A Refuge for Lost Docks

I came home a little early on Friday afternoon and was mindlessly putzing around the house, when I happened to glance out the window. Then I glanced again. What the what?!?

To my surprise, there was a second dock floating just off shore. Either I'd missed some important memo, or else we'd become a refuge for wayward docks, because whatever that thing that was floating out there was, it sure wasn't ours.

It seems to have been the spring of wayward docks. A couple weeks back, two other docks were drifting through the swatch of open water in our bay. Perhaps the winter was just too long and anchors and ropes started to give way before the docks' owners had time to reattach ("put in") their docks to the shore.  Alternatively (and probably more likely), perhaps the docks were never that secure when they were "put to sea" last fall.

Although I don't remember it as being particularly windy on Friday afternoon, the wind was gusting out of the south and since our dock is located at the northern most point on the lake, it makes sense that a loose dock would end up nestled between our dock ramp, the shore, and the floating portion of our dock.

Now, the question remains: whose is it? When I spotted it on Friday, I decided to tie it up to shore, figuring that it would be easier for whoever lost it to find a stationery object rather than a floating and drifting one. All the docks in the bay are already in, or else have been accounted for, so most likely this dock lives on the other side of the lake. It's probably time to send out an email to the lake association to attempt to find the dock's owner.

Just another North woods mystery . . . 

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Clearing Trail

Remember a couple weeks back when I mentioned the new/old hiking trail we're reopening on the museum and nature center grounds where I work? Yesterday, Andy, I, Andy's aunt and cousin, spent our Saturday afternoon clearing the end of the trail to the scenic overlook where the trail will now end. Initially, the trail went past the scenic overlook and into a federally designated wilderness, but for maintenance reasons (aka, you can't use chainsaws in a federal wilderness), we're ending the trail before we hit the wilderness border.

The trail is about a mile, maybe a mile and a quarter, long and the first half had been cleared out in March. Because the trail's been unused for nearly 15 years, there's all sorts of undergrowth that needs to snipped away from the trail, not to mention a slew of fallen trees (from a windstorm and a forest fire) that need to chainsawed off the path. Believe it or not, the picture below is of the cleared path: 

There might be a little work to do yet . . . .

I always get swamping duty because I can't be trusted with chainsaws and I actually really enjoy grabbing bits of charred tree truck and hurling them off the trail.  There's such visceral satisfaction in taking a hiking path that's all tangled up with deadfall and undergrowth and making it passable. 

 

No matter what the path looks like getting there, there's always one heck of a view at the end of the path.

 

It's still too early for wildflowers to be popping out, so I contented myself with taking some pictures of lichen.

As we stomped back through the woods, chainsaws on our shoulders, backpacks filled with empty waterbottles and cookie bags, we found a moose hiding out in the brush. Can you spot her?

Soon Andy and I will be clearing another trail, so to speak. We leave tomorrow to go visit my brother in southwestern Michigan. It's a 15-hour drive (one way) and I'm already having nightmares about crossing the five-mile long Mackinaw Bridge. Still, I'm excited to see a new part of the country (the only time I've been in Michigan's lower peninsula was to change planes in Detroit) and catch up with my brother.

I'll be popping in and out during the week as time allows and I have a guest post or two for you to enjoy during my absence. Have a great week!
 

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Life in the Woods: Everyday Challenges

I always assumed moving home was kind of a cop-out, something you do when you're scared of rush hour and can't wrap your head around the expense of work clothes.

When you return home, you return to a little safety net of familiarity. You'll know the majority of people you bump into while running errands and you'll pick right back up on the small town gossip. Although I live an hour away from my childhood home, I still have the same zip code that I had growing up (it has to be one of the "most area covering" zip codes in the country!) and I shop at the same grocery store as my mother and bank at an institution where my grandmother worked for 39 years. Because I've simply fallen back into "the way things always were," there's not a whole lot of "figuring it out" that has to be done on a daily basis.

Yet despite the familiarity of it all, I find myself doing things every day that I never thought I'd do.

There's the whole "learning to drive a manual transmission" thing that I think I'm finally getting a handle on. Every day, I light a fire in the wood stove, something I never did growing up. Let's not even get started on my everyday fashion. In the end, my daily apparel of wool pants, "moon boots"  and Carhartt vests (Yes, I received not one, but two Carhartt vests for Christmas) isn't really the haute couture I'd imagined for myself.

