The Long Drop

Yesterday I flushed our toilet for the first time since early June. It still works. It’s currents still swirl in a lovely clockwise motion.

You might wonder if we have been inflicted with some serious bowel or bladder obstructions, but the real issue is location . . .location . . .location. Here, at our Outpost in the Yukon Territory, Nancy and I live fifty seven steps from an art gallery, a library, a quiet seat in the park, a meditation center, a local think tank, a wildlife refuge and . . . a long drop.

My description of nearby community assets, might conjure images of a small mall with its multitude of joined offerings but I am pleased to report that each of the amenities noted is found under one 5×5 foot roof.

It was only early last spring that I learned from direct experience that a “long drop” is the South African title for an outhouse or biffy.

Culturally and socially, we Westerners tend to hide anything to do with human waste. But I would argue that we should take such a sacred moment and make it more enjoyable. So with that credo in mind we have created a multi-use long drop.

Most of the outhouse furnishings have been provided by the local Mt. Lorne dump, located about four miles from our place. You see up here, they not only have a dump to leave your garbage but an incredibly all-encompassing recycling center at the same location so that in fact the end result is very little garbage is sent to a landfill.

We have grown quite fond of going to the dump. It is a great place to meet new people as you browse through the “share shacks.” This is similar to the websites that advertise “Freecycling” in most metropolitan areas. This is a wonderful service that helps folks give away stuff they no longer want or need. And in so it helps reduce the buying of more “stuff.”

One open fronted shack contains clothes that have provided us with thick colorful wool sweaters, good slippers, fleece pajamas (like new), mint green jeans and even sassy sandals and tough work boots.

The other, similarly open fronted shack is my favorite. It has provided me with a first edition mint copy of Thomas Friedman’s book The Earth is Flat and some very nice biology textbooks and stacks of magazines. Here we also found a nearly new bread machine that has been cranking out fresh bread on a weekly basis. We found nice juice glasses, beer mugs, a knife block and other kitchen necessities. This is the shack that we have given the outhouse a makeover that has transformed it into the aforementioned destinations.

As you nestle down on the pink, inch and a half thick foam insulation outhouse seat, you can look at artwork that surrounds you. There is a North of 60° still life scene of a once-fortified Yukon Jack bottle, which proudly claims to be the “black sheep of Canadian liquors.” It’s now a vase. Two inches of solid ice in the bottom of the bottle tightly grip the still-bright, but wilted purple fireweed blossoms.

Hanging behind the sitter, (note the proper use of the word), there are garlands of plastic green grape vines and several bright yellow sunflowers. With recent mornings dipping below 0° F, the plastic botanical conservatory-look helps make the experience more pleasant, almost summery.

A platter-sized plaster seashell also takes us to tropical thoughts. But then the print of an artist’s rendition of a cold blue shadows falling over snowdrifts reminds us not to dally. Behind the seat is a rusted old hunting knife and equally rusty wire cutters that were kicked out of the dirt nearby.

If you don’t want to watch the comings and goings of red squirrels, boreal chickadees or whisky jacks (gray jays), close the curtain and consider the reading material. The stack literature sits next to your right buttock. Magazines include: Natural History, a couple of thirty year old Mother Earth News, a book on Animal Behavior and of course, an old pocket book of Ray Bradbury’s science fiction classic, The Martian Chronicles. Which incidentally he offers the following philosopher’s quote in the beginning of the book: “It is good to renew one’s wonder.” And this is a lovely place to do just that.

Next to your left cheek is the all-important toilet paper. It is housed in another dump find. Kept from the incisors of mice and squirrels, the roll of paper is kept inside an old plastic floppy disk case. With its smoky clear plastic cover you can find it easily. Behind the case is a large, porcelain cookie jar. The handle of the lid is shaped like a dog biscuit so I suspect it is truly a dog biscuit jar. It easily holds two extra rolls of toilet paper and is mouse-proof.

A single moose antler is propped in the corner. Above the antler is a found dried branch with a pleasing shape. In the opposite corner, just off your left knee, is a five-gallon bucket of wood ash to occasionally sprinkle down the long drop.

The two dried corn cobs that sit so lonely in a little metal basket, not only mementos of the Midwest, but they are clear reminders of just how rough things could be if the toilet paper runs out.

So if you choose to visit us for cultural enlightenment, simply walk out past the garage. Pass the column of balanced boulders and stones, called an “” by the Innuit and look for the quaint hut with a sign on the outside that reads: “Dog Mushing Area – Please Slow Down.”

Step in, enjoy the array of community assits and leave a donation. You will feel so much better.

Looking for Sourdough

So here I am at the brink of my first winter in the Yukon. Though it is only October, we have flirted with single digit thermometer readings, had a couple of light snows and had Thanksgiving. No turkey at this table. . .no siree. . .we had a black bear standing roast complemented with a platter of spruce and ruffed grouse breasts in a wonderful thick gravy and two slices of pie. After losing about 15 pounds over the first six months here, I am on a mission to consume calorie to better cope with the harshest of seasons.

Winter is the esteemed judge in determining if I am worthy of Knighthood in this land North of 60. To successfully “winter over,” in ecological terms, is to survive to spring, the season of rebirth. Whether it’s a tulip bulb buried with its stash of carbohydrates and sunshine, a fattened black bear, or the compulsive pine and spruce cones hoarder, the red squirrel, all measure another year by successfully wintering over.

My first Yukon winter will result in my receiving the ceremonial distinction of maturing from the newcomer title of “Cheechako” to “Sourdough.” Over the past four months I have become quite fond of the word “Cheechako.” The echoing “ch” sound has an exotic Latino countenance about it, especially if you whisper it loudly. I can barely contain my hips from wiggling when I say it.

Though the word “sourdough” might come with grander accolades in the northern hierarchy, its melody doesn’t dance off the tongue like saying “lily” or “marionette.” Instead it carries images of a fetid old wool sock left in a trapline shack.

I have never heard the prefix “sourdough” assigned to any other northern creatures. There are no sourdough ravens and there is no way I would call a spring grizzly a sourdough. They just go on surviving, demanding nothing, particularly attention. I suspect it has something to do with their egoless souls.

In fact my search for fellow sourdoughs often leads me to the Alpine Bakery in downtown Whitehorse. This is a genuine 100% organic bakery where loaves of breads and muffins are baked daily in a brick oven. The husky loaf of Alaska Sourdough bread is one of my favorites. Toast it golden, slather it in butter and spoon a good dose of blueberry jam on it and you will experience a preview of the Pearly Gates.

