Bald Eagle

One of the things about Parowan that is very different from Escalante is that it is near an interstate highway—I-15. (Interstates are interesting things to me—urban bubbles or tunnels passing noisily through the quiet, rural west.) When we moved here last winter, I drove repeatedly up and down the Parowan Valley, using the freeway. During these drives, I began to notice, often perched in the crosstrees of an abandoned series of power poles, a bald eagle.

When I was a kid, bald eagles were rare outside of Alaska. During the middle of the 20th century, population estimates in the lower 48 states were as low as 400 nesting pairs. And, sure enough, I don’t remember ever seeing one alive and in the wild. Under the protection of the Endangered Species Act starting in the late 1960s and early 1970s, however, bald eagle populations began to recover, and today I no longer think that it is unusual to see one . . . even along the highway.

Because eagles are carrion eaters, and because it is common for deer to be killed on the interstate, the eagle that I saw each day last winter was likely feasting on road kill. My only concern was that he—for it was a male—would be hit and killed himself. The eagle disappeared after a while and, though I glanced along the roadside a few times on the off chance of seeing it’s body, I wasn’t really sure where it had gone. Spring came, and then summer, and I mostly forgot about bald eagles.

I was on my way out of the house this morning to run a couple of errands. I was late for my appointment, and it was a cold, grey winter morning holding the threat of snow. I had my head down with frustration and was on my way straight to the door of my car with the sound of I-15 in the distance. I glanced up as I opened the door, and my eye caught the familiar “V” shape of a large bird in flight overhead. With a fleeting thought of, “raven,” I dropped my head. But, somewhere in my subconscious, something said, “not raven.” Involuntarily, I lifted my head. It was a bald eagle. It flew silently toward me, passed above the car, and went on towards town—a soft wishing sound fell from the back of its wings. I laughed aloud. “Welcome back,” I said.

Juniper Cones

I was hiking in the mountains above Kernville, California this fall and I came across a juniper tree loaded with cones. In fact, that one tree had more cones than I had ever seen in my life. A juniper is a small conifer, or evergreen, tree. When I hear people talk about conifer trees, they mostly call them “pine” trees—although pine trees are actually only a subset of conifer trees—and they usually call conifer seed pods “pine cones.” Thus, people often say that there are “pine cones” laying all over the forest floor even if the cones actually come from fir trees or spruce trees. In any case, the curious thing about juniper cones is that they are small, blue, and waxy. They look like berries. So, people never call them “pine cones.” Instead, they are commonly called “juniper berries.” Which, of course, is only half right because they are not berries at all.

Even more curious than their appearance is the fact that juniper cones (or berries) are used to flavor food. They are, according to the FAO, the only spice extracted from conifers anywhere in the world. Most famously, however, juniper berries are used to make gin. So, when I saw this tree burdened with a load of small blue cones, I began to dream of bottles of Tanqueray stacked to the ceiling.

Before filling my pockets with ingredients for the liquor cabinet, however, I decided to go home and look for a gin recipe that would give me some idea of how many berries I’d need to pick. So, I surfed the web for a while and found a very interesting gin-making discussion hosted by Jeffrey Morgenthaler. I also discovered, alas, that not every species of juniper provides edible berries. Wikipedia lists just six edible species (of more than 35) and includes just one from western North America—the Juniperus californica. I’m sorry to say that I don’t know the species of the juniper I saw last fall, though I suspect that it was a western juniper (or Juniperus occidentalis), and I would be hesitant to eat from it since some juniper berries can be toxic. But, I did learn that the place for premium juniper berries—the ones used for gin—is northern Italy, not North America. As a result, my search will now mature from the woodlands to the upscale supermarkets. (Do we have those in rural southern Utah?)

Stuck in the Snow

We went skiing on the mountain over the weekend. Ellen made it to the yurt in the National Monument on her first try, but she was tired by the time we got back to the car. We hustled her into the back seat and headed home for a nap. Before we got even a mile down the road, however, we saw a family in a Toyota Tacoma stuck in the snow. We weren’t driving the Chev, so I couldn’t pull them out, but we did stop to help. The story ends happily, but the rescue took much longer and was much more difficult than it needed to be. The family had obviously never been stuck in the snow before and they were completely unprepared. I’ve written on this previously for Associated Content, but the guy in this truck violated all of my driving in the snow rules.

First, he didn’t have boots, gloves, or a jacket. He was out digging in the snow with sneakers and bare hands—at least his shoes had laces, which is a lot better than all the foolishness with slip-ons and flip-flops. People! If you’re going out in your vehicle in the winter, bring some winter clothes. Anyone can get stuck and you need to be able to put on a jacket and some gloves.

