Big Spenser Flat

The road to Big Spenser Flat was snow-packed, but firm.  It was overcast the whole way out there and when we stopped at the end to pick up a few clinkers, the light was flat and there was a cold wind.  Fortunately, it was clearing even then, and, by the time we got back to the west side, the sun was breaking through.  We stopped for a short hike while VSO made a painting.  After lunch, we started down Big Horn Wash.  I've been in there before, but it was when EDO was fairly small and the going was slow.  Now, we can move more quickly and it ought to be possible to walk down to Harris Wash.  It is a very nice hike, not at all difficult.  In any case, we had given ourselves only an hour or two, so we had to turn around well short of Harris.  We drove up to the little ridge above Little Spenser Flat, and VSO got out the paints again.  It was late in the day, but EDO and I started down another small, unremarkable draw on the Harris Wash side.  It turned into a very nice little canyon—buttery 60 to 80 foot walls, with a sandy bottom, and more yucca than I've seen anywhere.  We had to turn around after half an hour, but it was well worth the exploration.  VSO was frozen nearly solid at her easel by the time we returned, but we were able to lever her into the Chev and get back on the oil before the sun set.

Losee Canyon

They say that this was a Butch Cassidy hide-out.  While Losee Canyon is only about 25 or 30 miles south of Cassidy's hometown, Circleville, it is hard to imagine he and his gang hiding out down here:  During much of his career he operated fairly openly in southern Wyoming and the Brown's Park area of northeastern Utah.  Even the famed Robber's Roost would have been more convenient to the Wild Bunch than Losee Canyon.  In any case, we didn't see any sign of Cassidy or the Sundance Kid on this day.  Of course, as Valerie pointed out, they would both be around 140 years old by now.  Whether they survived the shootout in Bolivia or not, it is doubtful that either of them is still with us.  Besides, given that ole Butch felt that the mountain west was too crowded in 1890, it is probably better that he didn't see the stream of tour buses whistling up Highway 12 all afternoon.

Christmas Eve

Last year, for Christmas Eve, I skied up Dry Canyon.  Thinking that it should be a tradition, I got the skis out of the shed on Monday and drove up the highway.  I skipped Dry Canyon this year and turned in at First Left Hand.  It was snowing hard and no one had tried the road for a week or so.  I put the Chev in 4WD and pushed up past the new bridge over Bowery Creek (see picture).  That was far enough for the truck.  The snow was sufficiently deep and sticky to make getting stuck a possibility, and I didn't want to spend the evening digging.

I put on the skis and started up the road.  It was kind of a slog.  It was snowing so hard that my glasses completely crusted over.  I couldn't see anything.  I took them off, but it wasn't much better.  My hands were cold.  I had just finished Angle of Repose and was feeling regretful about Oliver and Susan Ward.  Humbug.  It wasn't much of a Christmas Eve.  After ten minutes, I thought about turning around.  After 20, I'd had it:  Time to shake off the sleet and go home.

But, by then, I was at Five Mile and I decided to ski over to the old cabin across the creek.  When I got to the creek, I tried to side-step onto a fallen cottonwood tree.  I thought I might be able to cross the creek on the log without taking my skis off.  Bad idea.  It was too slippery and I fell on my butt.  On a rock.  I writhed around in the snow for a while until I could stand up again.  Then, I took off my skis and jumped the creek without them.

The cabin has been without doors and windows for several years, but I don't remember it being too badly vandalized before.  It is worse now.  Holes in the walls, and a lot of graffiti.  Filthy graffiti.  What is wrong with people?  Why can't we just keep it to ourselves?  Why do we have to go out in the woods and destroy something that has nothing to do with us?  What makes the idiocy and hatred something worth expressing?  Anyway, I can't say that my little detour exactly brightened my day.

I went back to my skis and started down the road.  The snow had stopped and for a moment the clouds lifted.  I watched them swirl in a ragged eddy around Noah's Ark.  The Vermillion Castle came into view and the settling dusk brightened to a low glow.  It was still.  I could see the Douglas fir trees, high up on the ridges of the Ark, cloaked in snow.  I heard the cheep of a chickadee.  I started skiing—the slog converted to half a glide.  Then more.  I found a bit of a rhythm.  I was floating—taking long downhill steps in soft snow.  Gravity had partially released me and I was walking on the moon.  Five minutes, ten, fifteen.  I was lost in the pleasure of it—tireless—kick, float, balance, kick, float, balance.

