Feeding Frenzy

The chickadees and juncos are reaping the benefits of my bird feeder these days and because it is right outside the window I am really enjoying their visits – a constant stream of them in fact. They don't eat much though as the food level in the feeder has barely moved at all. As long as the bluejays stay away I will not have to be constantly refilling the thing. Having adjustable tension on the perches works brilliantly. Another bright sunny day and I am enjoying the luxury of having lots of power for a change.

I'm currently sitting at the kitchen table, the sun’s first light washing across the surrounding tree tops, steam gently rising from a cup of ginger tea while sparrows, dark-eyed juncos, chickadees and a solitary goldfinch, dressed down in it's winter plumage, visit the feeder suspended at arm’s length from the window where I sit. Snowflakes, the big fluffy kind, tumble earthward adding to the snow already blanketing the ground, the already burdened branches of white pine, spruce and cedar straining under its weight. When I rise and cross the room to throw another log on the fire staving off the -20° temperatures hugging the walls the cabin, the birds, startled by my sudden movement scatter in every direction, settling on the sumacs nearby. By the time I take my seat again, moving slowly and deliberately this time so as not to disturb them, the feeding frenzy has resumed. 

It would appear that the chickadees are in charge here. The juncos hold back and rush in only when the chickadees are not feeding. Considering the diminutive and delicate build of the chickadees this is a little surprising but then the juncos only surpass them in size and weight by a barely noticeable amount. As I continue my observations, a new arrival has flown in – a red breasted nuthatch has joined the frenzy and it's appetite appears to far surpass that of the other two visiting species so if it brings its relatives in I may have spoken too soon about the necessity of refilling the feeder frequently. It would also appear that even though it's the smallest of the three species the pecking order has been shuffled in it's favour. At least it would appear that way based on about three minutes of observation. The chickadees remain by far the most abundant so we'll see what happens. There's actually a bit of a feeding frenzy going on here and I suspect it's due to the need to replenish body energy/heat after the cold weather.

Correspondence

The following is an update I sent to the London Sangha for posting on the website. I’m not sure of the exact date, only that it was during November and after the first snowfall that amounted to any accumulation.

Hi again,

Best wishes to everyone in the London Sangha. I think of everyone there often and miss the encouragement and companionship of like-minded people. Life in the bush continues to be an inspiration and a dream come true. Certainly it can be demanding, both physically and mentally, but meeting the daily challenges has proven to be exceedingly satisfying. If it’s true that we learn best from the obstacles which we face, and I believe it is, then I’ve learned an awful lot in the past three months. Much of what I’ve learned is about frugality concerning all those things we take for granted in the city like electricity and water and heat are concerned. I can no longer take any of them for granted. Necessities have become luxuries. 

Last winter, when I told friends and family of my plans to pursue this lifestyle the most frequent question was “But what will you do all day?” My reply was that I would spend most of my time ‘just living’ which, it turns out, was truer than I’d imagined. But I’m not complaining, in fact, it’s very refreshing to be living in this manner and I can only see that it will continue to improve. 

To make up for the fullness of my days, the nights are a time to relax and enjoy my surroundings. There is something about having a single eight-watt lightbulb or a couple of candles burning in the house while sitting about reading or answering e-mail or doing research on the internet that is very satisfying. And then there are those nights, most nights in fact, when I awaken in the wee small hours of the morning, glance out the window strategically placed where a headboard would normally be to see Orion and the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, lingering there just above the trees, more brilliant than any city dweller could ever imagine. It’s moments like these which serve as reminders of why I chose to forgo many of the luxuries of city life.

This morning, about five I think it was, I looked out my headboard observatory to be greeted by a sure sign that winter had arrived. A shimmering ghostly white blanketed the ground, limbs of the trees reaching ground-ward  under their newly acquired burden.

Later as Molly and I ventured outside, it felt great to breath in the cool, clean air that freshly fallen snow seems to bring with it. As we walked, a quick glance backwards revealed our wanderings imprinted in the snow, intermingled with those of all the creatures which had been out during the night. Never have I felt closer to nature, never so free. Never have I been more aware that I am an integral part of my environment, that everything is connected. As we continued on our walk, the gap between subject and object, between self and other, grew less and less. With every day that passes it becomes more and more apparent that everything is truly connected. 

The staff of Life

Tuesday, November 5 

...