Second, he had no shovel. This guy’s Toyota was high-centered in deep snow and he was digging with an 18-inch crow bar. A crow bar. The thing was an inch wide. Aside from having a warm coat to put on, the number one thing you can do to be prepared for winter driving is to put a shovel in the back of your truck. Fortunately for this guy, I used mine to dig him out.

Third, he couldn’t resist turning his wheels. The family did not speak English, but I showed the guy with the steering wheel how to straighten his wheels. Then I signaled vigorously outside the cab to get him to straighten up. But . . . the minute we got the thing to move an inch, he kept trying to turn the wheel. No, don’t turn the wheel, it creates a tremendous amount of surface area and friction that brings the vehicle to a stop. Plus it puts you into a whole new pile of snow. If you go straight in . . . and then I dig you free . . . please drive straight out.

Fourth, he wouldn’t keep his foot off the floor. Every time we were ready to try, he put the truck in gear and opened the throttle all the way. Don’t gun the motor, you will never move in the snow if you step on the gas. I don’t care if it is one inch of snow or one foot, you gotta be gentle on the throttle. You want your wheels turning slowly, not spinning wildly. This guy was about to set his tires on fire with how hard he was spinning them and, as a result, he had absolutely no traction.

A couple of other guys stopped to help and we finally had enough man power to get the truck out of the snow and back on the road, but it took about an hour more than it needed to. I was soaked with snow, sweat, and irritation by the time we were done. I told Valerie, “I could have got that truck out faster working by myself; all the ‘help’ provided by that guy and his family made it almost impossible.”

How I Narrowly Avoided a Stay at Gitmo

It is a prudent thing to carry a pocket knife at The Homestead. I use mine at least five times a day and won't leave home without it. Unfortunately, I had a meeting at the Federal Building in Salt Lake City this morning and, indeed, arrived at the meeting with not one, but two, knives in my pockets. The TSA/GSA/Federal Marshall that screened me found the small Swiss Army knife that I carry on my key chain, but let me keep it. She could not, however, figure out why I kept buzzing the metal detector. I couldn't either. We took off my sunglasses, my belt, my watch . . . until finally I was clear.

I sat in my meeting until my parking meter had expired and then asked the uniformed guards for permission to go out and come back in. They said, "yes" but wanted to run me through the metal detector again. As I patted my pockets prior to my second screening, I found the seven-inch serrated lock-back knife in my back pocket. I froze. The knife had been there all day. What if the guards discovered I had eluded them earlier? Sweat broke out on my forehead. The guard with the scarred cheek and eyes of ice cleared his throat. What if they thought I had deliberately left my meeting to retrieve a weapon? I could feel a muscle in the corner of my eye begin to jump. The guard with the Grim Reaper tattoo got up and began to circle. I made a dash for the metal detector and slipped through. Nothing. I was clear. I gave the guards a nervous smile and wished them a good day.

Urban Forestry

Parowan is a “Tree City USA.” Tree City USA is a program of the Arbor Day Foundation. To qualify for such a designation, a community must have a Tree Department, a Tree Care Ordinance, an Urban Forestry Budget of at least $2/capita, and an Arbor Day celebration. Here, the Tree Department is called the Parowan City Shade Tree Commission. The Commission meets once a month to discuss policy, budgeting, and long range planning, among other things. A friend of mine is the Chairman of the Commission and he invited me to attend a recent meeting.

As you might guess, the discussions of policy and planning were a little less than stimulating for some of the guests of the commission, but when they got around to discussing Parowan’s tree inventory, my ears perked up. Using volunteer labor, the Tree Commission has collected data on more than 4000 tree “locations” under the city’s jurisdiction. This includes existing live trees, existing dead trees and/or stumps, and places where trees could/should be planted. This may not seem like a large data collection effort for many cities or towns around the country, but for a town the size of Parowan, these kind of numbers mean more trees than people.

According to a summary of the inventory data there are nearly 50 different tree species growing on city property today. Of course, not all of these are “desirable” from an urban forestry perspective. Street tree desirability is based on a number of factors including longevity, strength, and size—urban foresters do not like trees that tend to die young and/or blow over. Unfortunately, approximately 17% of the existing live trees in Parowan are undesirable. These include Siberian elms, cottonwoods, and box elders. The latter two species are native to southern Utah and can be beautiful components of their natural environments, but the box elder especially tends to have weak wood and a poor form, not the best characteristics for street trees.