When I got to the truck, I threw the skis in, cleared away the new snow, and put it in drive.  The Chev wallowed down to the highway.  There was some slow traffic.  While I waited, I climbed out to break ice from the wipers.  It was miserable—cold, gray, sleeting—and the highway was covered with slippery sludge.  I couldn't have been happier.  I laughed.  I'd just been up the canyon.  Alone.  Skiing.

First Days of Winter

When I arrived in Florida last Monday evening, the temperature—at 9p—was 81F; when I woke up on Thursday morning, back in Parowan, the temperature was 1F.  As Wallace Stegner says, I have been consuming too much transportation.  I mean, jet lag aside, what do you call it when you get up in Florida with the air-conditioning running and go to bed—3000 miles later—with the wood stove full of pinyon?  Jet freeze?  Thermo lag?

Anyway, in addition to the cold temperatures, southern Utah received significant snowfall this past week.  It was right on time.  Friday was the first day of winter, and we have been celebrating with icy streets and 40 degree indoor temperatures.  Aside from the minor discomforts, however, the thing I have noticed the most with this storm is that the snow has acted as a sort-of passive radar—turning the invisible visible.

I know, for example, the route taken by the cat when we let her out at the front door and—later—in at the back.  I also know where the coyotes have been feeding between Paragonah and the freeway by the circle of packed snow with a bull's eye of blood.  I can see the path taken to the curb by the trash can, the place the rear wheels on the Chev lost traction, and the tracks of the silly mary-janes EDO wears to school in sub-zero temperatures.

Moreover, the snow amplifies the light of the gibbous moon, turning night to day.  When I awaken to a quiet house at 4a, the room is not dark.  If I get up and go to the front door, I can see the deer herd coming up the street, foraging in the landscaping and dodging Santa, Rudolf, Frosty, and the Wise Men in the front yards.  It is winter, I suppose, in Florida, too, but it comes without this ability to see the unseen, or to smell, as Rupert Brooke has it, "the blue bitter smoke" of the pinyon in your stove.

View from the Office

I had to go to Florida again this week for a meeting at the University of South Florida.  What I didn't realize when I booked my return flights for Wednesday morning was that I would be diving into "holiday" traffic.  My first two flights were over-booked and packed to the gills with holiday travelers.  The problem with this is that there is no longer space on a commercial aircraft for the average American and his two "carry-on" bags.

First, there is the average American, or I should say there is the mammoth American.  You know he isn't going to fit in his seat and he is going to take half of yours.  And, I shouldn't limit this to men, or even adults.  One of my colleagues says that the only thing you can do is keep your head down, avoid eye contact, and hold the barf-bag open on your lap.

Second, there is the "carry-on."  Why bother calling it that?  These things cannot be carried.  They are the size of a farm wagon.  The first one takes up the overhead bin for the entire row, and requires its owner to solicit the help of two of the three stewardesses to lift it that high.  What is in those things anyway?  I mean, the American uniform is shorts, flip-flops, and tattoos.  What can be in the luggage?  More flip-flops?

To be fair, the airlines have caused this by a) charging very high fees to check your luggage, and b) failing to enforce the "carry-on" size rule.  People have learned that you won't have to pay the $60 bucks if you just roll right up to the door of the airplane with your piano dolly.  They'll either let you stuff it in the overhead bin or they will pink tag it for a free gate-check.

Anyway, the thing that makes this all so funny . . . wait I'm getting to it . . . is what happened on my final flight of the day.  The little turbo-prop from Salt Lake to Cedar City was only half full—the front half.  Naturally everybody picks a seat towards the front of the aircraft.  That is what I had done, and I had my best seat of the day:  I was by myself and I was one row from the door.  The door was closed, the engines were running, and I had my magazine open.

Suddenly the stewardess was standing beside me with a somewhat urgent look on her face.  She said, "The Captain needs someone to move to the back row to help balance the aircraft.  Do you mind moving back there?  You can have the whole row to yourself."  (I am not making this up.)  I looked at her blankly.  I tried to think about what she had just said.  I looked over my shoulder at the two buddies wedged into the row behind me talking loudly about puking during spring break—each of them going at more than 250 lbs.  I looked back at the stewardess.  The plane was starting to taxi.  I looked across the aisle at the, um, well-endowed lady filling out the other seat (200 lbs?).  I looked back at the stewardess.  I asked, "You want me to move to the back row?"  "Could you, please, it is for aircraft balance."  I thought about how better our balance might be if pete and repeat behind me moved to the back row, but I decided not to say it.  "Ok," I said.  I stood up and grabbed my bag—the bag had two t-shirts, two pairs of cotton socks, and two pairs of boxer shorts in it, all dirty.  I hitched up my pants so they didn't fall down, and walked to the back of the bus.  She was right.  I had it all to myself.

