Hi, My Name is Ada

"Are you done with your blog?" my mother asked yesterday when I stopped in to eat lunch and steal some of her speedy wi-fi to download a new batch of podcasts.

"No!" I said, somewhat surprised by the question, until I realized it really had been two and a half months since I last blogged.

How did this happen?!

For one thing, March ended up being a month full of freelance work and travel. What free time there was, was devoted to half-marathon training. Then winter just didn't stop, and somehow the days between blogging turned into weeks, which turned into months, and well, now it's 81 degrees, the lakes are ice free and the world is full of blossoms and bugs. 

The thing is, a lot has happened in these two and a half months (as you might guess), so here's the bullet point version real quick like of what's been going on since I last wrote.

Andy caught a big fish. He also got to enjoy using his snowmobile for five whole months. Yay winter?

Meanwhile, I was in Chicago, spending important time with my elderly grandparents and other family for a long weekend at the end of March. The official reason why we were all gathered was to run the annual Shamrock Shuffle 8K in downtown Chicago; my brother and his girlfriend came down from the lower peninsula of Michigan for the race too. Here's part of the crew waiting for the "L" home after the race. When I signed up for the race, I figured I'd be lucky to run the race in 55 minutes, but I actually finished with a time of 47:40. To say I'm ecstatic in this picture would be a major understatement.

Unfortunately running the race that fast triggered my old friend, patellofemoral pain syndrome. Also known as runner's knee, this malady is very common running injury (so much for a cool, funky chronic pain issue), particularly among females. It's been rearing its ugly head in my left knee since my early teens, but after running all last summer pain-free, I thought maybe we'd finally parted ways. Bahahaha.

April was a rather glum time as I kissed my beloved half marathon training schedule good-bye, iced my knee multiple times a day (during which I read a really awful Marilyn Monroe biography), spent a lot of time on the living room floor doing physical therapy, and going on a handful of painful short runs. In other words, not really how I'd planned to spend the final weeks before a May 3rd half marathon.

Knee pain aside, April had plenty of bright spots, including a bridal shower for a good friend, Easter celebrations at the cabin, and even a lovely memorial service for a great uncle. I also finished reading the Game of Thrones series . . . that only took 17 months. ;) 

Also, it kept snowing. The picture below was taken on April 25. The seemingly endless winter made it awfully hard to believe that my fifth season at work was just a couple weeks a way. Happily, I managed to get my rear in gear and actually get necessary things (you know, like gift shop orders) done.

Then all of sudden it was May and Jenny was coming into town for the Ham Run Half Marathon. I'd gone running only five times in April and my longest distance had just been eight miles. Still, I truly felt (with a little athletic tape and some ibuprofen) that I could do 13.1 miles. (Actually 13.2 miles - the course is long.) So I did.

Back in March, when I was healthy, I'd hoped to run the race in the 2:10 - 2:20 range, but considering my training and injury, when I crossed the starting line, I just wanted to also cross the finish line. 2:44:11 later, and I did. At the time I finished, I was too tired and hungry to be to overwhelmed by the accomplishment, but the more time that passes, the more I can't believe I did it - particularly after the three short runs I've huffed and puffed my way through since the race. On a bright note, after six weeks, my knee is finally pain-free again and I plan to keep it that way.

The weekend after the race, it was crafting weekend. As usual, this was such a happy fun time, until on Saturday evening, five out of seven crafters were brought down by a nasty Norovirus. Friends who barf together, stay together? Photo by the lovely Anne Victoria - pre-spewing, obvi.

 

With a slightly queasy stomach, I headed back to work full time the Monday after crafting weekend, and that's pretty much what I've been doing since. Today, I got half the garden into the ground, and also managed to clean the bathroom at long last (and make ice cream sandwiches - my real priority of the day). It's been a happy, happening time around here; I hope you've been well too.

Read more ...

Life Without Television

I feel like I talk a big talk about the fact that we don't have a television. I feel like I've lead people to believe that we lack a t.v. because we prefer more intellectual entertainment such as listening to NPR or sipping boxed  fine wine and having compelling discussions about foreign politics over dinner. Perhaps I've lead you to believe that our nightly entertainment is annotating the margins of literary classics.