I think I inherently balk at the prefix “sour.” It is as if the bread itself is an antonym to its title . . .one is so good and the other elicits a look of disgust. The word “sour” is a short and harsh descriptor. In my mind it conjures up nothing that is worthy of a promotion. However I am fully aware that the word “sourdough” has a rich history in this neck of the woods. During the gold rush era breads, particularly sourdough breads were a mainstay to the diet of the Klondike stampeders.

You see sourdough breads are those breads that ferment and rise by capturing wild yeasts in the dough, rather than getting a boost from domestically cultured yeasts. This “more wild” bread cultivates a symbiotic relationship a group of bacteria referred to as lactobacilli and natural yeasts. Consequently the flavor is tangy or sour.

While on the trail to Dawson City, gold prospectors simply kept a small amount of “starter” dough, which contained the yeast culture. And just as they had to feed their dogs, they had to feed the starter batch with new flour, a pinch of salt and water. The new growth would provide the batter for the next loaf of bread and part of the batch was saved to repeat the process over and over. Some sourdough “bloodlines” have created hundreds and hundreds of loaves of bread. In fact there is a well-known bakery in San Francisco that has a uniquely tasting sourdough with a lineage that might match Abrahams of the Old Testament. They have used the same sourdough culture since it’s origin during the California Gold Rush in 1849.

Old timers, ironically referred to as “sourdoughs,” learned that keeping a sourdough culture warm was necessary for it to survive. They often carried a pouch of starter around their neck or on a belt, tucked inside their shirt.

It’s not the cold I fear as much as the lack of daylight that might trip up my march towards “Sourdoughdom.” Last week we had an energy audit done on the Outpost. Theo, the fellow doing the audit and a veteran of more than a score of Yukon winters, told us that he lives at Crag Lake, about thirty miles south of the Outpost. It is a beautiful spot, tucked between two mountain ranges that run east and west. He told us that when the sun is at it lowest, during the winter solstice, he and his family experience one and a half minutes. . .yes minutes. . . of sunshine! Good thing I will be home in Minnesota to see family and friends over the holidays and solstice.

Oops. . . the sun has emerged from behind the clouds. I’ve got to get outside and get a dose of needed sourdough starter.

Singing Like Tom Waits

I was a good dozen feet below the surface of our snow-dampened Yukon yard. I had taken apart our aluminum extension ladder, tied “rag slippers” on the bottom of the ladder so as not to scratch or damage the bowels of the fiberglass 1500-gallon tank. The sphere-shaped tank, accessed by a ten-foot circular shaft, holds our domestic water supply.

Years ago, prior to our buying the Outpost, our well was capped. Apparently the septic system was placed too close to the well so environmental codes required that the well not be used. The large holding tank was buried under the deck and accessed through a trap door. Water is trucked 34 miles from the Whitehorse municipal water supply at the cost of about $100 per delivery.

When we arrived here in mid-May, we found the tap water quite distasteful. In short order we bought a five-gallon water receptacle with a spigot and filled it at a friend’s house in Whitehorse every two weeks or so. The bitter tap water was used for other domestic duties such as washing dishes, showers, toilet, and so on.

Every year from about mid-August through the fall and winter, the Watson River, which is less than one hundred feet from our water tank, runs clear. (See previous blog entry for information on the quality of the Watson River). During spring and into summer it carries mountain silt and runs cloudy. During the clear months, folks from all around the area come down to the river and collect it in drums, kettles or other water receptacles to take it home. They describe its taste as “magical” or the “best water ever tasted.”

Our plan was to fire up a gas powered water pump and fill the tank with this magical river water once our May water shipment was drained dry. Recently, as I finished my shower after cutting wood, the water trickled out of the showerhead and I knew it was time to go down into the tank for its biennial cleaning.

For nearly $300 professional tank cleaning folks would come in and do the job. But being pathetically frugal and stubborn about doing many jobs myself, I confidently made plans to turn troglodyte for an afternoon.

Wearing chest waders, I slowly disappeared down the dark shaft. At the bottom, armed with two big sponges, a Tupperware container for scooping and a five gallon bucket tied to a rope that was affixed to the top rung of the ladder, I found myself standing in the eight-foot diameter orb in ankle deep water. The smell was not foul but it didn’t smell like a good source of drinking water. It didn’t take long to scoop water with my Tupperware into the bucket. I climbed back towards the blue sky, emerged, noting how good fresh air tasted and pulled up forty pounds or so of water. I repeated this six times.

By the time I got to the bottom of the water, it was literally muddy in color, due to the fine river sediments including fine sand and gravel that had accumulated from previous water pumpings. What I didn’t expect to find swirling in the clouded waters was a small rodent doing the perfect rendition of the “dead mouse float.” Clearly this mouse had been in this watery crypt for some time. Not only was its image less than appealing but also the agitated waters of death released the miasmic essences of decomposition.

I quickly, but reverently, scooped up the mouse and transferred it into the bucket elevator and I scurried like a winter-weary woodchuck towards the promise of blue sky. Gulping great gulps of fresh air was my reward for dealing directly with the corpse.

It was during the final sponging of the tank, followed by repeated fresh water rinses and two final light bleach solution washings, followed by two more fresh water rinsings, that I discovered the recording studio in the tank.
My earlier utterances of disgust had echoed nicely in the tank, but now with thinks looking much better, I began to sing. And better yet, the cave like acoustics inspired me to find the Tom Waits voice within me.

Wikipedia describes Tom Waits an American singer-songwriter, composer, and actor. Waits has a distinctive voice, described by Music critic Daniel Durchholz as sounding “like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car.”

I am particularly fond of his rendition of “Chocolate Jesus.” (Go to You Tube to see and hear this song as played on the Dave Letterman show.

I like to think that Waits, who leans towards the bizarre, would love the idea of singing in a buried water tank or even septic tank. Suddenly inspired by combined clouds of death’s essence and Hilex, my voice devolved into gravel and I suddenly began to find my inner music.

Living in the bowels ain’t so bad.
No howlin of the neighbor’s dogs.
Just me and my voice singin oh so sad
in the wash of a mouse’s soul.


No cheese down here,
No little fella, cousin to Mickey,
There’s no cheese down here.

Over and over I belted that verse out finding joy in the reverberation of my Darth Vader melodies. A chore was never so fun. I began to think about looking in the classified ads for old tanks. What great playhouses of fun these could be!