Will Work for Food

Well, we ran the numbers from this year's garden produce and came up with $1117.99.  That is the gross cash value of what we grew on The Homestead during 2012.  It sounds like a decent amount until you consider the inputs.

First, of course, is the out of pocket cash that we spent on seeds, hoses, soil, starts, etc.  We spent $528.84 on that stuff in 2012.  (I know, that looks ridiculous, but I challenge you to keep track of every trip you make to True Value, Home Depot, and the local nursery.  It adds up.)

Second, is the cost of the land.  We debated this for a long time because a big part of our land costs are tied up in our house.  You've got to have a place to live anyway, so isn't the garden free?  Well, if you just wanted a place to live, you could live in an apartment, so the extra land for a garden must be worth something, right?  I'm going to say five to ten percent, just for the sake of argument.  So, if our yearly cost of owning the property, paying the taxes, and buying water are around $6100, the cost of "rent" for the garden is between $300 and $600.

Third, is the cost of labor.  But, before we get into that discussion, perhaps we should do some arithmetic.  Take our revenues ($1117.99) minus our direct costs ($528.84), and you have $589.15 left.  If we are going to charge 5% rent, we've got 279.15 left.  If, on the other hand, we are going to charge 10% rent, we are already in the hole.

Basically, we are working for free.  The cost of labor is zilch, because we have essentially nothing left.  Fine, say the lovers of local and home grown food . . . we can live on love.  But, the problem here is that love doesn't keep the weight on.  We still have to go out and buy burgers and bacon to keep me from falling below 160 lbs.  Next year, instead of tracking food value, we may need to track hours worked and weight lost, so that we have something to compare to our 1100 bucks.

Three Hundred

At the beginning of 2009, Rural Ways came along . . . quickly taking the publishing world by storm.  By November of 2011, our award winning writers had generated 200 posts.  Today, as we look towards the end of our fourth year in business, we are celebrating with our 300th post.  As our reader has come to expect, the following story is true, but it could only be true . . . at Rural Ways:

The girls were at their Girl Scout meeting this week where they learned about the latest Parowan crime wave.  Allegedly, the baby Jesus from the nativity scene in front of the City Library had gone missing for around 24 hours on Monday and Tuesday.  The Parowan City staff was in something of an uproar.  The Mayor, the City Manager, and the Chief of Police all joined forces to find the kidnappers (deitynappers?).  After a tip from a local underworld figure (with a bifurcated tail?), they discovered Jesus riding in a little red wagon belonging to a pre-school-aged boy from the neighborhood.  Under the pressure of police custody, the youngster broke down and, allegedly, confessed to stealing Jesus.  His story was that he desperately wanted a little red wagon for Christmas.  When he prayed to Jesus for the toy he also promised that, if his wish were granted, Jesus would get the first ride.  Evidently, after Grandpa stopped by on Monday afternoon with an early Christmas present, the boy kept his word.  He went straight to the lawn in front of the library and put Jesus in his new wagon.  He gave Jesus a rather long ride, as it turned out, but the kid probably knew that he had a couple of weeks before Jesus was really needed in the manager anyway.  In any case, as of the time of this writing, both the young man and the young Jesus are safely where they belong . . . and the District Attorney has agreed not to press charges against the four-year-old.

Beware: Huge Mean Bear

Beware, this post is really about cutting Christmas trees on the Dixie National Forest.  While we were tree hunting, though, we came across this sign, (which doesn't seem to be effective in scaring off the young lady in a pink jacket).  It is not an official Dixie sign, so I'm assuming that it was made by a camper who may have lost part of his cooler on a family outing over the summer.  There are no huge bears (i.e. grizzly or brown bears) in southern Utah, so I am assuming that one of the local black bears has decided that he likes robbing tents.  In any case, I'm glad to say that we didn't see even a small black bear on this day.  We did see one other person, though.  It was a guy in a pick-up truck.  He was, um, a bear hunter.  I'm not kidding.