And I wouldn't be lying if I told you that MPR is on at least once every single day in the cabin or that I've spent the last three nights cuddled up on the couch reading an increasingly tattered copy of Anne of Avonlea.

But here are some truth facts about the whole "sans tv" situation.

• We don't have room for a tv.
• I don't want to pay the bills the service
• I prefer to get my TLC and Bravo fix in short but intense doses when visiting others.

And remember that Netflix account?

Yep, this weekend Andy totally upped our Netflix account so we can have three DVDs at a time.

Can we claim superiority over all t.v. owners out there? I think not.

Read more ...

Friendship TERMINATED!

Back in my college days, during my semester in Ireland,  because we weren't being academically challenged and had a ton of free time, we did things like hold Napoleon Dynamite theme dinners, award people with points for witty quips and whenever anything wasn't going well, yell at each other, "Friendship TERMINATED!" Of course it never was. In fact, I'm still in touch with several of those Ireland/college friends today. But I digress . . .

After Tuesday's post about good friends, I thought for the sake of balance, I might as well devote today's  post to fair weather friends. Yeah, you know the type.

Remember Al?

Who couldn't love a face like that?

Oh, Al, our friendly little pine marten friend who liked to show up at our bird feeders on a daily basis this winter to gorge himself on sunflower seeds. He had such a sweet little face. I was charmed by his preference for sunflower seeds over nommy, yummy red squirrel. Our very own vegetarian pine marten.What a pal. And he was CUTE!

As the winter progressed, I began to suspect that Al wasn't a true vegetarian. He was just lazy. Why bother chasing red squirrels when there were oodles of sunflower seeds to be had and a compost pail on the porch to root around in?

Don't worry. You're safe.

But about a month ago we ran out of sunflower seeds and I didn't bother to buy anymore. Spring was coming and the birds could find plenty to eat out in the world beyond our backyard. I was also sick of Al going through the compost pail, only to remember every single time after he'd scattered the contents across the porch that "Oh yeah, I don't like onion skins and lemon peels." The compost pail came back inside.

Al was not pleased. Not one little bit.

In protest, he marched out to the actual compost pile out back and hurled the top layer of compost all over the ground surrounding the pile. As I scooped all the compost back onto the pile, I had to admit, he'd made his point. But his childish behaviors only hardened my resolve. No more sunflower seeds for you, Mr. Lazy-Pants Pine Marten. 

When I went out back a couple days ago to dump out the latest compost pail and found yet another thin layer of compost hurled in a circle outside the bin, I was feeling a little less forgiving about Al's misbehaving. (I know it's you Al, I can see your tracks.) "Enough," I yelled at the skies, shaking my fist in frustration. Spending ten minutes a couple times a week playing with compost just isn't that much fun. 

Then the other day, I headed out to shed to grab some plastic containers to transplant some of my seedlings into. Since the shed wasn't completed last year, Al can, and is apt to, get through the gap between the walls and ceilings. He likes to lick out the recycling stored in there. As I reached in the recycling bin to pull out a yogurt container and I hit instead upon something soft, cold, and smooth. When I pulled my hand out for inspection, I was holding a handful of Al poop. Now I am not a mother and I have yet to be desensitized to the grossness that is poo. Yuck, yuck, yuck!

Don't you get it Al? My seasonal affections for the birds has now been transferred to my little seedlings. Eating my plants' compost is not a good way to endear yourself to me. And pooping in the recycling? Not cool, my friend. Not cool at all.

Friendship TERMINATED!

Read more ...

You Flushed WHAT down the toilet?!

My brother and I were schooled at an early age not to flush random things down the toilet. Among those random things? Lego men, pennies, Kleenex . . . anything other than a moderate amount of toilet paper and your business was a strict no-no. 

 Photo Credit

A couple of months ago, I read a blog post where the author admitted she judged people when she discovered they used generic toilet paper. While I wholeheartedly agree that name brand T.P. is pretty cushy, in this neck of the woods, something like Charmin is an unheard of luxury.