Next week, Nancy is hosting a music jam for a handful of musicians in the area. With the tank sparkling, I could usher the small group with their instruments down the ladder and offer them a pillow to sit on, while they find the inspiration of this musical room– or should I say “musical womb.”

Filling the tank with magic water from the river can wait. We will continue to carry water up from the river for a few days and consider it exercise as well as a personal visit to the river.

No cheese down here,
No little fella, cousin to Mickey,
There’s no cheese down here.

Tonight the first of three scheduled presidential debates takes place. I suspect millions of people will have their televisions tuned in and rightfully so. With the shaky economy and the bailout taking center stage over the past few days there is good reason to watch the two, or perhaps one candidate(s) address their stance on various issues.

I cannot watch and I confess to a little pouting on that matter. Since we left Minnesota early last May I have not watched any television.

For the time being we have deliberately chosen not to have one in the Yukon. Besides the only way we could pick up any channels would be to activate the roof bound satellite dish that came with the purchase of the Outpost (our Yukon home) back in 2001. For now it makes a reasonable bird perch, though it is hardly befitting the image of a log structure  on the edge of a roiling river.

No television means more time for Nancy and I to spend outdoors paddling a canoe, bagging another peak, picking berries or negotiating trails on mountain bikes. There is more time for reading, shared intimate conversation, and consequently. . . pay attention couch potatoes. . . more lovemaking. More time to perform household duties, such as fetching firewood, splitting it and stacking it, without the stress of other tasks such as catching the six o’clock news, which incidentally only makes you feel more stressed, depressed or paranoid. But then after the news you can mentally escape the reign of paranoia and enter the fantasy world of becoming a superstar by watching “Something Idol” or “Fear Factor.”

Up here, north of ordinary, I can experience fear factor without commercials. Let me tell you about two Yukon episodes of fear factor. Both events left me thankful for my DNA connection to cats and their multiple lives.

The first brush with disaster happened when I was training for the Kuane Chilkat International Bike Relay last spring. The bike relay is a 150 mile or so bike race from Haines Junction in the Yukon to Haines, Alaska. I was on a team of four riders and each of us had to ride two legs of the relay. My legs are the dreaded third and fourth legs that include some gnarly mountain climbs. The website description of these legs provided the prod to get me out on the road to train. Knowing I had barely a month to fine tune myself I decided to train on a relatively hilly section of the Klondike Highway not far from the Outpost.

It was my first ride since getting up here and was disappointed to find the highway a bit rough with no paved shoulders. Hopefully courteous driving habits are part of the norm on this highway. As I rode, I was enthralled by the snow-covered mountains while closely watching the forested edges along the highway for spring grizzly and black bears that might be grazing on early growth of succulent roadside plants. Being new to the area and very bear aware I did not want to be a succulent roadside snack.

The uphill climbs painfully reminded me that I had been on my bike only once in over a week and a half since we had made the trek up the Alaska Highway after leaving Minnesota. I relished the downhill glides. . .until one long hill. As I descended, picking up speed, I detected a slight wobble in the front wheel. The tremors grew quickly in intensity and suddenly the wobble became seismic and it was all I could do to hold the violently shaking handle bars while trying to frantically, yet evenly, apply the brakes. I remember clearly thinking, “This is it, I’m going down!!” Fighting off images of my daughters, Nancy and mother I wondered if I should edge over onto the narrow strip of gravel shoulder that flanked a deep ditch that in itself nudged the granite base of a mountain. My mind raced wondering where to lay the bike down causing the least amount of injury. Still wobbling violently moving over a better part of the highway lane, I could hear a car coming up behind me. “Oh please!” I mentally pleaded, “ Slow your car down and allow me to hog the lane in my out of control re-entry.”

Somehow I managed to stay upright and come to a stop. A wide-eyed and alarmed woman driver slowly passed me in her Honda and gave me that look that plainly asks, “Are you okay?” My fake smile urged her on.

I was only about eight miles into my ride but I was so rattled that I decided to head home for a shot of Yukon Jack. On the return ride I tensed up with each drop of the road, no matter how slight. And all I could think of was the
Race website that describes my two legs of the race. “The leg starts on a long, fast and potentially dangerous downhill to Million Dollar Falls.”
Now I was really intimidated.

Within the week, after toting the bicycle to a bike repair shop, I learned that the front spokes had been knocked out of alignment when the bike was strapped to a bike rack behind the truck on the bouncy 2500 mile ride to the Yukon. I was also given some tips from the repair “dude” and from a bike racer in the states about how to more comfortably deal with fast down hills.

The June race and came and went and I managed to survive wobble-free. . .though I didn’t have the courage to let the bike go all out on the down hills. Brakes are a good thing.

The other dance with fear took place on our two and a half week canoe trip down the Wind River through the Wernecke Mountains in the northern Yukon. The river races through spectacular mountains and is very remote and required a floatplane to get us to the headwaters. Six of us paddled our way down for about a week when we had a camp visitor. . .a big, very blonde grizzly bear.

As the dominant and most numerous species of mammal on the planet, humans have little to fear in our casual walk through the typical North American life. But here is an animal that sometimes preys on our kind and this one was ambling down a sharp ridge right towards our camp. In this part of the world, no animal accelerates ones heart rate like a grizzly bear.

The six of us immediately stood up from our tasks of preparing pita pizzas for supper and formed a football huddle of sorts. We were using the same strategy the musk ox uses, another northern mammal, when confronted with danger. They position themselves into a circle, shoulder to shoulder to face the threat.

The bear positioned uphill and therefore looking even bigger, paused and lifted its massive head and scented the air. “Could it smell the grated cheese?” Thankfully the wind was blowing cheddar essences away from the bear and us. The bear began slowly coming down the hill snuffling up bearberries as it moved.

We moved slowly and deliberately away from the pizza fixings and edging towards our tents to gather up two more cans of bear spray. We now had three cans of the pepper spray propellant and all were in the ready state. With three cans of this eye-watering, foul-tasting, mouth-burning, vomit- inducing substance we could, in unity, create an ominous orange cumulus cloud of clout.

The bear kept coming. At 35 yards from us and 10 yards from our Whelen tarp, the bear hesitated. Was this the calm before the storm? Suddenly a sharp gust of wind snapped a loose corner of the tarp emitting a sound unlike that of someone snapping a towel at ones rear. The bear was clearly startled and it turned and walked away, never looking back once.