Have bread rising which should be ready in a half hour or so for next step. The first part took about an hour. I used Robin Hood multigrain flour for the bread. This is a major step toward self subsistence – no more bread buying – if it works out that is. If not I’ll have to keep trying. The trickiest part may be maintaining a constant temperature of 400°F in the wood stove; I have currently let it cool down a bit but will get the temperature up again by opening the vent a few minutes before the loaves are ready for the oven. I used the recipe on the bag even though I have many more recipes available in Val’s cook books. My reasoning is that if it’s on the flour bag, then it’s probably as close to failsafe as one can reasonably expect. I mean, Robin Hood wants me to be successful so I’ll buy more of their flour, right?  There will be plenty of opportunity for me to experiment later on. 

Yesterday evening I was exhausted. I slept off and on from 6:30 to 10:30. Then read for 30 to 40 minutes before going back to sleep again. I got up at 5:50, more accurately, I woke up at 5:50 and did my computer thing in bed for some time. Red River cereal has become my breakfast of choice most mornings. It’s more or less a return to old ways which is good I think. Means I am setting up a routine, speaking of which, I should meditate for a bit until the bread is finished rising. 

Back to the bread which rose perfectly filling most of the large, heavy ceramic bowl which I’d acquired for just this purpose. It is now on the warming shelf of the stove for the second rise. The anticipation of actually making my own bread is on the rise as well. 

Voila, the bread is perfect! I removed it from the oven at 1:25. I managed to maintain an oven temperature of between 350° and 400°. The bread was in the oven for approximately 30 minutes. I am now having my second piece, slathered in butter, with a glass of wine and Swiss cheese while a shepherd’s pie cooks in the oven. It will be ready long before dinner time but I will keep it in the warming oven while Molly and I go for a walk to celebrate my culinary feat.

I simply can’t say enough about baking my own bread. The first time I opened the oven to check on it, I was reminded why making bread was such a great experience – it's all about the aroma, and I have to say that the smell that greeted me when that door opened was pretty damned amazing. I can't, in all honesty, think of anything that smells better than bread in the oven, and I can’t help but feel that the fact that I was using a wood stove added to the effect.To quote James Bearde "Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts!"

Furthermore, it was a very nostalgic experience because I associate that wonderful aroma with Val. And as the bread was coming out of the oven she was definitely in my thoughts just as much as the bread itself. In fact, the two strands of thought were inseparable, the two woven together through memory and the current experience. I even stopped to ask if she was proud of my accomplishment. 

I've been anticipating the first bread making session for some time now for it is, in essence, another milestone, another indication that I am coping, no, more than that, I am proving to myself that I can do all manner of things that I’d merely considered in the past. And it’s all very satisfying. And as much as I worry about things, like that bloody well for instance, it is experiences like this one that make it all worth while, that tell me that I’ve not made a mistake in choosing this lifestyle.

Thinking back, how many times did I say to Val "Don't bother making bread, we can buy some you know." This, after she'd been working all day, cooking no less, but she always insisted that it wasn’t a problem. Just an indication that no matter how tired she was, she always put others before herself. It pleased her, made her happy, that she was doing this for someone else because it made them happy. Selflessness manifested. -also adds to the feeling I got when baking bread and how I look forward to my next visitors so I can share my success with them.

Welcome to Paradise

Reflections 4

Welcome to Paradise

The most interesting dwellings in this country, as the painter knows, are the most unpretending, humble log huts and cottages of the poor commonly; it is the life of the inhabitants whose shells they are, and not any peculiarity in their surfaces merely, which makes them picturesque;

Thoreau

With winter fast approaching, a sense of urgency sets in. The question which is foremost in my mind on these cool late autumn days concerns my preparedness for what’s about to come. Am I really in a position to handle the onslaught that an Ontario winter can throw at me? If the winter is kind and not too harsh, then I am reasonably certain I am ready but what if it’s a severe winter with record breaking temperatures and snowfall? Do I have what it takes to make it through several months of the worst that my mind can conjure up?

Time to take stock and what better place to begin than with a detailed description of what has not only been my home for the last three months but will, I hope, protect me from the elements over the approaching winter.

 On first appearance the building is not especially attractive, in fact, it might be considered to be downright ugly. The siding is unfinished horizontal tongue and groove siding naturally weathered grey through exposure to sun and wind and rain. The upper section of the South side is finished with the most unbecoming, half sheets of plywood, baby blue in colour.  The shed roof, having seen better days, is coated with tar, cracked, and looking as though it is in desperate need of repair. Doors and windows lap pear to have been salvaged with no concern for aesthetics but merely as protection against the elements. 

...