And if you'd told me that one day I'd be crawling underneath the cabin to swap out propane tanks, I would have laughed in your face.  

But on Saturday afternoon, I went to brown some venison (case in point). But when I turned the knob to light the burner, I was greeted by "tick, tick, tick." As the ticking continued and the burner still refused to ignite, I knew we'd run out of propane. I'd suspected we were near the bottom of the tank, since the stove had smelled slightly gassy the last couple times I'd turned it on, a sure sign that a replacement tank would be in short order.  

Since moving into the cabin, I've always made Andy swap out the tanks because I didn't know how to do it. But the last time we ran out of propane, Andy was at work. So, after some detailed instructions from Andy over the phone, I donned my Carhartt vest, grabbed the crescent wrench and hopped underneath the deck to detach the empty propane cylinder. It took a little doing to get the cylinder detached. Propane tanks are threaded opposite of most things, making "lefty loosey, righty tighty" totally irrelevant and it was harder for me to wrap my brain around that than I would like to admit. Nevertheless, I eventually got it and getting the new cylinder in place was a piece of cake. 

The propane tanks are small, just the standard cylinders that you'd use for your grill. Despite their petite size, the cylinders usually last us close to four months, but as luck would have it, when the tank ran out on Saturday, Andy was again nowhere to be found.

I figured I remembered how to switch out the tanks by myself, so I threw on some shoes and headed to the shed to grab a full propane cylinder. This time of year, the ground beneath the deck is littered with sunflower seed shells and as I knelt beneath the deck I noticed four little squirrel paws pop out on the side of the deck plank right above my head.

"Living the dream," I grumbled as I sent up a silent prayer to whoever was listening that the squirrel would not defecate on my head or make a nest out of my hair while I tried to remember which way to turn the wrench. (Towards the house to loosen and towards yourself to tighten.) 

The gods above must have been listen. The squirrel scampered off, oblivious of my presence and the propane tanks were swapped out in minutes By the time Andy came home, stew burbled away on the stove top.

I will not be defeated by ticking ranges. I am woman: watch me swap out propane tanks.

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Blog Goals. Oh, Blog Goals.

"So what are your current goals with Of Woods and Words?" Andy asked the other day.

We were in the middle of nowhere on yet another ice fishing adventure and frankly, at the moment, I was more concerned with downing a couple of cheesy crackers in front of the crackling fire than talking writer goals.

Goals for Of Woods and Words, you say?

When I started Of Woods and Words back in October 2009, of course there was that niggling thought in the back of my mind that it would be pretty bomb if my little blog went viral. Nearly two and a half years later I'm still here, but far from being the next Pioneer Woman. (But a girl can dream, right?)

When I post that first blog post, I was pretty ignorant of all things bloggy. I had no idea that blogging was such an industry. I quickly learned that your blog's success can be measured in any number of ways:

• GFC followers
• Page views
• Facebook page likes 
• Twitter followers
• Ad revenue
• Number of comments 
• Etc. etc. 

There are many, many blog posts out there railing against the popularity contest that can be blogging. This isn't going to be another one of those posts. After all, success when it comes to blogging demands readership and the best glimpse of that readership comes in the form of statistics. I'd be lying if I said I didn't pay attention to my follower numbers. It feels good to be recognized by Minnesota Moments  as a Minnesota blogger. Recognition and growing numbers are always nice, think. 

Growth is important and will always be one of my goals with Of Woods and Words, but I'm not willing to achieve that growth by compromising the voice that's been long established on this blog. (There's a reason why you don't see giveaways here. . . maybe someday, but it seems out of character at the moment.) Quality over quantity any day.

When I started the blog, I wanted a place where I could write on a regular basis and gain some exposure as a writer. I feel I've been successful with that simple goal, but I also feel that's a goal without an expiration date. The only way to keep meeting that goal is to keep writing. So I will.

In addition to that basic founding goal, in the coming months, I'll likely be:

• Continuing to explore sponsorship options - the blog might as well earn its keep and at least pay for its annual domain registration. 
• Working to provide my wonderful group of readers with helpful and interesting content; namely, I'd like to make this blog more of a resource for aspiring freelance writers.
• Recording more mundane details about life in the woods. If the blog is nothing else, it's an excellent diary/photo album and that in and of itself makes it invaluable to me.