We remained in our huddle for some time but found it awkward to cook supper in such a tangle of limbs. Later, after a quick downpour, the sun burst out in the evening light and a spectacular double rainbow was birthed practically in our camp. It was so utterly other worldly that Kurt, one of our crew, declared, “Maybe the bear killed and ate us and this is heaven!”

Those moments of fear have only served as piquant reminders of the miracle of being alive. I suspect, and oddly enough almost hope, that there will be more brushes with fear.

And without television I have learned to embrace the abundance of options to live largely. And in doing so I have come to realize how small I am.

Go ahead turn your televisions on and let me know how the debates went and I’ll tell you about a new color of red I discovered in a parade of color-crazy northern lights.

Walking to the Source

After putting our truck into four-wheel drive we crept up a washed-out and boulder-strewn mining road for several miles. I was amazed at the terrain that the truck could ease through. Finally, when we were confronted with a fast creek jagged boulders daring us to drive forward, we stopped and unloaded our backpacks.

For five days we hiked and camped, climbing into the high alpine plateau that is located about 18 miles from our house. It was time for a walk and to check out our water supply.

The Watson River runs by our Yukon Outpost, and is for much of the year our drinking water supply. During the spring runoff and up until mid-summer, when the river is clouded with sediments, we fetch our water elsewhere.
The Watson, named after a 19th century Harvard biologist, collects rainwater and snowmelt from scores of miles of rivulets, freshets, seeps, creeks, ponds and lakes. Each segment of the watershed miraculously filters out sediments and with the help of gravity moves the water downstream.

Each day of hiking we paused at the many creeks we crossed and refilled our water bottles. And every night we camped close to a creek or pond. Based on the sign left by other beasts, we were not the only ones drawn to water.

In hopping from rock to rock over one lively, clear creek, I wondered how could it be that over one billion people don’t have access to clean water? There is no shortage of clean water since it is constantly recycled through the water cycle. There never has been more water nor has there been less. More might be tied up in ice and more might be polluted by our actions or lack of them.

Now even those waters that melt away from snow and glaciers are not pure.
As the Watson snakes its way to the pitch in the river’s grade, where it passes our house, it becomes impure as it picks up traces of minerals and other elements. I find it amusing and ironic that bottled “mineral” water fetches a ridiculous sum simply because the consumer is given the illusion that this is a sort of virgin water. Interesting how we now have learned that so many bottled waters are simply bottled tap water and priced at costs that compete with oil prices.

Some of our neighbors in the Watson River valley go through the work of collecting river water and hauling it home as their preferred drinking water. Some claim it has a taste that is “magical.”

All of us should have the opportunity to make visual contact with the source of our drinking water. Admittedly water’s clarity can be deceiving since it can hold within that clear state a plethora of toxins. There is a possibility that even this seemingly healthy water could be home to giardia, tiny protozoans that could upset my digestive system.

Over the course of our backpacking water inspection we surprised a young bull caribou at the water’s edge. He splashed through the rocky creek, ran up the hillside and paused to pee as he looked back at the two-legged intruders. We never saw any caribou, moose or bear droppings in the water or right at the water’s edge. Do you suppose they have a local “wild ordinance” that prohibits tainting the water with their wastes?

We flushed flocks of ptarmigan, wearing summer browns and winged in winter white, that seemed to prefer to congregate in the riverside willows.

After spying a pair of peregrine falcons coursing over the creek valley we understood that the water-loving willows provide a screen from raptor threats to the ptarmigan.

Clearly these waterways are pathways for wildlife and flora. Over the span of two days we found more than 10 shed moose antlers, and one fine,intact set of bull caribou antlers. All of these were within a few feet of the water. Along another lively stream I collected shards of long mountain goat fur that had snagged on the riparian brush, and I tucked them into my pants pocket. I am reminded of a verse in Psalms: “He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills. They give drink to every beast.”

Flowers shawl the freshets. The dark blues of monkshood, the reds of king’s crown and the creams of arctic heather provide the threads befitting a queen’s robe. Can there be a better, more efficient, and lovelier water filter? I doubt it.

The Hardy Garden

I was startled by a noise at the window. I set the Yukon News down and leaned back in my chair for a better look. A red squirrel was frantically scratching at the window. It seemed intent on trying to get in or at wrestling with its reflected image. Or was it trying to simply get my attention, just as Lassie would bark messages to Timmy about the neighbor being in trouble? After a few seconds of window scratching the squirrel ran off. I looked out the window to see where it ran and it was then that I spied movement in my row of sweet peas.

It was the unmistakable rapid chewing of its small jaws and the large eyes set on the side of its head that betrayed the rodent thief. It was a ground squirrel, an arctic ground squirrel, otherwise known by local Yukoners as a gopher.

For years, I have exercised my ancestral programming and planted a garden. However it seems that wherever I try to plant a garden I am cursed by marauding gophers. In Minnesota my annual battle is with pocket gophers. Two Septembers ago, my total potato harvest was measured in servings rather than bushels and was consumed by Nancy and I during one special supper.

Up here, north of 60 degrees latitude, the greater nemesis has been geography. The garden sits only 10 paces from the river. This initially seemed a good thing as I could easily water the crop of produce.

A seasoned local gardener had a different spin on the river’s relationship to the garden. She told me that the cold mountain water river that passes close to my garden acts like a big air conditioner. This would be a good thing if I lived in a sweltering environment, but in a land that has frost records for each of the twelve calendar months, I might be better off converting the garden into a hockey rink.

When we arrived in May I spaded up the garden and deliberated which vegetables to plant. I queried the gardeners in the area and knowing that the summer days are rich in sunlight, but cooler in temperature, I settled for cool weather crops such as lettuces, spinach, broccoli, cabbage, kale, sweet peas, onions and potatoes. Envisioning cabbages the size of basketballs, bushels of fist-sized spuds, bouquets of crispy lettuce and spinach I rested after the planting and eagerly awaited the gardens greening.

My confidence wavered a bit on June 9th when we received about five inches of snow. Then two weeks later, when sunlight falls nearly 20 hours here, I was chatting with one of the better gardeners in the river valley. She commented, “You know your place is known for being one of the coldest spots along the river. It always freezes early down there.” A
meteorological axiom is that cold air always settles in the low areas first.

My spirits sank even further when I spied my neighbor, just uphill from us (as in higher and away from the cold river) placing hoops of clear plastic over every row of her garden . . .and keeping them there all summer long. We learned that it’s not unusual for a frost to sneak in during any of the summer months.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when my sixteen or so spud plants all, each a robust four inches tall, froze in the first week of August. Most everything else looks like it quit growing by the second week of June. I have a bonsai vegetable garden.