Actually, all of that is a better story than the business about cutting a Christmas tree.  For that, we drove around in the warm, dry woods looking at white fir (Abies concolor) which has all but taken over the entire western United States.  We found a couple of relatively full seven footers and threw them in the Chev—one for The Homestead, and one for Grandma and Grandpa.  When we got them home, I counted the rings in their stems.  Our Christmas trees are between 30 and 40 years old.  It takes a long time for a white fir to grow to seven feet with the National Forests as dense as they are now.  In any case, we did our part to remove a couple of these from the underbrush.

Tomato Data

I know that my reader has been waiting patiently for an analysis of our net earnings from the 2012 growing season.  A little more patience is in order, however, because I have not yet crunched all the numbers.  Nevertheless, I am ready to present some preliminary data.  I've done a little work on the tomatoes because they were the clear winner in terms of metric tonnes of food produced.  Actually, the total was 277 pounds.  As you can see from the graph, most of that came during August and September, with our largest one day haul coming on August 26th.  On that day we picked 40 pounds of tomatoes.

So, what is that all worth?  Well, the way I calculate it is by asking what you'd pay, per pound, at the grocery store.  I think you can pay $1/lb sometimes, but I think you can also pay $3/lb, depending on the time of year and the quality of the fruit.  Of course, during August, when everybody has tomatoes in the yard, you are probably going to get something a little closer to the bottom end.  So, I set my market rate at $1.50/lb, which gives us a total of $415.50 in value.

Before we get too excited about that, I'd just like to reprint an excerpt from a homesteader magazine that my father-in-law sent over.  This is from Anna Quarles, in Georgia, and it sums up my feelings pretty well.  It is great to grow your own food, but ain't nobody going to keep doing it if the costs so clearly exceed the earnings that it becomes foolish.  But let's let Ms. Quarles tell it:

"I know we reap benefits that we are not able to put a price on, such as better health due to the exercise and wholesome food.  I know we get to feel good because we are helping to save the environment because our food is not trucked or flown in from great distances.  But, really, let's get down to basics here.  If I don't have enough money coming in to pay for the seed and the equipment, not to count the taxes and property insurance, then eventually I will not be able to afford to plant the seed.  People laugh about the man who spends $1,000 to produce a half dozen tomatoes in his backyard, but this is no laughing matter.  I can't afford to waste money in that manner if I expect to be able to continue to pay my bills in the future and continue doing something I enjoy."

Last of the Firewood

It is better to have your firewood in before the end of November.  If you wait longer than that, you are likely to be working in the snow and in the dark.  Fortunately for Rural Ways, this month has turned in to one long indian summer.  It has been warm (50s and 60s) and sunny for a couple of weeks.  Because I was away from The Homestead for much of the autumn, I needed this nice weather to catch up on some of the fall chores, including cutting and hauling three loads of firewood.  Yesterday, I got the last of it.  I dropped, bucked, and loaded two dead aspen trees near Robinson Reservoir.  Usually, I wouldn't expect to be working in this area on 24 November, but, as you can see from the picture, it remains warm and dry.

Thanksgiving Interlude

After a month away from The Homestead—Salt Lake, Colorado Springs, Woodland Park, Denver, Milwaukee, Rhinelander, Ontonagon, Charlotte, New Orleans—I finally walked off the afternoon flight in Cedar City the other day.  I was greeted with ENTHUSIAM by two of the prettiest young ladies in southern Utah.  A few minutes later, standing at the baggage claim, a gentleman who had deplaned behind me walked up and said, "You're the luckiest guy on that flight."  Oh, man, he doesn't know the half of it.  There is nothing better than coming home to a family like this one.  I hate to argue with the dude, but I'm the luckiest guy in the whole state.  Happy Thanksgiving.

View from the Office

This week we're bunking on the Pearl River near Bogalusa, Louisiana.  We're on the Mississippi side of the river, but you could throw a stone into Louisiana.  Of course, this being rural southern Mississippi, nobody throws stones, gunfire is more the norm.  Our host sits on his porch and shoots his .308 into Louisiana—180 yards, he says.  Last night he had the .223 ready to shoot a hog out the back door.  They were jittery when they came to feed, however, and so we'll wait for another day.  Besides, after a dinner of boiled (pronounced "bowled") peanuts and moonshine, I didn't need any more excitement.

