serving. This is as
fresh and nutritious as it gets!
Living in Northern Ontario, it is not easy to get everything we need within
that hundred-mile radius. But you don’t have to source every little bit of your food
locally – this is not an all or nothing issue!
We have been striving to buy as much food as we can direct form local
farmers. Currently, 80% of our meat and eggs come from within a fifty-mile radius. We buy
honey from a beekeeper in Naughton, and organic grains from the local health food store.
Is it more expensive? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. The benefits are fresher
taste, fewer pesticides, and a healthier planet for us and our children.
Received April 2, 2008
Success Stories for Earth
Did you turn your lights out last Saturday evening? Lots of people did. Earth
Hour was a great success all around the planet. Earth Hour was all about bringing
awareness of the need to conserve energy. The benefits are immense!
Saving energy is the most cost effective way to clean the air. And, the
personal payback is the money it saves on your hydro bill, twice. Fewer kilowatts burned
means fewer kilowatts billed. The more we all reduce our consumption, the less outsourcing
required to provide energy, and the fewer new projects that have to be built. Over the
long run, this could reduce the extra fees of “delivery charges” and “debt
reduction” on your bill. Cleaner air, lower costs. Energy conservation is a great
success story.
The month of April has a long history of Earth-friendly activities. Earth Day
has been celebrated on April 22nd since 1970 – 38 years! Each week during the month
of April, I will be writing about the success stories of the effort to keep a healthy
planet for us, and our children to enjoy.
There is no shortage of doom and gloom stories. Threats to our very existence
loom on every news report. While I will concede to the idea that we need to be informed of
the problems, I strongly believe that we need to give equal time to the solutions. When we
hear only the bad side, we get depressed, fearful, and feel impotent. Or worse, we deny
any problem exists. We easily give up. Why bother if we’re doomed?
The power of positive thought is immense. If we hear an equal measure of
what’s going right on the planet, it empowers us to do more. It gives us strength, it
gives us hope. It can replace the fear of doom with the optimism we need to do what is
best for us personally, which just happens to be what is best for Earth as well.
Don’t get discouraged because the problems are big. They are not going
to disappear overnight. It took us more than a hundred years to get into the mess we live
in now, so it makes sense that it is going to take a little while to turn the tide. Lots
of good things have been happening already, around the planet, and around our
neighbourhoods.
Let’s spend this Earth Month of April celebrating those successes, and
empowering ourselves to do more. If your turned off your lights for an hour last Saturday
night, try it again tonight! Turn off your lights during the day, turn off lights in rooms
you are not using, turn off the lights outside whenever you can. Just by turning off a few
lights, we can all have a better view of the stars at night.
Received March 31, 2008
Retrospective
Twenty-six years ago I became a permanent resident here at the lake. For many
years before that, I spent whole summers here, along with a few winter holidays. When
Allan and I got married in the fall of 1983, we settled in for that first long winter
together in our little log cabin in the woods. We knew we wanted to live here in the
wilderness, but what could we do for a living?
Well, I thought, freelance writing would be a good start. So we spent a
little time cruising the second hand stores for a typewriter. Back then, most new
typewriters were electric. We were 30 kms from the nearest hydro line, so we had to find
one of the old manual models.
The one we found was a very old, cast iron ‘Imperial 50’. It fit in
well with the character of our little log cabin, which had been built in the late
1930’s. It took another few months to find a typewriter ribbon that fit. It
wasn’t a perfect fit though. I had to rewind it by hand.
It took quite a lot of pressure to get the keys to strike the paper, so my
fingers got very strong. I would type each article through a rough draft in about an hour.
I’d spend a half hour with pen marking up the draft, then retype what I hoped would
be the final copy. Of course, my typing skills were far from perfect. I used little white
slips of correction paper to fix the mistakes. I kept a carbon copy for my records. It
didn’t have the corrections whited out – they just got typed over.
I took a few sample articles in to Northern Life in early spring of 1984. I
wrote about maple syrup and other wondrous wild offerings of nature. My ‘career’
started here.
A few years later my mom gave me an electronic typewriter that had a memory!
By that time we had a solar panel that produced enough power for small tasks. One line of
type appeared on a tiny screen, so I could see my typos and backspace to correct them. The
memory was just big enough to write an article. I would print the draft, write all over
the page to make the edits, then go back to the typewriter to make the corrections. I
could print as many perfect copies as I liked! No more smudged carbons!
In the early 90’s I finally joined the computer age, and bought a small
laptop. No hard drive, no modem. I still had to print everything and hand deliver it to
the Northern Life office.