The only planted produce I have tasted thus far was when I plucked a nickel-sized spinach leaf as I weeded the garden. It sweetness elicited a sigh of satisfaction. Little did I realize that the remaining spinach leaves would reach maturation at the same coin size. And now it is too late to have even a tiny “Barbie meal” of spinach as the cute little plants have bolted and yellowed.

One of the primary garden “weeds” has been fireweed, which is the official wildflower of the Yukon. Which ironically is what Nancy has been delighted to pluck from the garden in its early growth to augment salads and stir fry meals. It seems we would have been better off letting the land grow what it grows best and harvest its offering.

I am eagerly awaiting the upcoming celebratory meal that will include our five heads of broccoli that have managed to survive the rigors of summer along the river. Each head measures less than two inches across and is comprised of a single broccoli floret. Count them. . .five.

Additionally, the fact that this summer has been much cooler and wetter than the average Yukon summer and even without rodent raids, I am looking at more visits to the grocery store produce area. And once again, though I am well beyond the home range of pocket gophers, I am reminded of the rigors of putting up my own food.

Now, I rush to the window every so often to catch a glimpse of the ground squirrel that is intent on converting my peas into winter fat. This little guy is the champion hibernator in North America, as it will soon shut down its system for seven months before it emerges blinking in the spring sunshine next year.

It’s likely it will spy a stubborn two-legged building a greenhouse directly over the bonsai garden site.

Imagine the likes of fist-sized spuds, basketball cabbages and armfuls of leafy spinach and . .

River Intimacy

“What’s your story?” It’s a common and intriguing greeting that one often encounters here in the Yukon. It’s far more engaging than the customary “What do you do?” exchange that I was used to hearing in Minnesota. It shows a genuine interest in who I am rather than assessing my stature by my occupation.

Upon arising each day, I slowly pull on my morning clothes and equally slowly leave the house. Rounding the corner of the house I can easily hear the river. It never sleeps or rests. Perhaps in winter it will slow as the edges of its flow freeze to a stop. I am drawn to the river both for its note of reveille and for its startling wake up wash.

In my worn, duct-taped slippers, I step carefully onto the two water-sculpted boulders that have become familiar steps. Crouching over the clear river, I cup its chilly waters in my hands. Three times, always three times, I splash the arrested river onto my face to wash away the night. The only towel I use is the morning air. I like the lingering freshness. And suddenly all seems right.

This is the beginning of a daily ritual that will continue as I head back into the kitchen and brew a pot of coffee from river water toted up to the house.

Two days ago, Nancy and I loosely tied three bunches of dried spruce logs together just up stream a couple of hundred yards from our house. One at a time, we guided the rafts of firewood, lining the logs as if we were lining a canoe around a rapids, over the fast flow to the dock, next to the morning face washing boulder. At the end of their short float we pulled mightily to spin them into an eddy where we could untie them and hoist them onto the bank. Though we were wet to our thighs, it was fun and challenging. It felt good to do the work and know that we had gathered several days worth of winter heat without having to use any gasoline to transport or cut them.. I had hand cut them with a 36-inch bow saw before Nancy and I lugged them to the river’s edge. I could have used my chain saw but why not combine a workout with near silence.

At day’s end, like others where sweat and dirt were involved, I hung our portable solar shower in the sunshine against the log wall of the house. The shower bag is made of heavy plastic. It is clear on one side and black on the other to better absorb the sun’s heat and heat up the river water. I laid the bag out in the full sun earlier in the day. Now the water was hot and this day will end the same way it began with a baptism of river water. Only this time the water will linger and soothe me rather than briskly wake me.

We wash and rinse our dishes in a pair of plastic basins set in the stainless steel sink. We sometimes wash dishes twice a day, but often only once. And when we are finished we carry the dishwater outdoors and cast it over the garden or a dry piece of lawn. In doing so we lessen the frequency that the septic cleaning truck will have to come and suck out our holding tank. Not only will this save us money, but also it will hasten the process of returning the water to the perpetual water cycle where it will return, as rain and snow, refreshed, clean and available.

Becoming intimate with a place begins with engaging fully and becoming more sensorial with it. Research has shown that our brain’s amygdala, responsible for our emotional and social responses and memories, will better lock in to moments if we can do so with multiple stimuli. I feel the chill and softness of the river’s water, I hear its lively rushing over the rocks, I am mesmerized by its hypnotic dance and the sweet taste carries a winter’s freshness. Each impression creates a steppingstone for an indelible memory.

Living next to a river has made me become more fully engaged with water. Though my body is made up of nearly 70% water, I, like most people, take it for granted. Though I might read dire warnings by global scientists and hydrologists of increased human strife due to the lack of potable freshwater for millions and millions of people, I confess that I don’t linger over such proclamations when I can simply turn a faucet on or step outside to pause besides a tireless river of clear, wonderful water.

If in fact I am mostly water, couldn’t I argue that my relationship with water tells me about my relationship with myself? Simple. Treat the water well and it will reciprocate and treat me well.

I am adequately buffered from thirst and rich in freshwater. Intellectually I know that water is a finite resource. We cannot make any more water. No matter if the human population of the planet was one million or six and a half billion, the earth has always had this much water. And hydrologists are predicting that the demand for fresh water will likely double in approximately thirty years.

Recently we returned from a two and a half week canoe trip on the Wind River in the northern Yukon. I have never traveled on such a transparent or fast river. It seemed as if we floated over a kaleidoscope of the most colorful and patterned stones. At one point, during a riverside lunch, Kurt, a dear artist friend, was gazing out at the river. He could not put his finger on the color of the river as the current and sky’s reflection made a mockery of any one-color scheme. Finally he quietly said, “It’s the color of clear.”

I like that gauzy definition. It was perfect in that it is impossible to define anything so changeable as a rushing river whose flow can be altered by a paddle stroke, a shifting boulder, a tipping tree or a blue sky suddenly tippled with advancing rain clouds.

The water clarity of the flow that passes our house in the Watson River, is very clear in late summer after the spring runoff carries away the annual load of runoff sediments. Not surprising, that very clarity has made me more aware of my intimate relationship with water. Consequently, I am more keenly aware of my personal relationship with water.

I am practicing using my own personal “water filter” in making everyday purchases in my own life. When shopping, we use a number of factors in making our final choice. We “filter” out price factors, contents used, appearance and so on. Regarding water, we should ask ourselves, “How was water used in the production of this product?” Or if we don’t know the water story, we should begin to learn it and apply that knowledge in our life. Sometimes the water story will make my choice easier.