View from the Office

This week we're working in northern hardwoods on the upper peninsula of Michigan.  Oh, ya, up nort' der, eh?  The ground is mostly flat and it rains only about half the time, so it is pretty good duty.  On the other hand, it can be hard to see anything in the semi-gloom that counts as daylight.  But, the worst problem for me is leaf-off species ID.  When I arrived, I figured that I would just look on the ground under the tree for a little help, but what I found was that the entire forest floor is a mat of maple.  Now, granted, red and sugar maple trees are very common, if not dominant, in these forests, but maple leaves must also fall late and persist long because they've covered everything.  I've developed some litter-fall archeological techniques this week—pealing back the top layer to see what leaf skeletons are underneath.  Of course, the picture above has nothing to do with any of this.  It is of a species that is common everywhere:  Quaking aspen.

Kenneth Evett Painting

In 1935, the federal government created an agency called the Works Progress Administration (WPA), which was intended to provide jobs for the depression era unemployed.  Within the WPA, artists were a group of workers especially targeted by the Roosevelt Administration for employment.  As a result, new deal taxpayers funded thousands of jobs for artists, and became the owners of thousands of pieces of public art.

In Colorado, a painter named Kenneth Evett joined the WPA arts program and was paid to make oil paintings.  Two of those paintings found their way to the Manitou Experimental Forest and are currently on display in the 1930s era lodge where Rural Ways recently spent a week.  Of the two, the one pictured is our favorite.

Mr. Evett went on to make a name for himself as a painter of murals.  He is, evidently, most famous for the work he did in Nebraska—including installations in the Pawnee City post office and at the state capitol in Lincoln.  Eventually, Evett took a job teaching art at Cornell, a position he held for more than thirty years.  In 2005, he passed away at the age of 91.

View of the Office

This week we're working on Pike's Peak in a lot of small diameter limber, pondo, and Doug fir.  But, while the cover types are not too interesting, our bunk house is:  We are working out of a 1930s CCC era stone and log lodge maintained by the Manitou Experimental Forest.  The place is in great condition and features a big kitchen, a long dining room/work area, several bedrooms and bathrooms, and a massive, native-stone fireplace.  Best of all, we are not in a thin walled motel where my neighbors, the Bovine family, feel the need to move the furniture around all night.

The End of an Era

In October of 2003, we bought our 1993 Mercury Sable for $2200.  Today, the salvage yard came for it, and gave us $220.  The car was operable, registered, and insured.  But . . . last week it failed the Utah safety inspection . . . and our mechanic refused to work on it.  Which is just as well because when the camshaft bearing started to go last fall, we decided not to spend another dime on it either.  The remarkable thing is that it lasted a whole year without even changing the oil.  In fact, earlier this month, I was still using it to go back and forth to the Cedar City Airport for work travel.  Without getting choked up, let me just say that the Sable was a beast—powerful, roomy, reliable—and that it gave us nine good years.  But, what I really want to point out is that our ownership costs (purchase price minus sale price) were $1980 for nine years and 75,000 miles.  Sure, we had operation and maintenance costs—tires, fuel, mufflers, insurance—but our straight ownership cost was $18.33/month.  If my reader can beat 18 bucks a month to own a car, I'll buy him a six pack.  In fact, if I can beat 18 bucks a month to own a car, I'll buy myself a six pack.  Heck, I just lost an 18 buck a month car, I think I need a six pack.

Mt. Ellen

At just over 11,500 feet, Mt. Ellen is the highest point in the Henrys.  Mt. Ellen is not, however, much of a point.  It is more of a long north-south ridge with a series of small humps.  It is my opinion that the tallest of these humps is towards the north end of the ridge.  It is also my opinion that the entire summit ridge is a pile of ankle twisting loose rock.  Between rock pile, the long approach, and the howling wind, we were ready to turn around at the south summit.  A traverse of the entire summit ridge will await another day.

A Note on the Sources

A few months ago, one of our readers noted that Rural Way's reading list is "nuttily eclectic."  While we don't disagree, one of the advantages to this method of reading is the opportunity to discover unexpected connections.  Doesn't it give you a jolt to discover the same idea in two different works written sometimes thousands of years apart and in completely different contexts?  Does anyone doubt, for example, that One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is the same story as the one found in The Gospel of Matthew (or Mark, or Luke)?  Or that Thomas Merton's No Man is an Island covers some of the same ground as Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled (no pun intended)?

Even better is the triple play, where you discover a connection between three authors.  I had one of those earlier this year when I was reading Martin Cruz Smith's Gorky Park.  Smith makes, in the middle of his thriller, a connection between Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment and Camus's The Stranger.  Bingo.  Haven't you read those two back to back and wondered if Camus was responding to Dostoyevsky, or perhaps updating him?  Here is how Smith's Gorky Park character has it:

"But you can't do Camus's The Stranger for a soviet audience.  A man takes the life of a total stranger for no reason but ennui?  Its purely Western excess.  Middle class comfort leads inevitably to ennui and unmotivated murder.  The police are used to it, but here in a progressive socialist society no one is tainted by ennui.