Over these past 24 years of my freelance writing career, there have been
amazing technological changes. I’ve been a reluctant participant. But all the teckie
people have been trying their best to make it easy for dinosaurs like me. So now I have a
fast computer that corrects my spelling errors automatically as I type and a satellite
Internet connection that links me to the outside world.
Best of all, the view from the window of my little log cabin in the woods has
not changed one bit.
Received March 20, 2008
Wild Neighbours
She didn’t hear me come over the hill. Or maybe she did. I was walking
along the trail toward the house when I saw something odd. Beyond the house, across the
wetland, I saw something sitting on the ski trail, a few hundred feet away. It was grey.
And it sat still as a stump. Had she not been in the middle of what I knew to be a trail,
I never would have noticed her. I stopped at the moment I realized she was there.
She was too far away for me to tell what sort of animal she was so long as
she sat still. Bigger than a fox, but smaller than a wolf? Within a minute, she slowly
stood, and walked into the forest. A lynx!
I quickly ducked behind the house and slipped in the back door. I called to
Allan and Kate that there was a lynx on the trail. We all went to the windows and looked,
but she did not appear.
We’ve seen a few lynxes over the years, so we knew it was worth waiting.
Chances were good that she’d be back. And she was! A few minutes later, I could see
her between the trees, just at the crest of a small hill. She came back onto the trail.
Kate said, ‘There’s another one! No, two more!’ We watched as the small
family came out of the woods, onto the ski trail. Four!
The mother lynx led her three kits down the hill and onto the open wetland.
They followed the ski trail for a little while as it skirted the edge of the hill. Then
they casually walked across the middle of the wetland, on top of the deep snow. Mom lynx
looked back now and then, but seemed unconcerned about the kits following. She looked
around a little bit, but kept a straight course toward the forest on our side of the
wetland.
The little ones were nearly as big as their mom. They followed single file.
The one at the end kept stopping to look around. He was definitely pokey. He would run to
catch up, then get distracted by something and stop again. Sometimes to scratch his ear,
sometimes to bounce about in play.
Lynx have very large and furry paws. They work like snowshoes to keep the
lynx from sinking too deeply into the snow. It helps them to stay on top, just as the
snowshoe hare’s big paws keep it on top of the snow. It’s not surprising that
hares make up most of the lynx’s diet.
After they disappeared into the forest again, Allan and Kate went out to look
at the fresh tracks. They could barely be seen on the hard-packed ski trail. But it was
easy to see where they crossed the open expanse of the wetland. They sank an inch or two
into the softer snow. When Allan and Kate followed the tracks into the forest, they sank
up to their knees in the deep snow.
We don’t have a lot of snowshoe hares nearby this winter, so I expect
the lynxes will not be coming close again any time soon. But we’re watching, just in
case they do.
Received Mar. 6, 2008
CBC Radio
There’s no TV reception way out here in the bush. No daily newspapers.
Listening to the radio is how we keep track of what’s going on in the world, near and
far. So naturally, that means we listen to CBC radio.
If you also listen to CBC radio, you won’t be surprised that the Vinyl
Café with Stuart McLean is our favourite show. It plays Saturdays on Radio Two at 10 am,
(90.1 FM), noon Sundays on Radio One (99.9 FM).
We learn a lot, listening to the radio. And I was delighted to learn from
Stuart* last week that if I miss one of his shows, I can download it from the Internet.
It’s called a podcast. I thought we would need an Ipod to listen to podcasts, but
Stuart told us last week that this is not the case.
If you listen to the Vinyl Café, you’ll know that Stuart does not seem
to be a very technical type of person. Like many of us who grew up decades before
computers became a part of daily life, Stuart comes across as someone who can get around
on a computer, but does not go out of his way to learn more than necessary to do what he
wants to do. That’s how I feel about computers too.
When he talked about the podcast last week, he made it sound simple enough
that even I could do it. Just go to http://www.cbc.ca/vinylcafe/
and follow the links! Or, go directly to the CBC podcast page http://www.cbc.ca/podcasting/ to get a listing of
all CBC programs that can be brought into your computer.
My inspiration for learning how to do this was a Vinyl Café show that was
broadcast on the weekend of February 9th. I wanted to hear it again. Stuart was heading
out to an ice hut with a guide across Lake Simcoe. He was clearly uncomfortable about
being on the ice. His conversation went like this:
“I went way out onto the frozen lake, so far out they had to drive me
out there…little frozen me… asking the same question every frozen frightened
tourist asks when they head out onto the hard water, that’s what they call that lake
when it freezes around here. So, I asked, trying to affect a certain nonchalance, all the
while knowing in my sinking frozen heart that I was asking much too late in the day in any
case. So, I asked, throwing caution to the wind, how do you know it’s safe?
