News From Down The Lane

It has been a busy week here in the north woods.

The big news is that winter suddenly ended last Sunday, and Spring began three weeks early.  Sunday began with our lake iced over.  The temperature climbed to sixty degrees, and a brisk wind blew the ice over to the north shore, where waves worked all afternoon to melt it.  By the end of the day all of the ice was gone, like a Penn and Teller magic trick.

The water is very clear this time of the year, before the warmth of the sun causes plant growth and algae bloom.

We lost one of our neighbors this winter.  Don was the long-retired former town constable, and had been in declining health for several years.  He passed at age 85.  We knew Don for 25 years, and in all that time we never heard anyone say one unkind thing about him, nor heard him say anything unpleasant.  He was a good man.

His age made him the third oldest guy in the neighborhood.  There are two neighbors who are in their middle nineties, and there spouses, who still live here year around.  One had a small stroke and then five stents this winter, but he's up and around, moving his own firewood, doing a bit of raking in his yard.  The other has the beginning of memory loss, but still drives, fishes, and so forth.  Something about living in the woods and having chores to do keeps people active well into their older years.

The woods needed some management this spring, so the timbering crews came in.

The harvest this year is limited to birch and red pine.  The birch will be turned into wood for cabinets, doors, and trim, while the red pine will be turned into pulp for paper and cardboard products.  The branches and scrap will be turned into paraffin-soaked fire starters for use in fireplaces and campfires.  Trees are a cash crop up here, and woodlands are harvested about every twenty years.

The crews had an unwelcome delay when the township placed weight limit restrictions on town roads.  Violate the load weight limits, and face a very stiff fine.  So everything stayed where it is for a few days until the earth under the roads fully thaws, and heavy loads won't cause road damage.

This may be our last Spring in the northwoods.  We met with a real estate agent last week, and will sign a listing contract this week placing our cabin for sale on the market.  We have been thinking about this now for two years, and have decided to go ahead with it.  It will be difficult to part with our cabin, but the time for that haa arrived.  We'd rather spend winter months in a warm climate, so that's what we'll do after the sale of the cabin has closed, whenever that may happen.

It's always interesting how the arc of life is different than the plans one makes.  We planned to live out our last years in the cabin, hoping to age as well as our neighbors.  The arc won't match that plan.  Winters in Florida, Texas, or California are now far more appealing than months of relentless subzero temperatures, and seemingly interminable snowfalls.  I'll miss the summers in the woods, though, I know that.

Time changes nearly everything.

News From Down The Lane

The news is that autumn returned this week, about two weeks ahead of schedule.  The conifers have started dropping cones and needles; and the leaves on some of the more timid hardwoods have begun to turn colors.  The red oaks and sumacs are part-way through color change. Other hardwoods will soon follow, as overnight temperatures have been unseasonably cool.

Autumn brings with it a natural rhythm of events, both human and natural.  Young humans have returned to the rhythm of the school day, of riding yellow buses, of maintaining a regular schedule.  Student athletes have resumed the rhythms of practice and game day.   The new soccer complex in town has full fields after school, and all weekend.  The cross country runners are practicing on the rural roads and golf courses after school, and holding their meets in parks Saturdays.  The football players are on their field after school, and the grandstands are full on Friday nights.

Our part of the northwoods is lightly populated, so away games can mean an overnight stay.  Some high schools in our conference are more than two hours away, and when snow threatens, the athletes bring an overnight bag in case the buses can't travel back home after the game.  We haven't had snow yet, but it won't be long before we do.

Older humans are in their autumn rhythm, too.  Hunters are building tree stands, truing the aim of their rifles, and practicing their bow skills.  Bow hunting opens this week, gun season opens in November.  Deer hunters are wearing their hunting clothes around town, a ritual that helps eliminate laundry scents that might spook deer or bear.  Hunting clothes won't be washed now until after the season ends.

We are in our autumn rhythm here at the cabin.   Our woodshed is only about half filled with cut wood, and I've called the woodcutter to deliver three cords.

The back half is still full, but we'll probably exhaust it over the cold months.

The firewood that we thought had been borrowed last winter during the propane shortage hasn't been replaced.  I had hoped that the people who took it would replace it over summer but that hasn't happened.  We aren't always here, and the firewood can't be locked up, so there is that risk, I suppose.

We got hit hard last winter by propane prices that increased more than four hundred percent in two months.  Our autumn rhythm this year included pre-paying for a winter's worth of propane at prices that are locked in.  We might be overpaying by $.20 per gallon, or underpaying by $4.00 per gallon, who knows, but at least our price risk has been managed.  If prices again increase to $5.00 per gallon, I'm locked in at $1.75.

The other early autumn  activities are done.  The boat motor has been winterized, the touch-up caulking has been done, the insect poison has been sprayed around the buildings, a few trees have been trimmed, and a contract has been signed to tear off and replace the very old shingle roofs on two outbuildings.

Chet has plowed our drive for the last 20 years.  He isn't sure if he'll do it again this winter because he's 81 and has had two hip replacements.  He worries that if his truck gets stuck he won't be able to dig it out, or walk out for help.  And he says "I ain't gonna get me one of them damn phones" to take with him in his truck.  If he decides that he isn't going to plow, he'll give my name to one of his nephews who plows snow, and he'll keep the driveway clear.

More.

News From Down The Lane

The happy news from down the lane is that winter has at long last begun to loosen its grip on our small part of the world.