Change is never easy and it is particularly less likely to happen in our daily lives if our health or wallet’s girth is not threatened. In regarding water quality and consumption habits it might be easier to change if you look at a child, yours or someone else’s and wonder what their relationship with water might be. Try looking into a mirror or better yet into a still pool of water and asking your reflection, “What’s your story. . .what’s your water story?

I need to go watch the river; its mesmerizing to watch the late afternoon light on it.

North of Normal


Okay, okay. . . it has been over two months since we left Minnesota, bound for the Yukon Territory. Nor have I submitted a blog entry since I left my native land. No longer can I claim the lack of writing was because we were without power for a while (which is true), nor can I claim it was due to the lack of a modem, which was also true as it was somewhere between us and Yellowknife due to our being given an incorrect postal address.

And yes, it did take a week to amble the 2517 miles from our Base Camp in North Branch to our Outpost in the Yukon. One doesn’t hurry up the Alaska Highway, or at least you shouldn’t. Our northerly progress was stalled at the border crossing for 2.5 hours while we participated in  fretful waiting, questioning, searching and stamping. During the journay we managed to tally about 80 species of birds on our migration into spring. We shared stares of wonderment with elk, deer, caribou, bison, coyotes, foxes and moose on the drive towards eternal summer.

I can also blame my lack of keyboard pecking to the long eighteen- hour sunlit days. We are far too busy outdoors to mess around with computers. After all, we are on, what the locals call “Yukon Time.” To properly engage in this time zone one should disregard schedules and simply hang loose. I don’t know if it’s the adopting of that attitude or the fact that I am vigorously moving my body outdoors, but my heart rate has slowed and my girth has melted. I am down to the last belt hole before I have to take an awl and bore another.

Clearly the land up here is on “Yukon Time” with no regard to normal schedules. This was clearly pointed out to us on June 9th when we awoke to 4-6 inches of fresh falling snow. My cherry tomato plant has never recovered but the spinach, peas and lettuces are thriving. Like them, I am a cool weather being and am thriving in this land north of normal.


My right brain is too out of shape to come up with such a clever title as noted above. I stole it from a Yukon slogan intended to entice tourists to visit. It seems however that there is indeed something in the air or water that stirs your soul up here and demands you to engage in that “one, wild and precious life” that poet Mary Oliver so eloquently writes about in her poem Summer Day. “I think a precious and wild life should rarely wallow in normalcy.”

As a one-time-professional naturalist and now just an amateur one, I take pride in my powers of observation. Visual or sensual clues in deciphering the immediate, past or even future are scattered across our respective paths.

Among the first clues assuring me that I had indeed landed “north of normal” were a couple of ads in the classified section of the Yukon News newspaper.
Photos of Yukon clowns – in action. Please email . . . .

What a rarity, local clowns in action! Precious. Now I can’t help but wonder if contemporary clowns have evolved from Yukon clowns where red noses are perfectly normal.

The second ad read:
UFO Sightings.
If you have a UFO experience, call UFOBC&YT toll free 1-866-878-6511 and leave your name and number. We will get back to you.

The second ad really excited me because up here we are officially considered “aliens” and this might be a fellow alien trying to make contact with comrades! I have never been an alien before and I must confess that thus far I am basking in that title. You can’t begin to know how freeing it is to walk up to a high wild vista and shout unabashedly, “I am an alien!”

During the famous Klondike gold rush period of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, newcomers to the Yukon were referred to as “cheechakos.” It’s not an insulting title; it simply means that you are a tenderfoot or “newbie.”

The word “cheechako” is imported from a trade language that evolved when Chinook Indians from the Pacific Northwest and white traders interfaced. The label “cheechako” is retired when the newcomer passes one winter in the north. Then you could proudly wear the esteemed title of “sourdough.”

This is a land that demands big breathing. The landscape is littered with vistas and to get there you must climb. In climbing the body requires more oxygen and big breathing accompanies your hike to the summit. Once you get reach the apex the view alone usually inspires additional big breaths.

Last week we encountered 4 natives whose very sighting initiated big breathing. Over the course of five days we encountered four grizzly bears. Admittedly, thee of them were viewed from the protective hull of our truck.
The other one was watched through binoculars. It pawed, foraging for food, through a wrack line of seaweed about 250 yards from us. We were pleased that it never spotted us. You never know how terrifying it can be for a native to see a trio of aliens. (my wife Nancy, her sister Jane and myself).

Recently I was conflicted when I read an article in the Toronto Globe Mail newspaper about the negative impact of more and more aliens moving north. And to add to that accusation, there is a Yukon booklet intended to help people become aware of nasty aliens. I was relieved not to find an image of my face, in the full color booklet. Instead I was directed to images of plants that have set their roots in more northerly climes due to global climate change. Of the forty-four most persistent invasive plants, white sweetclover and perennial sow-thistle are among the worst invaders. Back in Minnesota these two don’t even warrant any concern as they are considered normal and almost native. Both by the way are aliens from Europe.

Apparently around the world there is an invasion of southerly species of flora and fauna into more northerly latitudes. No surprise when one considers that NASA climatologists are forecasting that the Arctic Ocean will be ice-free in summer in the next ten years or less.

Though my skin color is darkening into a shade of brown rather than alien- green, I am nonetheless an alien and I have to accept that. Unlike the more famous movie star alien, “E.T.” who desperately tried to return home, I choose to remain and let the yeast of winter activate my rise to “sourdough.”

And though I hope to shed my “cheechakoness,” I will remain an alien. . .an alien sourdough that strives to interface with this northerly landscape in a way that steps gently, while breathing big.

Becoming Spring

Today, in our yard, the scattered juncos seem to feed in the grasses with greater fervor than in mid-January when the below-zero temperatures should have inspired a rush of tireless foraging.

Tireless. It is a trait that I have tried on recently. You see like the juncos, Nancy and I will soon join the northerly migration. Though I would rather depend on fat reserves, our journey will be measured in dollars and cents, actually mostly dollars, as we pump gasoline into our 8-cylinder truck as we begin a 2,500 journey to our log home on the Watson River, 34 miles south of the territorial capital, Whitehorse.

The truck will be engorged with Yukon congruent playthings and adornments. Summer and mostly fall and winter clothes are part of the cargo. Layers and layers of wool take up room, but we want to be ready. Why wouldn’t we each pack half a dozen pair of thick wool sox?