“Oh, said Rick my guide, ice is never safe…” And so begins
Stuart’s nervous excursion onto the winter ice. The story continues through the next
seven minutes while he so clearly describes the lake, the fishing huts and anglers, the
history of the area, and of the ice.
This story held particular interest for me, because the hard water is at my
doorstep for 5 months of the year. I have watched it, walked on it, driven across it,
noticed when it is slushy, snowy, crusty, and icy. For nearly three decades I’ve been
living here in winter, fascinated by the ice. You can hear that fascination in Stuart
McLean’s voice.
Received Feb. 29, 2008
In the Pumpkin Patch
Pumpkins, pumpkins everywhere! We had a good crop of them last summer. I left
them on the vine as long as I could through the fall – covering the patch with every
threatened frost – hoping they would have time to mature before I had to bring them
in for winter.
A dozen or more made it through, and have been waiting patiently these many
months for me to decide what to do with them. These are the little pumpkins, the ones that
are bred for flavour, not size. Since we brought them in last October, they have been
sitting happily on the living room windowsill. But they won’t stay there
forever---time has come to bring them into the winter menu.
Pumpkin pies are great, as is pumpkin custard. The flesh could be grated to
make pumpkin cake – I use a carrot cake recipe, but with pumpkin instead of carrots.
The only problem with these recipes is that they don’t use enough pumpkin. So
I’ve been developing soup recipes as well.
Pumpkin, onions, and the apples we picked last fall form the base for all the
soups I’ve been testing. Cumin and curry blend in warmly, and sometimes I add some
cream for richness.
The secret to winter soups is the onions. Lots of onions chopped and sautéed
in butter and oil for at least 20 minutes. Then add the celery and sauté a little more
over very low heat. Add water, pumpkin chunks, apples, garlic, potato and spices. Bring
this to a slow boil, and when the veggies are tender, let it cool slightly, remove the bay
leaf, then puree it in a blender. Back in the pot, heat it gently; add the bullion and
salt to taste. The cream is optional, and you could use milk instead. Add these just 5
minutes before serving.
Curried Pumpkin Soup
2 tbsp oil and 1 tbsp butter
2 stalks chopped celery,
2 large chopped onions
3 large garlic cloves
1 chopped potato
2 or 3 cups of pumpkin chunks
2 or 3 apples, washed and cored
4 cups water
1 bay leaf
1 tbsp curry powder
1 tsp cumin powder
1 or 2 vegetable bullion cubes
¼ tsp black pepper
Salt to taste
½ cream or 1 cup milk (optional)
It takes maybe half an hour of preparation. Do up the onions first, and while
they are slowly cooking, you can get all the other things ready to go in the pot.
Soup’s ready in an hour – and you can freeze the leftovers to enjoy next
weekend.
Cold winter days, hot winter soups - a great combination.
Received Feb. 11, 2008
Taste of Summer
Sunday mornings begin with a taste of summer. Blueberry pancakes, maple
syrup. As I drop the frozen berries into the bubbling pancakes on the griddle, I remember
the hot days of last summer, wandering through the blueberry patch with my basket. The
taste of sweet berries right off the bush, warm with the heat of the summer sun, comes
back to me along with the thoughts I had last July while picking the berries. As my basket
filled, my heart also filled with anticipation of the delight the berries would bring in
the middle of winter. The joyful circle of blueberries is now complete.
I never much liked pancakes before we started to make our own maple syrup.
Now I won’t even eat them unless there is real maple syrup to soak them in. Unless of
course, there is a jar of homemade strawberry jam at hand.
I blend my own buckwheat pancake mix as well. It all comes together Sunday
mornings in February as a reminder of spring and summers past. Pancake mix is one of the
easiest things to make. I can never understand why it costs so much to buy already made.
Here’s what I do.
Put two cups of buckwheat flour in a bowl. You could use two cups of
whole-wheat flour, or a blend of flours. All white flour does not work very well. Add a
quarter cup of brown sugar, a teaspoon of baking soda and a half-teaspoon of salt to the
two cups of flour. Blend this all together well, and then transfer it into a jar for
storage.
To make the pancakes, beat one egg in a two cup measuring cup. Add enough
yoghurt or sour milk or buttermilk to make one cup. Add a tablespoon of melted butter, or
oil. Then add enough of the pancake mix to make a not too thin, not too thick batter.
Maybe this would be ¾ cup? You have to just give it a try. If it gets too thick, you can
add a little milk or water to thin it out.
Don’t mix it too much. The baking soda will react with the yoghurt to
make a bubbly mix. Pour it onto a hot cast iron griddle or frying pan to make small
circles. If the pan is well seasoned, you don’t need to oil it first. If not, a thin
layer of oil will keep the first batch from sticking very much.