Maybe someday, I'll have 1000 followers. Maybe someday I'll go back through the post and publish them as a collection of essays. Maybe.

Until then, I'm glad to have you along for the ride. I don't say it enough, but thanks for stopping by.

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Guest Post: Lake Culture as an Art

Note from Ada: This week and next I'm asking some of my bloggy friends to help fill the Of Woods and Words soundwaves. Today fellow Minnesotan, Meri of Meri-Goes-Round, takes lakes and getaways . . . Minnesota style. Enjoy!

One of the things I love most about Ada’s blog is the snippets of Minnesota life that she brings to the blog world. Born and raised a Minnesotan myself, I have spent a good while in urban, suburban, and natural parts of the state.

It’s not uncommon to have a getaway to go to. New Yorkers have the Hamptons, others have country cottages... Minnesotans have “the lake.” This is a strange term because Minnesota is home to thousands and thousands of lakes (no, not a mere 10,000 like the nickname). While non-Minnesotans may have lake homes or cabins of their own, Minnesotans really take this culture to the next level.

So in the spirit of my “listmania” month over at my own blog, I have a list tailor-made for Of Woods and Words:

Ways Minnesotans have made “Lake Culture” an art form:

10. Cabins made of real logs, a la Laura Ingalls Wilder

9. Water so pure you can be in over your head and still see the bottom

8. Spending all day on a ramshackle boat with a fishing line draped over the side, chatting with a friend or family member and slowing it waaaay down

7. S’mores, sparklers, fireworks, beer. The Fourth of July couldn’t be spent anywhere else for me.

6. Card games, board games, and cribbage.

5. Waking up and drinking coffee while mom makes homemade banana cake or pancakes. My first and only crepes from scratch. Man-go-round’s birthday cake one year. Countless barbeques and pasta salads.

4. Learning how to waterski, wakeboard, or “switch” inner tubes with your best friends or sisters

3. Walking with your Dad collecting agates on the side of the dirt road, the smell of pine needles in the air and paint brush flowers near the marsh.

2. The quiet at night, punctuated by one or a chorus of our beloved Loons.

1. No TV, no internet, little cell phone service... but nights of conversation and laughter with the people I love most.

No one messes with my summers at the cabin. I’ve spent the occasional winter weekend “at the lake” ice skating or hibernating, and a Thanksgiving or two by the fire, but to me the cabin means summer. No matter if it’s Lake Superior or the very small lake our current cabin overlooks, this is one of the reasons I simply can’t make myself leave this lovely state!

What do you love about your own state? Do you have a getaway or place you go to relax with family or friends?

Thanks to Ada for letting me guest post! I am honored.

Meri

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Unhorsed!

So much for getting 2011 sorted out. The intrepid winter warriors (Andy and Andrew) returned from their winter camping trip a day early, arriving at the cabin Tuesday evening, ready for chili and the last pieces of Sunday's blueberry pie.

In the 30 short hours they were gone, I'd gotten quite comfortable in my temporary singlehood: it's amazing how quickly you can revert to eating at random hours, getting a ton of work and writing done, you know, doing your own thing. Still, I wasn't surprised or disappointed to see the two trekkers out of the woods early. But I did know it meant all those plans I'd made for Tuesday evening and Wednesday proper were going to need amending.

So yesterday proved an impromptu day off, one which involved a run to town for groceries and supplies and afternoon ice fishing adventures. With blue skies above us, temperatures in the high teens and a mostly packed trail before us, we hiked into a Boundary Waters lake and set up shop.

Let's be honest, staring at this for an extended period of time kind of has a finite amount of fun packed into it. After about fifteen minutes, feet start to get antsy, hands grow a little cold and even the lake hole itself starts to ice over. Luckily, there were plenty of distractions.

Aircraft aren't allowed to fly over the Boundary Waters. (Well, they are, but they need to be way up in the air.) So we were surprised to see this helicopter flying very low and very deliberately about the area. Probably the DNR doing moose surveys.

There was also this cliff right behind our ice fishing operation which I thought I ought to climb up.