Around here, you're going to have to deal with "cheap", thin toilet paper. For one thing, I'd hate to be using more trees than necessary just so the world can have quilted T.P. For another, the thicker the T.P. the more likely it is to clog up the all important septic system.

In northern Minnesota, it seems we talk about septic systems an awful lot. That's because septic systems are expensive and bothersome. And contrary to popular belief, the toilet isn't a magic vortex ready to wrestle whatever gets flushed down it. (Oh the horror this poor heart of mine experienced when I heard tell of people flushing paper towels down their toilet!) Treat your septic system with care and it will treat you well in return.

Please don't judge me by my toilet paper. Judge me by my wonderful working septic system.

My dear friend Sarah was up for a visit this past week. She lives in the big city now and sometimes I forget that she's a northern girl like me, albeit, from the western part of the state. She's well-versed in septic system etiquette and coming from a family whose cabin has a holding tank, she knows the more waste water you dump down the drains, the harder your septic tank works and the faster it fills up.

The whole time she was up, she kept asking questions like:  "Is it okay if I dump the dirty dish water down the drain?" or  "Is it okay if I flush the toilet?"

One morning I heard the water running in the bathroom. After a couple minutes the water shut off and Sarah came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

"Did you just take a shower?" I asked.

"Yeah, up at our cabin, we can only take 5 minute showers."

"You know, you can take a shower that's longer than that if you want," I said. "We have a full blown septic system."

"Nah, it's fine."

Good friends know you can't flush just anything down the toilet.

Read more ...

Across the Ice, Over the River and Through the Woods . . .

You know what's really weird when you think about it? Ice.

For oh, about  seven months of the year, the bay outside the cabin looks like this.

For the other 5 months it looks more like this:

In a neighboring bay, ice turns the lake into a veritable highway.

Of course ice makes a rather capricious roadway. Ice is in its very nature is treacherous. When too much snow builds up on the ice, lake water leaks over the top of the ice to mix with the snow and creating slushy conditions that are anything but fun to traverse. Wind can cover up paths across the lake's flat frozen terrain in a matter of minutes.

We've been getting a lot more sunshine and warmer temps lately and that means the lake ice is starting its slow spring melt. As the layers of ice and snow melt down, past treks across the ice are re-revealed since compacted tracks from snowmobiles, snowshoes, and boots take longer to melt.

It can be kind of disconcerting to walk across melting ice. As I write this I can hear the ice groaning and cracking outside as it adjusts to warmer "spring-ier" temperatures. But our  recent  warm "spring" weather was followed by subzero temperatures in the last couple days which refroze the ice into a concrete like substance. Yesterday Andy and I set out down the new (and short-lived) ice "sidewalk" to see where the wind might blow us.

After all that ice talk, it was lovely to find some running water by the "Ripple", where the lake feeds into a river.

On the way home, we scrambled down a cliff,

cut through a swamp

(which wasn't quite as stable as the lake ice),

found cliff side icicles,

even spied some evergreen polypody poking up through the snow.

It was beautiful springtime hike, all brought to you compliments of the wonderful, mysterious substance known as ice!


Where's your favorite place to wander in the springtime?

Read more ...

Wordless Wednesday: Mr. Pine Marten

If you're a fan of Of Woods and Words' Facebook page ,you know we've had a pine marten hanging out at our bird feeders for the past month or so. He was a big fan of the McRib, which is now a thing of history. Although these members of the weasel family are well known for their vicious personalities, it's hard not to be charmed by their little kitten-like faces. Every time I hear a clattering on the porch, I grab my camera and proceed to take a ton of (largely grainy) shots of this guy.

This is worse than having a pet . . . .

Read more ...

Time For Ridiculous Adventures

It's not secret that motivation flagged a bit at the start of the month. When faced with the dichotomy of transcribing interviews (for which I get paid) or blogging (for which I do not), I opted for blogging. I lounged on the couch, pretending to write a synopsis of the novel. I thought about querying some freelance gigs.