What about Crime and Punishment?  What about Raskolnikov?

My very point.  For all his existentialist rambling, even Raskolnikov just wanted to get his hands on a few rubles.  You'd be as likely to find an unmotivated act here as you would be to find a tropical bird outside your window.  There would be mass confusion.  Camus's murderer would never be caught here."

See what I mean?  If you've got the tortured face of Raskolnikov stuck in your mind when you're reading Camus, you start to feel like there might be a connection.  And, then you read an American best seller and find that you're not the only one who thinks so.

First Fire

It is not unusual to have had our first snow at The Homestead by now.  Last year, in fact, the first big, wet storm of the season overwhelmed Highway 14 on October 7th.  This time around, however, the autumn weather has been slow to arrive and we've had nothing but (maybe) a mild frost.  Until today.  Today, EDO went to Cedar Breaks with the third grade field trip and found, yep, lots of new snow.  Meanwhile, I started a fire in the stove at 5:30a and let it burn all day:  The first fire of winter 2012/2013.

Sunset at Indian Rocks Beach

The view from the office is a little different this week.  We're working in St. Petersburg, Florida on the Deepwater Horizon spill, and the sun sets every evening over the Gulf of Mexico.  Florida is hot, dirty, humid, and flat.  There doesn't seem to be much reason for its existence until you see its beaches.  I'm not much of a beach guy, but who can resist the crash of the wave, the salty breeze, and the cry of the gull?  As for the Deepwater Horizon, please don't tell anyone that Rural Ways is a dirt forester.

Anasazi Show

After winning an award at the Escalante Canyons Art Festival last week, Valerie spent a few days cramming for her fall show at the Anasazi Museum in Boulder, Utah.  We hung the show today . . . a spectacular fall day in south central Utah . . . so, if you're in Boulder this month, stop by with your checkbook.  The lead-off painting is one she made of the San Juan River last fall.  It is pictured above.  While the picture is adequate, the real thing would look spectacular over your mantle.

The Deer are Back

I was working on The Farm yesterday when I noticed that one of our fruit trees had been browsed.  At first I thought it was insect damage, but then I noticed the steaming pile.  Yep.  It was the first fresh deer poop of the season.  There was just one pile (one deer?) and none of our other trees were damaged, but the war is on.

There is a ceasefire during the hot weather every summer when the herd goes up the mountain, but the rest of the year features one battle after another.  In the spring, I even caught one—pinned it in the corner of the six foot garden fence—but couldn't think of what to do with it—stab it with my pocket knife?—so I let it go.  It was still dark, but my neighbor was up and, apparently, saw the encounter.  Later he said, "You must have been a track star in college.  I saw you chase down that deer."  (And that was in the backyard, you should see me in the open field.)

In any case, for trees, the best offense is a good defense.  A solid cage made of wood and wire works best to protect the tree.  The problem is that we've planted dozens of trees in the past couple of years, so it is a lot of work to hold the fort.  Plus, the tree cages don't protect all the other plantings.  Valerie uses commercial deer spray on those.  The spray works, but it is temporary, and needs constant re-application.

Have you noticed that when someone wants to tell you how lovely and peaceful their vacation was, they'll say, "Oh, and at sunset every evening we could watch the deer from our window?"  I always roll my eyes.  Yeah, what a treat.  I enjoy watching maggots, too.  I like having my house full of rats and the sky darkened by locusts.  The war is on.

Eusebio's Graffito

As my reader knows, Rural Ways has an interest in old arborglyphs, or aspen tree carvings.  When I am walking in an aspen clone, I keep my eyes open for the interesting ones.  In many areas, all you get is silly, half-witted vandalism:  Dave was here; J.T + L.M.; For a good time, call; etc.  In some areas, however, there is a history of tree carvings by cowboys or shepherds that can be up to 80 or 90 years old.  Some of these include detailed drawings, others include enough information about the carver to be able to place him in context.  In the area of the Little Snake River on the Routt National Forest in north-central Colorado there is a wealth of tree carving done by Peruvian shepherds—dating from the mid-1920s through today.  During the summer of 2012, I spent five weeks working on the Routt, and I had the opportunity to make a few pictures of these Peruvian arborglyphs.  The one above says it all.  It was made—from what I can tell by looking at other carvings—by Eusebio Benites in 1988.