On the other hand, the Parowan data shows that the city owns nearly 60 American elm trees. This was a surprise to me because American elm trees are rare in American cities today. A very popular street tree beginning almost two centuries ago, the American elm population was decimated by Dutch elm disease starting in the 1930s. Bruce Carley, at his website, Saving the American Elm estimates that nearly 100 million American elms have succumbed to Dutch elm disease over the past few decades. So many have died, in fact, that I have stopped looking for them when I travel because I don’t expect to see them.

The funny thing about all this is that we have both a Siberian elm and an American elm in front of The Homestead. I didn’t recognize the American elm until my friend on the Tree Commission pointed it out. One of these trees is “undesirable,” and the other is a rare American treasure, but I love them both. Admittedly the American elm is more beautiful with its black branches and spectacular fall foliage, but both trees provide valuable shade, free compost for the garden, and a home for nesting birds. And, given that the city’s budget for removing “undesirable” but healthy trees is practically nil, I think we will be able to enjoy both of these trees for a long time. In fact, I won’t be disappointed if both of them are still standing long after my time.

The Lost Art of Glazing

The windows on the older part of The Homestead were handmade at least 100 years ago and set into 18-inch thick walls made of native stone, local brick, and home-made mortar. They are typical pioneer windows in a typical southern Utah pioneer home. And, when we bought the house, they were in awful shape—cracked glass, broken sashes, and peeling paint. From day one, the wind blew directly into the living room, mitigated only by some masking tape installed by some previous owner.

The first thing the old windows needed was a set of storms. The single (interior) pane of glass was exposed directly to the wind and the rain. A storm window on the outside would add some protection from the elements while providing a dead-air space for insulation. So, we measured the windows and made a trip to George’s Salvage in Salt Lake City. George’s is worth a story of its own, but suffice it to say that the place is stacked 50 feet deep in old windows and doors, not to mention toilets and coal stoves.

We left our measurements with the staff at George’s and they promised to do some research. In a few days they called back to say they had what we needed. I went to pick them up and found that the objects in question were in the back warehouse, upstairs, and down the hall. I also found that there were no lights in the warehouse and that the upstairs walkway was only as wide as one of my feet. It was great fun blindly wrestling those things down the stairs and out the door without breaking my neck. I had to feng shui them into the car, but I managed to haul six of them home and into the shed.

In contrast to modern windows which arrive from the factory in one piece, old window frames were constructed of wood by a carpenter while each piece of glass was individually cut and fitted to the frame. The glass was secured by glazier’s points and sealed by glazing compound. Glazing compound is a putty like substance that can be applied like caulk, but that eventually dries to form a hard “gasket” around the edge of the glass. After many years of exposure to sun and wind the dry glazing can become cracked and brittle, eventually falling out and leaving the glass propped against the frame without a weather proof seal. We found that all the windows we owned were in that condition, the ones on the house as well as the ones we had salvaged. So, it was time to make some repairs.

We started at a major home improvement retailer where we found that they no longer cut and sold glass. OK. How about glazier’s points and glazing compound? After a long period of fruitless searching, the salesperson said, “Nobody does that anymore, so we don’t sell that stuff.” Glazing windows, I’ll admit, is somewhat painstaking, but does that mean that it can no longer be done? We moved on to the local branch of a national hardware franchise. The salesperson gave us a blank stare but pointed us vaguely to the back of the store. It was there, on a dusty rack, that I found a box of glazier’s points. With those, a tub of glazing compound that I found on their painting aisle, and some glass cut by a custom glass shop, we were in business.

Now I’ve seen some poor glazing jobs in my life . . . and I’ve even done some. But, the trick to good glazing is to lay in an angled bead of compound and then smooth it with a knife until the whole thing looks uniform. A really good glazer can make the window look like it came from the factory with the glass and the frame molded together perfectly. On a hundred year old house, perfection is not necessary, but we don’t want it to look bad from the road. And, so, slowly, window by window we have practiced the art of glazing . . . massaging the putty into the cracks, smoothing it, adding some here and there, and re-smoothing it. With each repair the wind whistles through the living room a little less and the place looks like less of a derelict.

Is window glazing truly a lost art, and does it really matter? I mean, it is simply a tedious home maintenance job and nobody, apparently, does that anymore. Besides, factory built windows are easier to use and much more energy efficient than old style single pane windows. I suppose that the loss I feel is simply nostalgia. As I glazed a storm window in the early winter sun yesterday, working to make the house warmer as winter begins to bite, Ellen played beside me in the yard. Just for a few minutes the world was settled, my daughter’s voice was soothing, and I was working a good line of glazing into a salvaged storm. It was art.