Last week, things were different. (Amazing what a looming credit card bill can do to you get plunked down at the computer churning out work, isn't it?) The butt stayed in the chair and work was completed, some of it before deadline, even. Luckily, the Friday before last, Andy and I had one last day of glorious and slightly ridiculous adventures, the memories of get me through these dark times of actual hard work.

It started off innocently enough as we set out to set up the deer stand. But we got distracted by the large white pine that had fallen down a couple weeks back and had yet to be removed  Andy decided he needed a new splitting block so he sawed off an 18 inch tall chunk from the fallen tree. Getting the hunk of tree trunk into the back of the truck was a mind over matter affair: the tree was at least two feet across at its widest point. It was probably about 300 years old when it fell, about its base had been rotting away for some time before the wind finally got it.

The chainsaw looks teeny compared with the size of the log!

Moving on . . . We bumped down the road and set up the deer stand. The stand was up in a matter of minutes, but there was still a fair amount of crashing around in the woods as we established a back route to the stand that didn't involve tromping down the deer trail that the stand overlooks.

We ran home to grab some lunch, where we both noticed that the Jack O' Lantern was no longer looking its best. In fact, the inside was completely black and icky  So Andy proposed we take the pumpkin with us to the shooting range.

Andy transforms a pumpkin into a target

Least this seem a frivolous waste of time and pumpkin, it was the day before deer opener --so Andy was sighting in his rifle --and the pumpkin came home with us and is now on the top of our compost heap.

After picking up and stocking a truck load of firewood, the day of ridiculous adventures ended with a campfire on the beach near the cabin. It was a perfect autumn day. 

Read more ...

It Happened . . . .

This morning both Andy and I woke up ready to go. This is a pretty rare occurrence. While Andy I frequently evoke comparisons to the waking dead until about 2 in the afternoon. This harkens back to the whole early bird, night owl dilemma. Frankly, when I’m chipper at 6:30 in the morning, Andy knows it’s no normal day.  

 As Andy headed out the door, I wished him luck and yelled after him, “You better get a deer. We can’t afford to buy any meat from the grocery store.” While I don’t get a lot of things about hunting (and have issues with bear and moose seasons), I do get the whole “stocking the larder” concept that ties in with deer season.  And our larder could use some stocking. One cannot live through a winter on blueberries alone.

When Andy came home two hours earlier than I’d expected, I figured something had happened.

“Did you get a deer?” I asked.

In response Andy waggled his fingers at me. There was a little bit of blood on his fingertips. It seemed one of two things could have happened: either he’d gotten a deer or he needed a drive down to the emergency room.

“You got a deer?” I said, hopefully. I hoped this was the option we were going with mainly because it was 8:30 in the morning and I hadn’t managed to get dressed yet. (I might add that I had gotten an hour of work done.) And I really needed to shower.

Indeed he had.

I felt glad for him. And I felt worried.

I did not grow up in a hunting family. My grampa hunts. My uncle hunts. My family eats Sloppy Toes (sloppy joes made with crumbled tofu). I really like tofu. I have no clue if I like venison.  

Until this very day, I’ve been removed from the deep-rooted deer hunting traditions that so many of my peers share. One of my all-time favorite examples of deer hunting tradition comes from my friend Betsy. Betsy’s extended family always goes hunting up at their cabin in northern Wisconsin. The women stay at the cabin in the day while the men are out hunting and the first night of deer season they always served ham and cheese casserole.  That is, until the year Betsy’s mom made dinner the first night of deer season and served . . . . . tator tot casserole!!!  An uproar broke out. “But we always have ham and cheese casserole,” they said. You just don’t mess with the traditions that surround deer hunting. Except, I've never had any traditions to mess with.

Last year we gathered everything we needed in the advent of a deer. A meat grinder to attach to the stand mixer. A sausage stuffer. A jerky gun and a dehydrator. But there wasn’t a deer last year and I got to prolong becoming a true woodland housewife for another season.

Now, well, here’s hoping I like venison. I better. Andy’s out hunting again right now. There’ll be no going hungry this winter.

Watch this space for tasty venison recipes . . . coming soon!

