Bears . . . and what the heck was up with the pots and pans?

If you're wondering what was up with my pots and pans comment to Andy in yesterday's post when he was fending off the black bear and I was groggily dispensing advice, let me explain.

We live less than a mile from the border of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. In addition to our general proximity to the Boundary Waters, I also spent three seasons as a federal employee issuing permits to Boundary Waters visitors. Throw in another summer working at a canoe outfitters and basically, I spent four summers of my life listening to the user education video that each Boundary Water party must watch before embarking on an overnight camping trip.

And that sage advice about how to deal with bears, well, you'll have to get to about 7:55 mark into the flick to see where that came from.



In other notes, holy schnikes it's September 1st today! Hard to believe the majority of summer's behind us already, but there's plenty to do before we're ready to hole up for winter around here. There's pie social and sidewalk sale at work on Sunday, a Saturday night cookout and plenty of garden chores to keep me on my toes through Labor Day weekend. Safe travels to anyone taking an extended weekend!

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Honey, Come Help With the Bear

Earlier this summer, I told a concerned visitor at work that I don't worry too much about bears.

The visitor's eyes grew wide. "Why not?" she gasped.

"Well," I said. "I've run into bears when I walk to work before. And really, all you do is make a little noise and they move on."

Really, the only time I feel mildly concerned about my safety during my mile and a half wilderness wander to work is in October, when the moose are in rut.

But my blasé attitude towards Bruno got me in trouble with my beloved earlier this week.

We've had a bear around all summer. It's probably a two-year-old: a small bear, kind of lost without Mom, looking to make his mark on the world. Mostly Mr. Bear likes to leave his mark in the form of big seedy blobs all over the road. He's also fond of getting into our neighbor's bird feeders and he's been known to crash into our compost pile, although he doesn't often find much to his liking in there. Early this spring, when we were putting together the raised bed, he bit into one of our bags of peat moss, rolled it around, and moved on.

But in the last couple days, he's grown nervier. On Sunday, another neighbor's dog came back to the house with a bear bite in the rump. And on Sunday night, the bear decided to pay us a noctornal visit.

It was my fault, really.

We always get fruit flies this time of year. But I just can't bear putting the fresh tomatoes and peaches in the fridge to save us from a fruit-fly-pocolypse because frankly, putting tomatoes and peaches in the fridge makes them taste of cardboard. So in an attempt to rid the small house of fruit flies, I put the compost bucket out on the porch when I got home on Sunday. Then I sat down during the couch and during the 3 hours that is American Gangster, I forgot about the compost bucket.

I forgot about the compost until I woke up in the middle of the night to find Andy peering out the window with the porch light on.

"What are you doing?" I asked, when I padded out to the kitchen.

"There's a bear out there," Andy hissed.

"The compost bucket," I mumbled.

We both looked at the porch railing where I'd left the compost bucket. The rail was empty. The bear however was standing right at the base of the terrace garden, about 12 feet away from our front door.

"Get me something to throw at the bear," Andy whispered.

"Bang some pots and pans," I yawned. Then I went back to bed. Having imparted that stellar advice, I felt my work was done.

Meanwhile Andy stayed up for the next hour. The bear returned after Andy scared him off once. Now there's shotgun sitting by kitchen counter. I guess sometimes you have to do more than just "make a little noise" for the bears to move on.

On Monday morning, both Andy and I searched for the compost bucket. Nothing. No bent branches where the bear took off in the woods, no spilled compost, no nothing. The only thing Andy found was the little filter that sits in the bucket's lid. I suspect the bear had a lovely compost picnic, probably complete with napkins and a tablecloth, somewhere out back.

If you find a green compost bucket out there missing its filter top, please return it. I use that bucket all the time. And after my lackluster assistance with Bruno, getting the bucket back is the least I could do. Seriously, anyone seen that bucket?!

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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?

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Lessons Learned as A Bird Brain

We fed the birds last winter at the Shack, but I feel like life in general took place on a smaller scale at the Shack. The living space was certainly more cramped. We weren’t quite as deep in the woods. It was kind of a mini-life, where we got to try on adulthood. A trial run if you will. You should never make assumptions based on a trial run.

So why, when the few chickadees, woodpeckers, and grosbeaks who stopped by the Shack’s two feeders last year consumed about 100 pounds of bird seed, I assumed that was how much bird seed we’d go through in every winter from there on out, I have no idea.

At the cabin this year, the feeders went out in early November. Since then, we’ve consistently gone through about 50 pounds of sunflower seeds . . . a month.

Don’t be fooled. Those little buggers can really pack it away. Lesson learned.

Just the other day, when Andy mentioned needing to run into town for something or other, I asked him to pick up some more bird seed.

He turned a little green when he glanced at the deflated bag of bird seed in the corner behind the front door.

“You mean they ate all of that seed already?”