There is a box of favorite cooking accoutrements and tools, a heavy mechanical tool box, splitting mauls and a chain saw.

We also have spiritual cargo. There are musical instruments, skis, ski poles, snowshoes, bicycles (We have chosen to wear our indulgence proudly in that we are toting a pair of scarred mountain bikes and a pair of sleek road bikes.), tents, paddles, an assortment of colorful packs, some waterproof and others not, and a pair of backpacks will match our hiking boots. For the walls we have a couple of old framed sporting prints and a larger John Clymer print that is Yukon appropriate. And of course we hope to slide the big Yukon map that is mounted on foam core into the truck.

Two boxes of books, mostly Yukon related or natural history reference material, have made the cut for me. I had secretly tucked two additional boxes of books in the truck, but Nancy discovered them when she was frantically trying to find room for her clothes.  Sheepishly, I agreed to consolidate the four boxes of books into two. I wanted more but agreed that the Whitehorse library and the computer could serve as nodes of learning.

Two laptop computers and one desk top with added speakers that will serve multiple roles as our CD and DVD player have made the cut.

What hasn’t made the cut? Basically furniture. We have chosen to bring a small oak table (with legs removed) and a cedar bench that can work indoors or outdoors. The bench might be cut if it prohibits the packing of other priority gear. Our super favorite mattress might make the cut. While my big bull buffalo robe will not make it.

The packing list is opulent, downright decadent, when I think of my great-great grandparents and their children leaving Småland, Sweden in the mid 1880s for the new world. They likely crossed an ocean with a single trunk or two filled with the barest of necessities.

Why should we uproot ourselves? I like to think it is the work of latent genes that remind us that we are of a lineage of nomads. I want to see part of the route that the earliest North American tourists took when they hiked across the Bering Strait. Recent evidence has backed that period to some 30-50,000 years ago.

Like a compass needle that locks its direction to magnetic north, I have a similar urge to face that direction. But there is more than a homing instinct that pulls me north.

For once I want to be a sign of spring, a phenological note penciled in a calendar.

MAY 12: “Tom and Nancy heading north.”

Undertaking the odyssey of a migration is usually a dangerous and risky undertaking. There must be benefits to subject one to such dangers. Let me share a few of the reasons we will follow the swans and the budding of aspen.

Why go to the Yukon?

• Thus far there seems to be no urban sprawl in the Yukon. The human population there has actually decreased in the last 100 years. I find comfort in going to a jurisdiction that has experienced a significant drop in human population since 1900.

Today roughly 32,000 folks live in the Yukon Territory; an area that one could fit the states of California, Maryland. West Virginia, the District of Columbia and still have a few square miles to boot.

•I like the idea of living in a land where there are far more big wild critters than humans. There are roughly 185,000 caribou, 65,000 moose, 10,000 black bears, 6,300 grizzly bears, and 4,500 wolves. And there are also a few thousand mountain sheep and goats living in the Yukon.

•I want to find a decent winter like those of my youth. You know the type where I can count on good snow, no January slush and a good cold spell once in a while to remind us how puny we really are.

• I like the idea of picking my own fresh lingonberries rather than pay top dollar for a can of the Swedish imported berries. After all, they are the same species.

•I want to avoid an overdose of political pollution with the saga of the 2008 election year. An added benefit we will reduce the likelihood of dangers of frequent mudslides from excessive mudslinging.

•To avoid the glut of corn being planted for the production of ethanol.
This means that there will be even more Atrazine, the most common herbicide, spread over the fields resulting in even more Atrazine in our waterways. They don’t grow corn in the Yukon.

•Ticks are almost non-existent.

•Sultry humid days are as rare as ticks.

• I want to grow bushels of organic potatoes (and other oversize cool weather crops such as broccoli, kale and cabbage) without having to think of battling pocket gophers and potato beetles. The Yukon is a foreign land to these beasts.

•The summer days are very long giving more time to paddle rivers and climb mountains. Conversely, the winter days are short and nights long. Some would call this season of brief daylight dismal. I believe it will encourage more potluck gatherings, novels read, music played and lovemaking.

•Art and creativity are highly valued products in the Yukon. There are more artisans per capita in the Yukon than found in any other Canadian province or territory.

• I’m an unabashed romantic. I want to live as an adjective rather than a noun. I want to know how the Yukon inspired Jack London to write:

“I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

I want to feel the winter as Robert Service did when he penned his poem The Cremation of Sam McGee, particularly the line:
“Talk of your cold, through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”
I will paddle, hike and explore hoping to discover the language of romance.

•The only highway congestion happens in downtown Whitehorse when the tourists occasionally jam the streets in the summer. After all the Alaska Highway passes through Whitehorse. There are only two maintained public roads west of our Yukon home. . .until you hit the Pacific Ocean. And to the east there are four or five maintained public roads until you splash into Hudson Bay. That means there is a fair amount of ground to hike and paddle without having to cross any barbed wire fences or worry about posted land.

•How can you not want to go where the dollar is graced with the Minnesota state bird: the common loon. And the five-dollar bill has a gorgeous belted kingfisher. Seems their values are right.

•We want to study the Canadian health care system for us. It is clearly better than the USA system or lack of a system. In Canada, not only are prescription drugs far cheaper but the average life expectancy is 80.22 while in the U.S. it is 77.85. I will try to stay clear of he meds and earn the years.

•I want to try living in a land that has wind-blown peaks for me to explore. Where I can climb and feel my heart fill my chest with a workout. Where I might bump into more sure-footed climbers like dall sheep or mountain
goats and finally gain a summit and gaze out at the topography of infinity where the horizon will not be cluttered with power lines or cell towers.

•It will be much safer than the Yukon. While there are grizzly bears in our neighborhood, I’m less likely to encounter a stressed out human, the most dangerous of all animals.

•Besides, the bite of the winter cold or the threat of a grizz’ bite will keep me far more alert and observant and in doing so I will hopefully feel more alive.

• I simply need to rejuvenate in a land that is so utterly wild where I won’t feel out of place because I don’t own a cell phone.

•I love maple trees so consequently I think the Canadian flag is stunning.

•When I step out at our rural home in Minnesota, I get to hear the white noise of distant traffic, some 4 miles away, on the freeway heading to the cities. The white noise I have to deal with in the Yukon will be a rushing river located twenty or so paces from the house.

•Here the starlit nights are becoming more and more difficult to see since the excessive lighting of the cities is easily visible and even my hometown of North Branch, only 7 miles away sends up far too much sky busting light. In the Yukon the stars will have to compete with long summer sunsets and winter northern lights.