Read more ...

Hunkering Down

Tonight the NOAA weather forecast reads as so:

Tonight: Rain. Areas of fog after 1am. Low around 32. Breezy, with a south wind between 20 and 25 mph, with gusts as high as 35 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%.

Wednesday: Snow before 1pm, then rain and snow. High near 39. West wind between 15 and 20 mph, with gusts as high as 30 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 1 to 2 inches possible.

The radar looks like this:

As the wind howls and the rain (soon to be snow) splatters against the windows, it sounds like a good night for pizza, wine and a big fire ripping away in the wood stove.

Read more ...

Smoke! Fire!!

Despite losing our leaves what seems like a long time ago, we've been having a knock-out October in these parts. The nip in the air has been perfectly complimented by bright blue skies and just the slightest breezes. (Of course, we're all worried about the decided lack of rain as the lake levels get lower and lower, but that's another topic for another day.) And all that beautiful weather translates into smoke in the air.

We live on a small pocket of private land in a national forest. As you head up the road towards the cabin, the rolling hills of mixed forest that dominate alongside Lake Superior start to fade into granite outcroppings as you approach the very southern edge of the Boreal forest. This is a landscape that's been shaped by fire for centuries, if not millenia and as a result, one of the prime ways the local forestry agency keeps the forest healthy is by lighting control burns we know as "prescribed burns."

Prescribed burns are meant to be a fairly routine procedure around here, but pulling off what is essentially a controlled forest fire is kind of tricky business. On top of needing very particular weather conditions to pull off the burns, funding can often be a roadblock since the burns are controlled by a federal agency. But all the pieces of the puzzles have somehow miraculously fit together this fall and last week, a (very) large plume of smoke appeared on the south edge of our lake from a prescribed burn, several thousand acres in size, that had been lit about 15 miles southwest from the cabin. For the past week and a half, the air's often filled with the smell of campfire. The smoke in the air can make the setting sun look a bit like a candled egg.

It can be funny to think that a bit of smoke in the air is probably one of the most natural things to smell up here on a fall day. Beyond the wood that heats so many of our homes or roasts our marshmallows, we tend to think of fire only in destructive terms. A large part of my summer was spent talking with people who had just seen the evidence of our 2007 wildfire for the first time. Fire often doesn't look real great and we forget its functionality. I just read in The Secrets of Wildflowers that Native Americans used fires to in the eastern part of the United States for agricultural purposes for hundreds of years before the Europeans showed up.Fire is a powerful tool if we use it correctly and Mother Nature's ability to recover so spectacularly after a fire should be considered miraculous, in my opinion.

Andy's been part of the volunteer fire department for the last couple years. Today he's helping out with the prescribed burns, mostly being available in case one of the fires creeps out of its designated boundaries and makes a run for a residential area. Both Andy and I grew up with forest fires being treated as a necessary reality of life in the woods. To us, the smoke doesn't signal distress, but something exciting that helps our forest grow strong.

After all, it's just a bit of smoke in the air.

Read more ...

Occupational Hazards

This spring someone asked if I had a pocket knife they might borrow. I hoisted my "Sex and the City" tote bag higher on my shoulder and looked around, assuming they'd been talking to someone else. Just because I live in the woods, one shouldn't forget my pile of high-heeled shoes collecting dust in a corner. In lots of ways it feels that woods chose me more than I chose them and as a result, I'm not the most proactive woods resident. Pocket knife? What pocket knife?

Still, I'm not Carrie Bradshaw. I'm not going to throw a fit if a squirrel scampers up on the windowsill. I'm pretty in sync with the other animal residents of my neighborhood. The squirrels, chipmunks, birds, foxes, etc., all have a special place in my heart.

But going back to the whole not always being that proactive . . . . For whatever reason, despite having grow up in older houses, I'd never actually set a mouse trap until this summer. But when you work in a 76-year-old building that was never winterized, you learn pretty quickly. Now I think nothing of setting mouse traps or wiping bat crud off the cabin's bathroom walls, for that matter.