If you have some frozen blueberries, sprinkle a dozen or so onto each
pancake. No need to thaw them first. As the bubbles on each pancake begin to break, flip
them over to cook the other side. Soaked in maple syrup, these are a near as you can get
to heaven on a Sunday morning.
Received Feb. 4, 2008
Tomatoes in January
It is not really all that cold. We haven't even come close to -40, yet.
Cold days are sunny, and the outside world glistens with frost on the trees, the rocks,
and my eyelashes. These are wonderful days to bundle up warmly and get out for a walk.
They are also great days to spend the morning inside catching up on
chores while waiting for the sun to get a little higher in the sky, and perhaps warming
the air just a tad.
Just inside my kitchen window is a tomato plant. It has three cherry
tomatoes that should soon be turning red! Three inches away, on the other side of the
glass, the temperature is -31 as I type. Amazing.
Most tomatoes plants are indeterminate - which means they just keep
growing so long as conditions permit. In the middle of last October, I took a few
clippings from the cherry tomato plant in the greenhouse to the kitchen. I put them in a
cup of water, and within a week they had sprouted new roots. These I planted in two pots,
and set them in the sunny south windows to while out the long winter.
January does not provide the best of growing conditions for tomatoes.
Though the days are sunny, they are short. Sun loving plants like tomatoes tend to grow
long and weak stems, as they reach out for more light. They don't often put out flowers
because it takes too much energy. When my little plant sent out a tentative spray of
flower buds, I nipped off all but three - knowing that the spindly plant would not be able
to support the massive clusters that it did last summer.
Those three little flowers quickly grew into tiny tomato buds. Within
two weeks, the buds grew to nearly an inch in diameter! Can it be long before they begin
to ripen? I can hardly wait! Is it possible for tomatoes in January to have flavour? We'll
find out.
With a little luck, these two potted tomato plants will survive the
winter. We'll try to keep them pruned so they don't get too weak. Sometime in early May,
we'll transplant them back into the greenhouse. And they will grow again.
Soon the seed catalogues will be in the mailbox, new seeds will be
purchased, and new tomatoes seeds will be plopped into pots. Through March and April, they
will grow alongside last year's transplants. The new plants will probably grow faster, and
produce more tomatoes than the ones we carried over from last fall. Meanwhile, it's fun to
watch tomatoes grow in January.
Received Jan. 29, 2008
All About Snow
Snow! Don’t you just love it! In case you hadn’t noticed, I do.
Snow in January is perfect. Snow is also good in late November, all of December, February,
March and into early April. All the creatures that stay in the forest for the winter have
adapted to snowy winters. Including me.
Snow is quiet, snow is warm, snow blankets the forest floor, keeping the
frost from going too deeply into the ground. When January temperatures plummet to the low
-20s in the middle of January, we can crawl into a snow cave to find the relatively warm
temperature of –5 C.
Individual snowflakes hold an endless fascination. The big fluffy ones that
fall on a quiet winter’s day invite closer observation. Is every one of them
different from all the others? I look out the window at what must be several hundred
billion snowflakes - on the ground, on the trees, on the hillside, and even in the air.
Snow is falling gently as I type. Is every snowflake unique?
I have a snowflake calendar over my desk this year. Twelve pages of gorgeous
snowflakes – enlarged to allow detailed daydreaming of the mystery of snow. It is
easy to get lost in the intricate beauty of the photographs. To wonder endlessly at each
delicate crystal…how can there be so much detail in something so microscopic?
Scientists have been asking this question for hundreds of years. They have
been photographing these jewels for more than a hundred years. The first photographer of
snowflakes was Wilson A. Bentley in Vermont. He wrote:
“Under the microscope, I found that snowflakes were miracles of beauty;
and it seemed a shame that this beauty should not be seen and appreciated by others. Every
crystal was a masterpiece of design and no one design was ever repeated. When a snowflake
melted, that design was forever lost. Just that much beauty was gone, without leaving any
record behind.”
He recorded 5000 individual portraits of snowflakes - no easy task with the
cameras available in 1890. His dedication to the art of snowflake photography ensured that
the beauty of those 5000 would not be lost forever.
Bentley’s dedication continues with scientists and photographers today.
You can learn just about anything you ever wanted to know about snowflakes by going to
www.snowflakes.com. Including the answer to the timeless question of “Is every
snowflake different from all the others? Snow researcher and photographer Kenneth G.
Libbrecht says: it's unlikely that any two complex snow crystals, out of all those made
over the entire history of the planet, have ever looked completely alike. And he
demonstrates the math to prove the point.