But about 2/3rds of the way to the top of the cliff, I ran into an obstacle. The hike had turned into rock climbing, or what I assumed was rock climbing. In actuality, the snow had packed itself into thick ledges which I could clamor over with some success. However, when I finally ran out of hand holds, I had to concede that this was not going to be the way I was getting to the top of the cliff. At about the same time, the snow under my foot remembered it wasn't supported by any physical feature. It let go and I slid 10 feet backward down the cliff side, coming to an abrupt stop in the crooks of a cedar tree.

All I could see was this, a filtered view of the lake below through the tree tops. And I was nursing a big knob of a bruise on the back of my thigh from my not-so-soft landing on a broken off branch. Undeterred, I soldiered on. I headed back down to the lake ice and tried the route to the top of the cliff on the other side of the cliff.  It was a lot easier going the other way -- just a hike up a hill. But when I finally got to the top, it seemed like you could see forever.

You can make plans, but that doesn't mean you'll keep them. You can set out to climb a cliff, but sometimes you have to come down and try it from a different angle. 

P.S. Speaking of owls like we were yesterday, Jenn over at Rook No. 17 whipped up some cute Valentine's Day owls. Definitely worth a peek!

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Transformative Experiences That End with Frozen Pizza

I had a writing class yesterday. It was the first class I'd had since my college days. It may be the last writing class I'll have for a while.

The instructor had no specific structure for the class, instead wanted to shape the class around the class members' hopes and desires for the class. ( But, oh, I do like my structure.) With 12 different people in the class at very different stages in their writing and with half the class focused on "looking for inspiration to write," it proved that the class had no common goal. I wanted to hone a skill that I use to support myself while it seemed like the rest of the class was searching for some sort "transformative" experience.
When the class started out with a sweetgrass smudge burning ceremony, I thought I might have made a terrible, terrible mistake in signing up for the class. I was sitting in a room full of people who wanted to talk about totem spirits and the souls of rocks, who were so busy looking for inspiration to write, that they didn't hardly write at all. I'm not trying to bash thoughtful (and slightly holistic) movements through the world, I'm just trying to explain that there was dissonance between what I'd hoped for and what I was getting. I had hoped the day would bring several practical writing exercises, a chance for feedback and growth, and some insight into how to look at things a little differently. Instead, we spent a good two hours talking about dramatic structure (which the instructor acknowledged would be redundant for any English majors in the room), then we each wrote a 200 word story, discussed each person's little piece as a group and that was the eight hour class.

I felt a little letdown. I wondered if there really was a reason why I'd spend eight hours in town on a snowy Sunday afternoon when I could been at home, blogging, sending out query letters, and searching for an agent for my novel.

But another local in the class, who I've bumped into a couple times back when we were going down to trivia every Thursday night last winter, stopped me at the end of the class. It turns out we were both homeschooled for the majority of our elementary and secondary school days and now we both freelance --  he in photography, me in writing --  honestly, not just because we are social awkward and afraid of actually interacting with people.


"Hey, if you ever want to get together this winter and going skiing or snowshoeing or skating, let me know," he said."I could use someone to commiserate about the freelance life with." 

We both have wonderful significant others who both work out of the home and who support us in every way possible, but sometimes it's hard to explain how the walls of the cabin start to move closer and closer together during the cold, dark winter days when you work from home all day.

"That would be great," I said.

On the way out of town, Andy stopped to get gas. I ran inside to grab some (I'd somehow neglected to drink any coffee yesterday morning and that was just not helping matters.)  And came out with a frozen pizza. Andy had eaten all the leftovers in the fridge the night before and I was in no mood for cooking. Especially since the snowy weather was going to make our hour-long trip back to the cabin even longer. 

 Maybe my totem spirit is Italian food. . . . .


This morning there was email waiting in my inbox from my fellow freelancer, subject line: "social retards."


Maybe I didn't get what I was looking for yesterday. But I did get what I needed.

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Home Check In

Some things change when you return home from the Pacific Northwest. For one thing, all the trees seem so small here in the great Northwoods. And they’re really close together.

Some things really change while you’re gone. When we left, ice still covered the majority of the lake. The ice went out completely the day after we left and today was the first time since December that we’ve seen the ripple of open water on the lake. Typically the ice goes out in early May. This irregular spring weather is discomfiting to the point of being scary since its turning the woods into a veritable tinderbox. Fire danger is currently “very high.”