Yet I wasn't quite prepared for the woodland intruder I found beneath my desk at work last week: a little garter snake. He was just a teeny little snake who must have slithered through the crack by the front door, probably to soak up some of the sunlight the large slab of slate next to my desk had absorbed.

Years ago, in my kindergarten days, we rented an old house that seemed to be a veritable garter snake refuge. My brother and I often were called upon to remove snakes from the basement or stairwell. But after one of the snakes defecated on me (one of their defense mechanisms), the chore kind of lost its enjoyment. I looked at the little snake and thought, "I could live a long happy life without having to touch you."

Luckily one of the visitors had a thing for snakes. She thought nothing of crouching down by the desk and pulling the snake out by his tail. Here's our bold little snake. He really wasn't too scary. We got him back in the woods in no time, although he left our fearless snake remover a present by musking on her hands before she let him go.

I apologize if this not how one should properly hold a snake. The intent was not animal cruelty but to release the snake into his natural habitat.

That's just life in the woods.

Read more ...

It Always Ends This Way !

Since grouse season started a couple weeks back, our evenings have fallen into a bit of a schedule. As I close up shop at work, Andy stops at home to get a snack and fill up the water bottles. Then he heads over to work and we set out on evening ruffed grouse reconnaissance. Some nights we bump around in the pickup truck on gravel roads. Other nights we stretch our legs on nearby snowmobile or ski trails, enjoying the sweet musty smell of decaying leaves, the way the setting sun sinks into the horizon this time of year, and the last lingering wildflowers. The grouse have been plentiful this year and we’ve already had three grouse dinners.

I also spend a decent amount of our evenings out in the woods hoping we don’t run into a moose. The moose are in rut right now which makes them plenty cranky (Andy’s experiences a few years back are a perfect case in point) and the fact that it’s also moose hunting season gives me just one more reason why I don’t need our paths to cross with a moose. After last year's experience I’ve had enough fun moose experiences to last me a while.

Mama and Baby outside Chik-Wauk Museum and Nature Center: August 2010

People always think I’m being a jerk when I say “I only see moose when I don’t want to see them.” (Well, I might be being a bit of jerk, but I am sick of being asked “where’s the best place to see moose?” and then receiving incredulous looks when I explain that there is no rhyme or reason, people see moose all over at any time of day.) But it’s true: I rarely see moose in a situation where I have the luxury of observing the moose. More often than not, moose and I run into each other because one of us is in the wrong place.

On Sunday night, we’d almost back to the truck when Andy motioned for me to stop. “There’s a huge bull moose up there,” he whispered. I gulped. Once we were back in the truck, we tried to figure out what the moose were up to. There were definitely two moose moving about in the woods, but it was hard to tell what they were doing. They obviously weren’t too terribly concerned with us.

Then on Monday night, while Andy and I had paused in a wooded clearing, a wolf let out a long low howl. It sounded like to came from right behind me. “Here take my knife,” Andy whispered. We tiptoed back to the truck. Of course nothing happened.

But: dang it! These fabulous autumn hikes of ours always end like this!

Luckily, our evenings also often end with yummy grouse dinner (usually consumed around 9 p.m.) like homemade grouse noodle soup. You can make it with chicken too.

Homemade Grouse (Chicken) Noodle Soup
4-5 grouse breast or 1 whole chicken
12 cups water
2 teaspoons powdered chicken bouillon
½ teaspoon black pepper
½ teaspoon thyme
1 large onion, chopped
1 cup celery, chopped
1 ½ cup carrot slices
1 recipe homemade noodles

In a small saucepan, cover grouse with water and boil 20 minutes. Remove grouse from pot, cool and cut into bite sized pieces. Simmer in a large soup pot with all the remaining ingredients except the noodles for a ½ hour. Start noodles while soup is simmering.

Noodles:
2 cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon salt
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vegetable oil
1/3 cup water

Mix flour and salt together. In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, oil and water. Mix into flour. Turn dough out onto a floured countertop: knead for eight to ten minutes or until the dough is smooth and elastic. Divide dough in half. Roll each dough piece until 1/16-1/8 inch thick. Cover with a cloth and let rest for 20 minute to relax gluten. Slice dough into strips 3/8 inch wide. Drop noodles, one at a time, into simmering soup. Cook until tender: about 20 minutes. Add salt and pepper to the soup to taste: Enjoy!