I’ve got to go outside now. I’m taking a small magnifying glass out
to observe those big flakes as they fall gently all around. I don’t want to miss out
on any of the beauty.
Received Jan. 14, 2008
Beauty of Winter
Minus 30 degrees one morning last week, plus two just a few days later.
Another dive in temperatures, with new snow is expected this weekend. Welcome to January!
When I heard the warm weather was on its way, I made a point of skiing as
much as I could before the trails got too soft to ski. Then I set the skis aside and got
out the snowshoes. One great thing about snowshoes is that it doesn’t matter what the
weather, so long as there is snow in the bush, snowshoes will take you where you want to
go.
There is a beautiful little lake a few kilometres south of here that I like
to visit each winter. The trail we made a decade ago was long and hard, so I decided to
find a new way to get there.
I studied the maps and the aerial photos. I printed up a little map to take
along. I packed some food and drink, as I would be gone for a couple of hours. What a
beautiful time of year to be out walking in the woods!
I followed the old trail for the first two kilometres, then took off in a new
direction – with plans to cut a half kilometre of rough going off the trail. The snow
was surprisingly deep as I crested the hill, but my new snowshoes practically floated
through.
My new path traversed an open forest of poplar, birch, oak and maple. Winter
is a wonderful time to be out exploring new areas. I could easily choose a path along the
gentle declining hill. Walking through this forest in summer would be a challenge. I
wouldn’t be able to see much more than fifty feet around with the leaves on all the
trees.
A moose that had passed this way a week or two earlier left tracks for me to
follow. I came across the place where she slept one night - a hard-packed hollow in the
snow.
I dipped down a tad to cross a little creek, then went up through a thick
forest of black spruce, soon to emerge once again into the light and openness of
hardwoods. Compass in hand, I tried to keep a southerly track – with hopes of coming
out to the little lake at its centre point. After crossing another creek, and pushing
through another bit of thick spruce, I could see the far shore in the distance through the
maples and oak. I was getting close!
The hill became a little steeper, the forest began to have fewer hardwoods
and more pines. At last, I could see the lake through the bigger red and white pines that
grace its shoreline. As I dropped down the last slope to the lake, I was surprised and
pleased to have come out in just the right place!
I couldn’t have done this trip on skis, nor by skidoo. Snowshoes are
sometimes the very best means of transport - no matter what sort of weather January throws
at us.
Received Jan. 7, 2008
Freeze-up 2007
Four days and nights of fierce northerly winds
pounded upon the edge of the ice that covered a quarter of our long bay. I thought for
sure that the wind would win, and the ice would retreat. I was wrong. The ice held firm
throughout that onslaught. Somehow, it managed to get thicker.
The wind finally died down mid-afternoon last of
December 5th. We dragged the boat across the thick ice, and launched it for one
more crossing of the lake. The beauty of that crossing was immense. A snow-frosted forest
lined the shores. The frigid December waters were dark contrast to the brilliant
landscape. New ice was beginning to form.
Although most of the local lakes had already
frozen over, our long and deep lake had not. The relentless north wind wouldn’t allow
the ice to grow. Now that the wind had died, thin needles of black ice began to develop
over the black water. The boat crunched though small mats of ice.
The far shore where we landed had no ice at all,
other than the thick rim of ice that covered the rocky shore. Kate and I headed into town
for supplies; Allan took the boat home to park for the winter.
Now that there is lots of snow in the forest, we
can travel along a narrow bush trail. Allan came to meet us late in the day when we
returned, now driving a snowmachine instead of a boat.
Over the next few days, we watched as the ice
advanced. By Friday morning the whole bay was covered with ice. Saturday’s wind
pushed it back into the mouth of the bay. The wind shifted, then died, and all the lake
froze over on Saturday night. Well, almost all.
December 9th, Sunday afternoon Kate
and I walked along the old ice to the end of the bay. I carried the long pole, using it to
break holes now and then to check the thickness of the ice. The thinnest ice I could find
was 9 cm thick. Plenty of ice for walking.
At the edge between the old ice and the new, the
ice was even thicker. I could easily reach out to poke a hole in the new ice. It was
nearly 3 cm thick already! Not enough to walk on that day, but it wouldn’t take long
for it to thicken.
From there we moved on to land. We climbed the
big hill at the end of the bay so we could see how much of the lake this new layer of ice
covered. Half way up, we could clearly see a big hole in the ice. A gull cried out a
mournful plea.
At the top of the hill is a white pine I often
climb at this time of year. From another 30 feet up, I could see the extent of the hole.
Ten to twenty metres wide, and a hundred metres long. The gull floated alone in the
middle. The south wind rippled the water.