We had quite a snow storm last Friday.  It left us eight inches of heavy, wet snow on top of the winter's record accumulation.  As usually happens, we drove through most of it, white-out conditions and slippery roads reducing our usual 70 mph pace to a frustratingly slow 35 mph, and less when the bald-tire support group placed one of its members directly in front of our car.

But then Saturday dawned sunny, clear and warm (if 45 degrees can be called warm).  The day stayed clear and the snow began to melt.  It was a day meant for being outside and happy.  Azure skies, clear, sweet air, and enveloping sunshine.

We went for a drive, sunroof open, radio playing bluegrass music.  With no particular direction in mind, we just drove.  Soon enough we spotted hand made signs directing us to Maple Syrup Fest up in Phelps.  We followed the signs.

Maple Syrup Fest was held at the local school.  The only school in town, in fact, because when your population is 1,350 one building is all that's needed for grades K through 12.

The cafeteria was filled with vendor tables.  It was all local people selling maple syrup making equipment, cookies, toffee, blankets and quilts, pottery, log furniture, spice mixes, hand made sweaters from wool grown on the knitter's farm, coffee, and so forth.  A local maple syrup producer was demonstrating how syrup is made and graded.  Kids were making maple candy.  Lunch was available. The Fest was small and lovely.  Everyone seemed to know everyone else.

The school was open so we took a walk through.  The main hall has framed photos of every graduating class, from 1939 through 2013.  The class of 1939 had eight graduates; the class of 2013 had eleven. The graduating classes in between all had between six and twelve graduates.  Phalps has always been a small town.

The early graduating classes had photographs of serious looking young men and women.  The men all wore nicely tailored suits, vests, white shirts and neckties.  The women all wore lovely proper dresses, modest and fitted.  The men all had pretty much the same haircut, likely because there was one barber in town.  The women all had shoulder length, highly curled hair.  Then in the middle 1950s, the photographs began to change, probably about the same time that television became available in Phelps. Some of the men had slicked down hair, with a strand hung down the forehead, suits with no ties, and colorful shirts.  Some of the women had more contemporary hair styles, and wore sweaters and felt skirts.  Saddle shoes appeared on a few feet.

News From Down The Lane

I took a walk down the lane this afternoon, all the way past the road to the boat landing, and out to the County Highway, then back again.  Lord, it's still cold here in the northernmost part of Wisconsin.  The temperatures are below zero and the harsh winds today gave birth to wind chills near thirty below zero.  I walked fast, my face covered so the cold air couldn't harm my nose and lungs.

There is more snow here than any winter in the twenty years we've owned this place.  There is so much snow that we don't know what to do with it.  The piles around the perimeter of our drive now reach above six feet.  The snow along the lane became so deep that the town plow couldn't move it.  The boys at the town garage started up the road grader and ran it up and down the lane to push the snow farther off the shoulder.  The lane is passable but drifts over each time the wind picks up.

We had to shovel our way DOWN to the back stoop and back door to get into the cabin when we arrived Thursday afternoon.  The piles of snow on either side of the back stoop now tower above my head.

News From Down The Lane

Today was a perfect winter day, in fact the best winter day we can remember having in quite a few years.  There is a beautiful, deep accumulation of powdery snow, the skies were a cloudless bright blue from sunrise to sunset, and the temperature hovered in the middle teens.  Simply perfect.

I walked down the lane to the County Highway, cold snow squeaking under my boots with each step.  It was so still in the woods that I could hear my own heart beating.  The only other noise was the resolutely rapid tat tat tat tat tat of a pileated woodpecker working on a red pine, looking for lunch.

The snow has been quite heavy this year here in the Lake Superior snow belt.  The man who plows our drive had trouble pushing the snow with his straight plow and had friend with a v-plow come over to break open a path.  The snow piles at the end of the drive seem to be ten feet high, and winter is not half over.

Chet is our plow guy; we inherited him when we bought this place some twenty-odd years ago. He plowed the drive for the previous owner, and the owner before that who first built the place.  We don't know how old Chet is - we think somewhere in his early 80s - but when we ask we get a laughing answer from him with a joke.  It's usually something like "How old am I?  Old enough that I have a autographed photo of Jesus!"  Or maybe "Old enough that the Jesuits baptized me here when they stopped for lunch in 1622."  The answer is always followed by a long laugh that ends up in a smoker's cough.

We also inherited a plumber, an electrician, and a septic tank guy.  The electrician retired and moved to Florida a few years ago.  The plumber's son now runs the business, and the septic tank guy is still with us.  They are all hard workers and as honest as can be.  We learned long ago to always pay cash up front for all work, be polite, and never, ever cop a big city attitude.  They trust us; we trust them.  They know where the keys are hidden, and when there is work to be done and we are not here, there is no concern about them letting themselves in.  Cash, a firm handshake, and looking the other guy in the eye when a promise is made still work up here.

I bumped into old Don while I was walking.  He's the kind of man who has always been old; he just looks older every year.  He doesn't look well.  Last summer we were taken aback by his ashen color; it's worse now.  He looks like he's circling the drain. 

Don has always been big, always had a big, sloppy cigar in his mouth.  He doesn't light the cigar anymore, but still chews on it.  Don was walking his mutt, although "walking" isn't quite accurate.  The dog was walking on the end or a leash; Don was in his car with the window down holding on to the other end of the leash and slowly driving down the lane.  He said he's fine, how's the weather, how are you feeling, damn taxes, and how's your wife?