Read more ...

Goodbye Shack

We moved out of the Shack months ago, but yesterday we headed down to the Mid-Trail area to pay one last visit to the Shack. Although we’d moved the most pertinent things out in May when we left, little bits of Ada and Andy still lingered in the Shack: old printers, tennis rackets, and guitars. So yesterday we packed, stacked and shoved all those not so little bits into the back of Andy’s truck. As we drove back to the cabin, I started to wonder just how we managed to get so much shi-stuff into a 12x20 building.

Luckily, the new shed has reached a point in its construction that we could move a bit of the truck’s contents directly into that space. Still the vast majority of bins and bags needed to brought inside and dealt with. For a couple hours yesterday we made a stab at going through the boxes, sorting it into toss piles and thrift piles, condensing bins. But it gets old so quickly, doesn’t it and there is so very much of it. To think, in my parents’ garage, there are still containers filled with stuff I haven’t looked at since college.

How do two people, each a mere 25 years in age end up with so much stuff? I just don’t get it.

But somehow, stuff piles up. Homes come and go. When you take a moment to think about it, it can be pretty amazing to think of all you’ve seen, all you’ve received, all you’ve done and learned. Shutting the door to the Shack yesterday afternoon, it was hard to believe we’d spent so much time in the cramped little, poorly insulated space.

But the Shack was truly a happy, humble home for us. The kind of place where you didn’t have to feel guilty that all your worldly belongings were still shoved into plastic containers. Where you didn’t worry about housekeeping because even in the best of circumstances the Shack doesn’t look too hot. A place to be until everything sorted itself out.

Goodbye Shack. May you make a cozy home for someone else very soon.

Read more ...

Wilderness Experiences

Ever since the U.S. Congress passed the Wilderness Act of 1964, the term “wilderness” has been one of those buzzwords which can inspire some of the most inane arguments. As the government defines “wilderness,” the wilderness is a place without motors or modern amenities, and a place which is allowed to independently evolve in its natural state. To many people, the term “wilderness” simply means “the woods" and being in the wilderness has more to do with a sense of place in their heart than it has to do with obtaining the appropriate camping permit.

Legally, I live about a mile off from the federally designated wilderness. However, I also live 55 miles away from the nearest town and if I wanted, in less than a day I could be in a world without motors. Technically the cabin’s not in the wilderness, but we’re definitely in the woods. And what a busy little bit of woods it is.

When the decision was made to spend the summer at the cabin, I knew that at age 25, I had succeeded in living the dream that so many people save for retirement. Who doesn’t long for quiet mornings spent sipping coffee on the deck or watching the sun set over a still lake? What I’d forgotten is that everyone has their own idea of what a good time at the lake constitutes. For whatever reason, I didn’t realize a summer spent on a “wilderness” lake would be a busy, daily mash of vacationers.

Just as the term “wilderness” is debated, what people deem wilderness experiences varies drastically. Simply comparing the rhetoric of Conservationists with Common Sense to that of the Friends of the Boundary Waters reveals that common ground in a common ground isn’t that easy to achieve. While Andy and I think nothing of motoring down the lake a bit to fish for an hour or two in the evening, we stand on our deck with our jaws hanging open whenever -- insert one of the options: a water skier, speed boat, pontoon boat, snorkeler, jet ski -- passes by on the lake. When you’re raised in the old school wilderness with motor boats and canoes, even kayaks are viewed with mild skepticism.

Most people aren't set on ruining your personal wilderness experience. And when your livelihood is tied with people having and repeating wilderness experiences, it seems best to reserve some judgment. Sure we can raise our eyebrows, sigh, and wonder what the heck “they’re doing now.” But if they’re not harming the environment (too much) and are attempting to obey laws, we have to realize that their wilderness experience just isn’t ours. That, and the fact that Labor Day is only a couple weeks off . . .  

Read more ...