The interior... is equally lacking in sophistication. The hydro poles which anchor the entire building and are the primary support of the walls and roof have been painted a bright fire-engine red and are, consequently, the most in-your-face feature of the interior. The walls are covered with panel board, as is the ceiling, and all are painted white. That’s it, red and white... Definitely not going to win any awards for interior decoration here but for now it appears to be more than capable of staving off the elements and if it keeps me warm and dry then there is all the time in the world for prettying the place up.

The small ‘L’ extension of the concrete base is the original kitchen, accounts for forty-eight square feet or about one third of the entire footprint of the building and contains a counter with sink, a cupboard and hutch, a couple of shelves and the ice-box embedded in the wall as well as the original entrance door.

The main room contains my loft bed with sofa bed below, an Ikea chair, a small set of drawers with a book shelf on top, several shelves added by me, a cedar chest for linens and a tiny closet which I built shortly after arriving. I also installed a skylight where the old chimney exited through the roof.

...

As a slight diversion I feel obliged to offer an explanation on the use of the word ‘cabin’ to describe my new home lest I be accused of deliberately misleading the reader. In the minds of many, most I would argue, the word ‘cabin’ calls forth a romanticized image of a small, rustic building often built with logs hewn from the surrounding bush and with connotations of nature, the pioneering spirit and Canadiana. It’s the log part which is problematic here, and thus, misleading. The only thing even remotely resembling logs on the original building are the eight vertical and three horizontal hydro poles which form the basis of the frame. On the other hand, it is a cabin in everything but appearance; it is tiny and rustic and romantic and, for me at least, it has the connotations of nature, the pioneering spirit and Canadiana.

Habitable buildings, homes, are known by all sorts of  monikers; cabin, shed, shack, and hut come to mind, each of which comes with its own mental images. House is somehow empty, lacking in detail, boring and only slightly more descriptive than building. It also has an urban ring to it and detracts from any character or unique properties that the home may possess. My house in the woods simply doesn’t cut it. It deserves more than that, something to capture its unique character. 

One of the more defining characteristics of the building is its shed roof, twelve feet on the high side and eight on the lower end, but a shed is a secondary building, a place where things are stored, not a domicile where people actually live. That leaves shack but, just as a cabin connotes an overly idyllic mental image, shack goes too far in the opposite direction bringing to mind a tumbledown, ramshackle derelict of a building hardly fit to be considered a home. In actual fact, in its construction, the building is closer to being a shack than a cabin. However, it is solidly built around the eight sturdy hydro poles anchored in a one hundred seventy-six square foot L-shaped concrete pad and although not the most attractive of buildings, it is still a notch or two above being labelled a shack. Hut falls into the same category.

I have been known to just refer to the building as “My little place in the bush” but that gets tedious after a while. And so, at the risk of sounding pretentious, I shall continue from time to time to refer to my new abode as my cabin. Problem solved.

Thanksgiving

While I’m writing I may as well use this opportunity to record the events surrounding my first big social event in the new digs, Thanksgiving weekend... The final count was ten overnight guests, eleven counting Cassie, and in order of arrival included, Lisa, Cassie, Jenn, Marcus, Tia, Mike, Dany, Chuck, Art, Doug and Sharon. Add myself and Bancroft Eric to the mix and we had an even dozen for dinner...With two exceptions, Doug and Sharon, everyone arrived throughout the day and evening on Friday. 

Doug and Sharon’s arrival on Saturday was, without doubt, the single most memorable event of the weekend. As the day, and then the evening slipped by everyone’s concern over their absence increased such that we were all quite concerned about them...

Much too our relief, at about 8:30 the faint rumble of two approaching motorcycles weaved its way up through the trees to the house. Several of us rushed down the drive to see if they needed help and to warn them that it was a hazardous trip up the drive which was covered in wet greasy leaves. Sharon opted to have Mike bring her bike up as she’d had enough riding for one day and didn’t want to tempt fate by dropping her bike part way up the drive. The sight of the two of them, when they got to the top of the hill, will remain ever imprinted on my brain. Both were sopping wet from head to toe and obviously chilled through to the bone. As happy as we were to see them, they were nothing short of elated at having arrived after a very long and arduous ride. It may have been at this point that the true meaning of Thanksgiving was most clearly acknowledged by everyone present. Doug was by far the worse off. It was all he could do to pry his hands off the controls of his bike. I think he summed up how he, and probably Sharon, felt as he emphatically insisted, over and over again, that he would not be “...repeating this fucking trip again, ever!” He also managed to communicate, through chattering teeth, that there was a bottle of whiskey in his saddle bag and that he would be most grateful if one of us would dig it out so he could get some of it in his belly ASAP. 