Just a few short weeks ago, I’d made the belabored bag boy at the grocery store haul a 50 lb bag of bird seed from the back of the store out to the truck.

“Sure did,” I replied.

The temporary thaw last week exposed a veritable birdie wasteland of discarded sunflower seeds. It’s gonna look real classy around here come spring. . . .

Now I know why those birds are so chirpy and cheerful all the time: they’ve basically found the land of milk and honey in our backyard.

I think I’m going to put a little jar by the feeders, kindly requesting the little birdies drop off a nickel every time they belly up to the feeders. Squirrels and Mr. Al “the man who came to dinner” Pine Marten, I expect a dime (or two) when you come calling to the “Sunflower Seed Buffet on The Lake.” I need a little more of a return on this feeding the birds thing than just your colorful (dare I say, heartwarming) company and the guano calling cards that you’re so keen on splattering all over everything.

After all, times are tough. The economy still stinks. You guys, ladies and gentlemen of the birdy world, are wild animals. Go, head off into the woods and fend for yourselves. (You know, the way you’re supposed.) The fact that you are eating me out of house and home is just too ironic.


Do you feed the birds? How many lbs of bird seed do you go through in the winter?

 

This post is part of Mama Kat's "Pretty Much World Famous" Thursday writer's workshop. Thanks for stopping by!

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In the Technology Free Zone

On a daily basis, the low-tech cord phone gets used more frequently

I have a friend who gets a little nervous whenever she drives through a national forest and loses cell phone reception. She worries about if something happened and she wasn't able to call for help.

When I start the drive out of town and towards the cabin, cell phone service peters out after about five miles. For the next 50 miles, I can depend only on me and commonsense (and lots of helpful neighbors) to get me home safe and sound. And the thing is . . . most of us like it this way.

Whenever cell service is purposed for up here, usually about half the residents get all up in arms about it. The general attitude about cell phone service in the area seems to be that a great host of cell phones will descend from the heavens . . . and ruin everything! I think it's probably only a matter of time (like a decade or so) before cell phones are part of daily life up here, but for now, the general argument residents give against having cell phones is that, as a region driven by tourist industry, people come here "to get away from it all" and cell phones defeat that purpose. The vast majority of rental cabins up here don't offer televisions either. We kind of like to impose our lifestyle on others. 

While the majority of my phone calls are made on an old touchtone from 1970 with a cord that allows me to move in three foot circle while on it, I do have a cell phone. I use the phone when I'm in town or when traveling. It's on the cheapest plan you can get when you sweet-talk Verizon.  (They're pretty reasonable about it when they realize you only use your phone for eight minutes every month.)

I often forget how ubiquitous cell phones are. Several times last summer I would give someone a telephone number, expecting them to use it when they got back to their cabin, only to have them whip out their cell phones and start doing the "do I have service here" interpretative dance.  "Oh no, I'm sorry," I'd have to say. "That's not going to work here." Actually that's not completely true. You can often pick up a cell signal from Canada, but let me tell you, international cell phone rates are expensive! And how many times did I have to tell people heading out into the Boundary Waters that their phone probably wasn't going to work out there. So how about not twisting your ankle on that portage, eh?

I wonder if we've turned something meant as a convenient tool into a bit of crutch. I certainly don't view cell phones are harbingers of the apocalypse, but I do think there are benefits to living your life as though help isn't just a phone call away.

The news earlier this week that Verizon and iPhone have partnered, kind of went over my head. I have slowest thumbs in the west. I probably couldn't figure out how to answer your phone if you asked me to. All that flipping and sliding and shaking and you can take pictures on this thing too, oh boy! What a complicated world of teeny, tiny screens we've crafted for ourselves!

Life without cell phones suits me fine, but the thought of not having our satellite internet (which has wonky bandwidth requires and will soon be replaced by high speed fiber optic option, oh please, oh please, oh please make that replacement come soon) makes me shudder. Technology is everywhere. What we can and can't do without depends upon how we structure our days and our lives. 

How would you feel without a cell phone?

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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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Wordless Wednesday: Things Get Owly

It must have started with the pumpkin we carved for Halloween last October, but lately things have been a little owly around the cabin.

Remember, when I headed over to the nearby environmental learning center before Christmas? My friend Kati is a grad student at the center and is certified to handle the two owls who live at the center.

We got to meet Hunter, the Great-Horned,

and Arcadia, the pint-sized Saw Whet. She's missing a eye, because she was hit by a car in the Twin Cities area and had to have the eye amputated. Luckily she survived and now she's able to help educate people about owls. (Hunter also has injuries that wouldn't allow him to survive in the wild.)

Then on Monday, we found this little fluff ball (another Saw-Whet) taking a morning snooze in the cedar trees near our bird feeder area. 

When it's the middle of January, we're all bound to have a few "owly" moments.

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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 . . .  

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