•And who wouldn’t want to live in a territory (Yukon) where the origin of its native name, Yuchoo means “the greatest river.”

• And Huck Finn, one of my favorites, perhaps said it best to his chum Tom Sawyer:

“I reckon I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Polly’s tryin’ to civilise me. I’ve tried it , and it don’t work.”

An Out of Place Red Squirrel

At first light there was an audible scuffle heard outside by the bird feeder. Cardinals are the usual first shift at the bird feeder. However, this over-sized finch cannot dislodge the cover to the galvanized garbage can that houses the fatty riches of sunflower seeds. The storage can, next to our deck, sits only twelve feet from the bird feeder.

Suddenly a red squirrel popped out of the can, leaped onto our deck, climbed a two-foot tall terracotta urn and disappeared into the three-inch opening. Obviously not only was this rust-colored rodent disturbing the peace in jostling garbage can covers, but I busted this squirrel. . . caught in the act of relocating the stolen goods. Out of sight only for a moment, it reappeared and in a flash it was back in the garbage can for another mouthful of seeds.
This little expert in storing food, which incidentally is a rather uncommon survival strategy among mammals, was creating a clever midden of seed right in front of our eyes.

Enough is enough. I flew out the back door, wearing flannel pajamas and mukluks and ran around the side of house hoping to terrify the duo of red squirrels. As I came around the corner, one squirrel took to the treetops and tight-roped its way very rapidly to freedom. I caught a glimpse of the other squirrel dash to the pottery urn and disappear into the safety of its darkness. Without hesitation, I scooped up an empty plastic pickled herring bucket that was sitting on the deck and clamped it over the opening of the squirrel’s hideout.

“Got you, you little pugnacious and pompous blush-colored rodent-fink,” I triumphantly shouted, “I’ve got you now!” I picked up the tall container and held it victoriously over my head in celebrating in my own Wimbledon winning stance. I jigged on the deck hoping Nancy was admiring her heroic man and his efforts at keeping yet another rodent insurgent from our little home in the woods.

After my momentary showboating, I stopped. Now what do I do? I really didn’t want to kill this sassy squirrel but I did want to teach it a lesson that it should not mess with our seeds.

I wondered if the miasma of any lingering herring juice impregnated in the bucket might create enough misery for the squirrel. Gleefully, I thought of a just punishment. I would take this squirrel in a jug for a little walk and relocate it to a new site. Yes that was it a site not familiar for these forest dwellers.

Most of my encounters with these hyper little squirrels tend to take place in the northern mixed stands of hardwoods and mixed conifers where I hunt deer every November. No matter how quiet or still I sit, these wide-eyed, sprightly squirrels almost always figure me out and then loudly chirr a staccato of barks and spits at me. I am convinced that they are swearing mightily at me. Up and down the tree, the squirrel moves in lightening jerks. This can go on for some time and I suspect that the outburst is recognizable by every deer in the area as some sort of warning.

Finally this little squirrel was going to pay for my pent up frustration for not only seed thievery but for previous loud deer warnings. Yes, this poor little marauder and thief was going to pay.

I hoisted the jug up on my shoulder and headed north, past the two woodsheds and out into the open snow covered field. I walked almost to the gravel township road, not caring what any motorists might think of a hatless bare handed, pajama-clad, smirking man trudging through the snow with a pottery urn, capped with a pickled herring bucket, on his shoulder.

Finally, when I was within a one hundred feet of the road and a forty-acre corn stubble field, I stopped, looked around and feeling satisfied I set the urn down. This would do fine. I would release the squirrel here and watch its next move. This species, hudsonicus, speaks of the forest. It is not a prairie or savanna dweller. How would it react in such a treeless expanse?

Carefully I laid the vase on its side and took the herring bucket away. The squirrel refused to come out. So after covering it with snow, except for the opening, to hide it from passing car traffic, I headed back to the house and stopped a hundred yards away to watch. Nothing. Not even a little curious peek. Shivering in my PJs, I retreated back to our warm house. The eventual pattern of the squirrel’s tracks would have to unfold the tale of the squirrel.

A couple hours later, Nancy and I were driving out the driveway to do an errand. I looked out in the field. There I spied the rufous rodent sitting upright about 15 feet from the vase. I stopped the car on the road and the little fellow immediately retreated. . .back into the sanctity of the vase! I wondered if this little guy had grown fond of its prairie clay igloo. So in a few minutes, I am going to take old Taiga for his walk and check out the story left in the fine print of its spoor. Or I might find it still out there unwilling to make the wide-open crossing to the woods. There are a couple of local red-tailed hawks that would find the squirrel tasty.

It was after dark when we returned home and I wondered if the perky little fellow was still in the clay prison. Was it sleeping contently in a bed of sunflower seeds? Perhaps it was frozen, curled in a ball of fur.

The thought of unjust squirrel torture kept sleep at bay. Sleep did not come easy.  I wrestled with the bedcovers most of the night.

The next morning I dressed and booted and headed out to see if I could find a story of a great escape. The story was clear. The little fellow’s trail showed that it had chosen the woods east of the field as its destination. There would be no slow evolution towards a prairie dwelling squirrel. Besides, for that to happen there would have to be another hapless squirrel of the opposite sex.

The tracks showed that the squirrel had made forays out from the vase, no further than10-20 yards. The spoor resembled spokes spreading out from the hub of a wheel. Finally, it was clear that the squirrel began by running for the oak woods that lies about 75 yards from the vase. The impressions were notable leaps betraying a fast dash to the oaken cover. There was no dilly-dallying here. Finally when the squirrel was within twenty yards or so of the woods, the pattern was more so the traditional hopping pattern of an easily foraging squirrel.

Since that day I have only seen one red squirrel. Waves of gray squirrels look for dropped seed and look longingly at the feeder above them. They cannot figure out how to negotiate the piece of stove pipe that hangs directly below the bird feeder perched on top of a pole. Cautious as a swamp buck, I spot a slightly heavier fox squirrel sneaking towards the feeding area. But only one red squirrel is spotted. But since I cannot tell individual red squirrels apart, since they all look alike, I don’t know if this is “Freedom” or “Urny.”

I’ve got to remember to retrieve the pickled herring bucket from out in the field. Even in these parts, where herring is part of nearly everyone’s winter, the red looks out of place in a prairie.

 Page 18 of 19  « First  ... « 15  16  17  18  19 »