We wasted no time in ushering the two of them into the house where we helped them shed their cold, soggy riding gear and pulled some chairs up to the stove for them. Doug got some whiskey into him and I believe Sharon had a brandy. After an hour or so, their spirits improved and they were finally able to relax and maybe even laugh a bit at their experience, but just a little bit mind you.

Apparently they’d been on the road for over nine hours thanks to a couple of wrong turns, and much of it was in the rain. 

Water, Water Everywhere

Tuesday, October 8

Framed and hung the outside door today and despite the fact that it was too big to allow for a proper door jamb it went up well. In fact I was very pleased with it, especially since I’ve never hung a door before. I also removed the window between the main house and the addition and that too proved to be an easy task. This is where the new interior door will go so it will have to now be enlarged to allow for both the new door and the side window. 

At about 3:30 the well rig arrived and they started drilling right away. After some discussion about placement of the well, they convinced me to drill as close to the house as possible. I’d originally thought that the parking lot along the drive might be a better spot as it was at a much lower elevation but they, the two man crew who were operating the rig, said that didn’t necessarily mean that the well would end up being any shallower because the water table probably followed the lay of the land anyway. In the end though they said it was entirely up to me. The thought of having the well just a few steps from the front door was all the argument I needed to give them the go ahead. Not unexpectedly, they hit solid granite after about two feet and it was shortly after that that they left for the day. They were kicking up a lot of dust so tomorrow they will be using water to keep the dust down as they drill. While they were here I gave the guys a tour of the place which took all of about two minutes, and explained my plans for a back-to-nature lifestyle. The younger of the two showed a lot of interest in and seemed somewhat envious. .The older guy turned out to be a bit of a character. During the tour he let one rip, loud enough that he had me half expecting to hear the echo off the surrounding hills. He just carried on as if nothing had happened. His partner also explained that the old ‘fart” as he so aptly called him practically owned the entire town of Palm Rapids – owns a combination convenience/liquor store plus several other businesses. They’ll be back tomorrow about 8:00 to start drilling. Another major step towards independence/self-sufficiency is about to become a reality.

Wednesday, October 9

Drilling is now underway. They guys arrived, as promised, at 8:00 and had the drill operating within a matter of minutes. As I write this, they just completed the third section which means that, at twenty feet per section, they are at sixty feet. Tom says his well is sixty-four feet although when I mentioned this fact to the guys they said that they drilled the well and that it was closer to forty. All of this may or may not be relevant to the drilling going on here of course but I can always hope. Anyway, I’d figured that sixty feet would be the best case scenario and since that hasn’t panned out this is when I start sweating. It’s now 10:45 and buddy tells me they are working on section number seven which means we’re approaching one hundred forty feet. Now I’m starting to get really nervous. 

11:52

Struck water at one hundred thirty-nine feet. There appears to be a strong flow, estimated to be in excess of ten gallons per minute or “enough to run a small hotel” as the old fart put it. So the well depth is right about in the middle of my best case/worst case scenario as described by the guy who gave me the original quote. Not bad. The guys have gone to town for lunch which gives the well time to settle and will allow them to measure my static level, the actual depth at which the water pressure will maintain the level of the water in the drill hole, when they return. This will, in turn, determine what I’m going to do for a pump. According to my research a twelve volt pump, my first choice since it won’t be too much of a drain on my electrical setup, is only useful to a static level of fifteen feet or less. Anything more than this means that I will have to go with a one hundred twenty volt pump which will be too much for my system. Here’s hoping.

4:15

The static level is approximately forty-five feet. Back to the drawing board.

Great Blue Heron

There is just one more source which has given me significant insight into who I am and confirms much of what I have outlined above. Not surprisingly perhaps, it comes from the natural world in the form of the Great Blue Heron which, some years ago I adopted as my totem, even had one tattooed on my arm. 

The tattoo served a double purpose to be honest. Not only was it my totem but it covered up a self inflicted tattoo from my late teens when I inked “VAL” on my left bicep. Problem is, I was so drunk that I didn’t realize until the next day that the letters were upside down, not entirely, but close enough. Even worse, a couple of my buddies, my very drunk buddies, were so impressed with my new-found skill as tattoo artist that they had me tattoo them as well. What were we thinking? What was I thinking? The good news is; they didn’t kill me the next day after we’d sobered up, none of us got infections at the tattoo sites and was good to know that I wasn’t the only one feeling embarrassed and just a wee bit stupid. Val said she was touched that I’d written her name on my arm, but only after she’d stopped laughing.