Sunday night that southerly breeze died down.
But the last puddle of water in the midde of the lake did not freeze. Over the next few
days, the wind rages from the north, then the south again. Finally, on the night of
December 14th, the lake water was finally laid to rest under the ice. We
won’t see it again until spring.
Received Dec. 17, 2007
Through the Solar Year
Living on solar power makes us naturally energy conscious. Especially during
the six weeks surrounding Winter Solstice. December is filled with cloudy days when we
gain no power at all. And on the few days each week when the sun does shine, it is low in
the sky. By the time it rises above the trees in the morning, and then shrinks below the
trees in the afternoon, there may be only 5 hours of productive energy accumulation.
Thank goodness, that all changes in January. While the days are just as short
as they are in December, they are more often sunny. The brilliance of the snow reflects
more light onto the panels, bringing in more power. Still, we only do laundry on sunny
days.
I love living on solar power. It is a simple system, with no moving parts, no
stinky fumes, no noise pollution, no power outages when an ice storm comes by. We have
eight 85-watt panels. These charge a battery bank that occupies a 2½ by 6 foot area of
our mudroom. An inverter and various monitors regulate the power. Flip a switch on the
wall, and a light comes on! This miracle of light at the flip of a switch goes unnoticed
by most folks.
Even when the sun does not shine for three days in a row, that light
continues to shine when the switch is flicked. That’s what the battery bank is for.
That’s why it is call a “bank”. It saves the energy from the sun so we can
use it when the sun isn’t there. If we’re careful, we can go five days or more
without the sun. In December, we are careful.
Each day in January the sun rises a little higher, shines a little longer. We
start to relax a bit with our energy vigilance. By February, the sun is high enough in the
sky that we can wash a load of clothes whether it is sunny or not. Because when it does
get sunny again, the solar energy will replenish the bank.
By March, we don’t have to think about every light that is left on.
Although by March, the days are long and bright. We don’t need the lights as much
anymore.
As summer approaches, I start trying to think of new ways to use energy. Our
system is designed to keep us wired through the winter. In summer, we can produce at least
double the energy of winter. Too bad we can’t bank it all for December!
Generally, electricity made from solar panels is not recommended for heating
things, like microwave ovens and hair dryers. But in June, we have more energy available
than we can keep, so we look for ways to use it. I can iron my shirts!
When September comes, we need to get back into thoughts of conservation. It
takes a while to remember this. Luckily, we have three months to practice before the dark
days of December descend once again.
Received Dec. 17, 2007
Snow and More Snow!
SNOW! It’s here! It is wonderful, amazing, delightful, and beautiful!
Unless of course you have to drive in it…. This is the advantage we have in living in
the wilderness. Ninety-nine percent of our travel is by means other than roads. This does
make it easier to love snow. From our perspective, lots of snow makes travel easier –
by skis, snowshoes and snowmachines.
Each morning in December I’m out for a walk. How much new snow is there?
Has the marten been by today? Or the red fox? Or the wolf and her mate? The snowshoe hares
have gone white, making them harder to see – but their tracks tell us they are still
near. The chickadees impatiently await a handful of sunflower seeds. Blue jays seem more
patient, as they wait in the higher branches.
The most compelling reason to venture out early each morning is to study the
lake. Is there new ice? Has the wind taken out the old ice? It is far too early to venture
out onto the ice this December. The downside of this week’s heavy snow is that it
insulates the ice that has formed on the lake. And weakens it. I’ll be staying on
shore.
Fortunately our lake is big and deep. We had only a little bit of ice around
the edges before the snow came. With luck, the northwest winds will take away all the old
ice. Then I can watch the new ice form after the snowstorms are past, and the wind
disappears.
It feels good to be walking in snow again. Cold, crisp snow slides off my
boots as I walk. It covers the lumps and bumps on the ski trail. It smoothes out a rugged
landscape, inviting snowshoe adventures deep into the forest. Even though the wind blows
fiercely in the treetops, deep in the forest the snow blankets the ground with a whisper.
This is just the beginning of winter. The start of a new list of chores
– work to be done before play. I shovel the snow off the paths, tossing it close to
the little log cabins. Its insulating blanket will help to keep out the winter winds, and
hold the warmth in. The ski trails must be packed. Then we’ll ski each day, trimming
the branches that grew long over the warm summer months.
We’ll bring in wood to keep the home fires burning. We’ll brew a
cuppa hot chocolate after a morning out playing in the snow. We can start to write
Christmas cards with the joy in our hearts that comes with a white landscape outside our
window. We’ll bake cookies and wrap presents. Then we’ll go out to work and play
in the snow again.