View from the Office

We've been working, once again, in dead lodgepole pine on the Routt National Forest.  This week, however, it is not the pine that has been holding our attention, but the aspen.  It seems a little early, but the autumn colors are on full display.  We've had some overnight frosts, some spectacular sunny days, and all the golden color you could want.  It is a nice time to work in the woods.

Solar Fruit Dryer

We've had such a strong apple crop this year—not to mention all the pears, plus some peaches from a friend's tree—that we've had to come up with a way to preserve the fruit.  Along with freezing and some bottling, Valerie has been drying a lot of it.  Using an electric fruit dryer loaned/donated to us from the in-laws, we've accumulated bags and bags of dried apples.  Of course, what the true hippie-greenies say is that we are using more energy—generated from the combustion of fossil fuels—to dry the fruit than the fruit is worth.  I don't know if this is true, but I read about it in one of these how-to-live-off-the-grid type magazines.

In any case, it is true that we have very strong solar radiation and very low humidity in southern Utah, and that we are heating the fruit dryer in the house on the same sunny days that we are running the air conditioner to cool the house.  To get around this contradiction, I have created a solar fruit dryer.  Tada!  See picture, above.  Using a design recommended by our friend Kelly Buemer, I clamped two window screens together with simple wood-working clamps.  The fruit can rest between the screens, and we've decided to set the whole thing inside the car during the day where it gets really, really hot.  Of course, while I can take credit for the sophisticated engineering and construction, it will actually fall to Valerie to do all the work of processing and drying another 40 pounds of apples.  How does that saying go?  Genius is 1% engineering (me) and 99% perspiration (Valerie).

County Fair

I would never want to be a carney.  And, far be it from me to criticize their practices.  They are, after all, rational profit maximizing creatures.  But, what they can get for ninety seconds of vomit inducing disorientation in a clattering human centrifuge defies belief.  I'm talking, of course, about the midway at the county fair.  They can ask a dollar a minute for their services—which is probably plumber pricing—but they can service twenty people at a pop—which is more like brain surgeon pricing.  You would think that the average joe would look at the asking price and simply walk away, . . . but you would be wrong.  The midway is packed with people carrying stacks of "tickets" worth hundreds of dollars.  When you wait in line at the ticket window, it gives you time to read about their policies:  They accept cash, Visa, and Mastercard.  They also accept auto titles and home equity loans.  Well, OK, not the last two, but I wouldn't be surprised.  It takes a good chunk of the weekly paycheck to run your three kids through the twister, the ear-bleeder, and the wall of death.  Which is why we prefer the free petting zoo.

Bad Apples

We picked the pears on Friday.  It was a week early, but everything seems to be early this year.  Soon it will be time to bring in the apples.  We are already using the drops for apple sauce and pie:  They are very nearly ripe.  They are also very wormy.  Now, if you are one of those organic fruit eaters, you probably don't mind a few worms.  That is the price you pay, right?  But, at The Homestead, we want our fruit worm free, and have sprayed a lot of malthion to get it.  What are we doing wrong?  I sprayed every two weeks for the whole fruiting season, and most of these are as wormy as ever.  Valerie has been using the apples in the kitchen, but it is a lot more work to clean the fruit when it is in this condition.  She says that only about 2/3 of each apple can be used.  At the professional orchards, I know they press the drops to make cider.  And, I know they don't clean the apples before they go in the press, so the cider must contain worm guts.  Maybe worms aren't so bad after all.  We could save ourselves a lot of time by eating them with the apples.

View from the Office

This week we are working on the Uinta National Forest, doing some planning for a power line permit.  I was curious about the forest vegetation we would find.  There is lots of Douglas fir, lots of aspen, and plenty of true fir, of course (it is everywhere).  But, what about the pine?  I was expecting some color or combination of pinyon, pondo, or lodgepole, but what I found instead was limber.  There is limber pine everywhere.  What a nice surprise.  I found this one on the shores of Strawberry Reservoir.

Harvest Update

Over the past few days, the tomato plants in the garden have hit their stride:  We brought in almost 30 pounds of tomatoes on Wednesday and Thursday.  Total food weight (all produce) so far is more than 85 pounds.  We've had a pretty good haul of cukes, zuccs, and beans so far, as well as almost 15 pounds of plums.  So, what is it all worth?  We're up to $178.22.  ("Chapeau," as they say, to big ag.)