But it’s not all doom and gloom on the home front. The bird feeders that I filled before leaving are empty and this afternoon I brought them in to retire them for the summer. The plant caretaker who stopped by the Shack a couple times to water the plants is worth her weight. Both the African Violet and the Christmas Cactus are showing off lovely blooms and the spider plant is getting ready to throw its first plant since I took in the little guy.

Of course, the house plants aren’t the only things that did some growing in the Shack while we were gone . . . .

Ick! I predict some bleach action in the future.

I had some good writing news waiting for me in my inbox this afternoon. A short story I wrote in December was accepted by my alma mater’s annual literary and artistic journal and actually won this year’s “best prose” award. On the flip side, the couple poems I also submitted were not accepted which reinforces my belief that my writing energy should not be wasted on poetry. I respect a good poet and I fear that good poets are far more talented wordsmiths than I will ever be. However, as someone who seeks to make her living with her writing, I do not have the time to develop my poetry to the extent that it needs development, nor has poetry ever proven especially lucrative.

Speaking of freelancing, I also had an article assignment waiting in my inbox. Am only mildly freaking out about the amount of work I’m supposed to complete upon my true return home at the end of the month.

Right now, writing is not the priority. Laundry and figuring out what to pack for New York City trip are at the forefront of my mind tonight. But first, after nearly two weeks straight of travel, I think a good night sleep in my own bed is in order.

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You did WHAT?!?

Usually I write about woods and words as though they’re mutually exclusive. But just as in writing, there are exceptions to almost every rule and so it is with woods and words. Sometimes they sync up together nicely.

There’s no question about it: more and more people are devoting time to writing novels and books. I have a “shoot in hell” theory about the whole thing. With a crappy economy, people have time for a writing venture and there’s always that tantalizing, yet oh so unlikely, possibility that this might be the book that’s the next big thing. Why not giving writing a try? Whatever it is that’s driving people to the page, people are feeling wordy as of late. Once they’re done being wordy, they find themselves with a finished book they’d like to do something about.

As writers we are taught to mistrust self-publishing. “Whatever you do,” we’re told, “don’t self-publish!” Why? Without a publishing house behind you to help with marketing and publicity, things can go south quickly. It can be how you end up having to wallpaper your bathroom with page 6 of your novel. Or why you have to take out a second mortgage.

So when someone starts to tell me about the book they just self-published, it can be hard not to blurt out: “You did WHAT?!”

I know up here in the woods, we live in a somewhat detached reality. Does that mean we’re some safe little bubble where self-publishing just might work? My heart tells me no.

My novel, at least, is main-stream, set in a foreign country and does not fit the criteria for a Northwoods niche market. It’s the traditional path of rejection and heartache for this little story. At times, it won’t be pretty. But at the end of the day, I’ll know I did all I could to give my story it’s time in the sun. Even if I land a decent publishing contract, I’m probably still going to make a pretty modest amount of money from my literary creation.

It’s hard not to go into a litany about all of the horrible things that are associated with self-publication: the expenses you incur, the constant promotion necessary to get your book recognized, the low chances of breaking even, the dissonance that often comes from what your self-publisher says they’ll do for you (especially for promotion) and what they actually do. Just like when you blog, when you self-publish, your book is just another drop in the ocean. Over and over again I hear “putting your book on Amazon is not enough to make it sell.”

But what is your book does fit the Northwoods niche market? Can self-publishing make sense then? Maybe. There are a couple small publishers who focus on producing regional nonfiction books who must do well. But it is a small market and that alone means you’re only going to sell so many copies. And remember “the medium is the message?” Do we look at self-published work differently? Judgey person I am, I usually assume something’s self-published because a traditional publisher couldn’t be found.

All of that aside, I worry for the author who chooses to self-publish. I worry about the number of copies that must be produced to keep the cost per volume from being astronomical. On the flip side, the cost of publishing on a print on demand basis can make take home cash from each sale almost negligible or force the cost a slim volume into the “I’m not going to pay that for this” range. It’s tricky business.

But if your goal is to put the thing you wrote into a beautiful, printed form and maybe sell a few copies, there’s no reason not to self-publish.

We all write . . . and publish for different reasons.

So I didn’t say: “You did WHAT?!?”

Instead, I bit my tongue.

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