We love the snow, but we know there are people who don’t. But Mother
Nature doesn’t care either way. Like it or not, it is here!
Received Dec. 3, 2007
Christmas Giving
Snow blankets the land as December brings winter to our doorsteps.
Distracting us from worries about the cold and storms are thoughts of Christmas! What will
we give to our parents? What will we give to cousins and favourite uncles and siblings?
For the most part, all of us have more than enough ‘stuff’ to fill
our houses. Another sweater, another tie, another game or book or widget will bring a few
moments pleasure on Christmas morning, then what? We’ll have to build an addition on
the house to store it all. (Although chocolate is always a nice gift…)
Allan and I have always had difficulty finding the perfect gift for many or
our relatives. Everybody we know already has everything. So last Christmas we bought live
chickens – which were donated to families in need around the world.
We gave this gift through World
Vision, a charity that helps people to help themselves. www.worldvision.ca (1-866-595-5550)
Over the years we have given gifts to international organizations like Oxfam www.oxfam.ca and Doctors Without Borders (aka MSF,
Medicines Sans Frontiers), as well as favoured Canadian, provincial and local
charities.
There are plenty of charities to choose from. You can find many of them at
http://www.canadahelps.org/ . CanadaHelps
is a public charitable foundation that provides access to 80,000 charities listed in
Canada, from national organizations like national cancer charities to smaller groups like
local animal shelters and soup kitchens.
CanadaHelps is only available
online. From their website, you can search for charities by subject or location. Once you
find a charity that warms your heart, you can donate through the CanadaHelps website, or
follow the link that will take you to the charity’s website so you can donate
directly.
Below is a list of just a few of the charities that have caught my attention
over the years, along with their websites and phone numbers. Do your Christmas shopping
early, and many of these groups will send a Christmas card thank you note directly to the
folks you are ‘shopping’ for.
Received Dec.3, 2007
Tucking in the Garden
Kate and I pulled the last of the carrots from the garden just before the
ground froze. Carrots haven’t been easy for me to grow, so I was delighted to find we
had a good crop of short and fat carrots this year. I think the carrots would prefer some
deeper soil than what we’ve given them over the years. I keep trying to make a bed
they’ll like.
Carving a garden out of the forest is no easy task. Ours is located at the
edge of a wetland. This assures lots of sun, and a good supply of natural peat moss as a
base. (And lots of natural boulders mixed in.) Over the decades we’ve added local
soil and compost. Given the short supply of dirt, everything is grown in raised beds
– I can’t waste any good soil on pathways!
The other part of gardening that is difficult for me is my love of weeds.
Ground ivy makes such nice tea, as do sorrel leaves. I let the ox-eye daisies grow because
they make such great sandwich greens. And they are very frost tolerant. We’ll be
picking them until they get buried in the snow.
I have one raised bed that sports a beautiful crop of jewelweed – which
I need sometimes to take the sting out when I accidentally bump into the nettles. Nettles
are especially delicious when young and tender in the spring. They are also very invasive.
I’m torn between letting them grow for more greens and ruthlessly tearing them out to
make room for the tomatoes.
But now I think I’ve found a way to overcome the soft spot I have in my
heart for the weeds. Two weeks ago I prepared half the raised beds for early spring
planting. Somehow I find it easier to rip the old plants from the ground and toss them
into the compost now, than when they are just starting to produce in the spring.
I added more sand to the bed that will grow carrots next year and covered it
with a thick layer of old compost to tuck it in for the winter. Maybe I’ll toss some
more dirt on this bed come spring, just to make it deeper. It might be nice to have
carrots that are more than 5 inches long.
Meanwhile, the new compost pile is bigger than ever. All those old weeds with
the dirt that went in with their roots are mixed in with the old tomato plants and carrot
tops. A winter’s worth of kitchen compost will be blended in come spring. If I can
find the energy to turn the pile over a few times in May, I could have more good dirt to
build up another bed to plant the second seeding of carrots by mid June.
For now, the newly prepared beds look nice. They are all ready for winter
– hoping for a blanket of snow to tuck them in for a long winter’s sleep.
Received Nov. 19, 2007
For the Love of Books
I had only been in the bookstore for five minutes when a well-dressed elderly
gentleman came up to me to ask if I needed some assistance. I told him no, I wasn’t
looking for anything in particular. I had simply stopped by to wander through the stacks
of books and soak it all in. He asked if I would like to visit the inner sanctum, where
they kept the catalogued books. Yes!
So I followed Dr. Douglas C. Pollard though a maze of rooms, all filled with
books on shelves, books in boxes, books in crates, and books stacked on top of more books.
We then passed through a cool steel-walled passage that led into the last building on
site. Dr. Pollard explained to me that the passage was required by the building code as a
firebreak. Good idea.
The room at the back is a huge warehouse filled with row upon row of floor to
ceiling bookshelves. The aisles are long and wide. The books are neatly placed, each with
a slip of paper with a number on it. The number matches a code in the computer catalogue,
facilitating an easy search for specific titles and authors.
Dr Pollard left. I was alone in the well-lit room with a hundred thousand
books. I spent an hour, or maybe two wandering up and down the long rows. At some point I
heard the door open. Someone walked around for a few minutes, then the door opened again
and the silence returned.
As I drifted along the aisles, every now and then a title would catch my
interest, and I’d take the book off the shelf and leaf through it. Knowing that I
couldn’t possibly skim over every title in the room, I focused on the aisles of Big
Books. I found one that I had been thinking of buying for a long time. Actually, they had
four copies, all new.
LEGACY, the Natural History of Ontario, edited by John Theberge was published in
1989. List price, $100. Ouch. I left all four copies on the shelf and continued my walk
about the stacks.
At long last, I needed to give up on the idea of seeing everything in the
back room. There were several other rooms full of books that I wanted to at least peek at.
And maybe even some maps?
Upon returning to the main room I found a lovely elderly woman, Mrs. Lois
Pollard, reading at a desk near the computer. She and I had a quiet conversation about the
Highway Book Shop, its past and its future. She asked how I enjoyed the back room, so I
told her of the book I’d found. She reminded me that all the new books in the store
were at least 20% off; the used books were half price. She spoke a moment with Dr.
Pollard, and they agreed that some of the ‘online’ books were also half price.
Thank you!
While Dr. Pollard made the long walk back through all the rooms, through to
the very back of the large warehouse to retrieve the book I wanted, I asked Mrs. Pollard
about herself, and about the book shop.
Dr. and Mrs. Pollard are 83 and 85 years old. They have owned and operated
the Highway Book Shop on Hwy 11 south of Cobalt for FIFTY years! They would like to
retire, but really want to find someone to buy the store. They are ever hopeful that the
buyer will be someone who loves books as much as they do. Given their life’s work is
within the many walls of this store, that’s a big wish!
If you are travelling along Hwy 11 anytime soon, allow yourself some time to
stop in and have a look around. Or, check them out on the net… www.highwaybooks.ca. Or phone
(1-800-461-2062) to inquire if they have a copy of a book you’ve been looking for.
They ship books everywhere around the world!
Received Nov. 14, 2007
Comet Holmes
One hundred and five years ago this week, Edward Holmes was the first person
to notice the comet that is shining in the autumn skies above us now. It was of course,
named for him, 17P/Holmes.
Comet Holmes orbits the sun every 6.9 years, which makes it a fairly common
experience. So why haven’t we heard much about it before this year? I suspect
that’s because Comet Holmes isn’t usually visible to the naked eye. This year,
it is.
Two weeks ago Comet Holmes suddenly flared in the night sky. Over a period of
a few hours, it changed from its ordinary, tiny, star-like view through the telescope into
something that anyone can see with or without a telescope. That made the news!
Something happened to Comet Holmes that made it release a whole bunch of
dust, and the dust released made the light that shines from it to our Earth easily
visible. It may well be similar to what happened on November 6, 1892 when Edward Holmes
first saw it.
I love any excuse to step outside and view the night sky. To dress warmly on
a clear and cold November night, to find a comfy place to sit and gaze up at the stars.
The air is crisp, the pinpoint lights from the heavens twinkle. With some guidance from a
star chart, we found the right place to look for this bright comet – star like, but
not twinkling.
With binoculars it can be seen very clearly, and it looks just like its
picture.
Comet Holmes is easy to find in the early evening sky. On a clear night, step
outside and face a little bit north of east. Look up – up until you see a sideways W.
This is the constellation Cassiopeia. Move your eyes down toward the horizon slowly, until
you see a triangle of three bright stars. The “star” on the left side of the
triangle is 17/P Holmes. Not a star at all, but a comet that is moving away from the sun.
Another ‘pointer’ is to find the Little Dipper. The North Star is
at the tip of the handle of the dipper. From the North Star, follow the line of the handle
away from the Little Dipper until you see the three bright ‘stars’.
Through binoculars, Comet Holmes is definitely a fuzzy light in the sky. A
tiny bright light in the middle if the haze is the comet itself. It doesn’t have the
typical comet appearance of bright-light-with-a-tail attached because from here,
we’re looking at it along the length of the tail.
Comet Holmes will be with us for a while. We should be able to see it any
clear night in November.
Received Nov. 5, 2007 |