Bored Campers

Camping can be boring.  I mean, after you've hacked down a bunch of trees, built a big fire, spent all your ammunition, carved your name in a few more trees, consumed all your beer, and dumped all your trash in the woods, what are you gonna do?  Well, I've got a couple of new ideas for you.  First, if you've got a pair of chainsaws, you can cut down a tree and play tic-tac-toe on the stump.  It can be hard to win, though.  Second, if you've got a ball of twine, you can make a comfortable chair.  Then you can sit in it and dream of cell coverage, television, and hip-hop music.

Other Wildlife

Stinging insects are not the only creatures in the forest.  If you walk around enough, you will see just about everything there is.  Since beginning our work on the Routt, we've seen bobcats, bears, and foxes; we've seen badgers, snowshoe hares, and squirrels; we've seen eagles, grouse, and flickers; we've seen yaks, gnus, and wildebeests.  Well, OK, not the last three, but I did get a quick picture of the ever elusive pine marten on Thursday.  Unfortunately, my camera is clunky and the shutter is slow, so I was lucky to get what I got.  The marten was almost quicker than the camera.

Bald-faced Hornet

While working on the Routt National Forest this week, I saw more bald-faced hornets (Dolichovespula maculata) than ever before.  Has there been a population boom?  Like most stinging insects, these won't bother you as long as you leave them alone.  Unfortunately, it is difficult to leave them alone.  When you're walking cross-country through the forest, especially where the brush is thick or there are downed logs, it is not inconceivable that you will brush, crush, or step-on one of their nests.  On Wednesday, I stepped over a log and onto a large rolled piece of bark that was housing a colony.  Fortunately, there was about 100 meter clear area in front of me, so I sprinted away (Usain Bolt wouldn't have believed his eyes).  I wasn't stung, but it scared me.  The two nests pictured (above and below) were near each other in a little clump of aspen.  I noticed them without mishap, but they would have been easy to brush or bump as I walked between the trees.

A Reader Writes

An alert camper from the Payette National Forest sent the editors at Rural Ways the above picture.  How did the snag, at left, the reader asked, get on top of the rock, at left, without leaving a hole in the ground where the root wad was?  The only answer we can think of is that the Payette has thin soils, big fires, and plenty of wind.  But we've never worked there, so we don't know.  The camper's second picture, below, does not tend to disprove our theory.  It is beautiful, though.

Wet, Not Dry

Earlier this year, I produced several posts about our mini-drought.  At The Homestead we received no rain from the middle of May to the middle of July (56 days).  In the three weeks since the dry spell ended, however, we have had rain nearly every day.  In fact, after a particularly thorough drenching last week, Valerie told me that southern Utah was beginning to feel like Costa Rica.

Well, so much for the anecdotes, today I have solid data.  Thanks to a Precipitation Analysis at the National Weather Service, I've got some numbers for you.  The normal May rainfall for the Parowan Valley is 1 inch; the May 2012 rainfall for the Parowan Valley was 1/10 inch.  The normal June rainfall for the Parowan Valley is 1/2 inch; the June 2012 rainfall for the Parowan Valley was 1/10 inch.  The normal July rainfall for the Parowan Valley is 1 and 1/2 inch; the July 2012 rainfall for the Parowan Valley was 3 inches (all of it coming after the 13th).

To summarize:  We should expect approximately 3 inches of rain to fall in the Parowan Valley during May, June, and July.  This year we got approximately 3 inches of rain in the Parowan Valley during May, June, and July . . . and all of it came in the last two weeks.

View from the Office

We're working in dead lodgepole (and live fir) near Yampa, Colorado again this week.  We've seen some wildlife, including a fox this morning with a dead muskrat for breakfast.  But, perhaps the most colorful critter I've noticed is this moth.  It has at least two different sets of markings.

Hazard Trees

One thing about working in dead forests is that there is a high risk of being struck by a falling tree.  All those millions of beetle killed trees that you've been hearing about for the past decade are going to fall down.  In fact, they are falling as I write.  (Do they fall soundlessly?)  Mostly they fall harmlessly, but they can pose a hazard to those who are working among them.  There are, of course, certain things that make it worse—wind, for example—but they can fall at any time, and without warning.

I made the photo of the Elk River, above, on a calm morning at 9:21:43 am.  I made the photo of the Elk River, below, on the same calm morning at 9:23:09 am.  In the 86 seconds between images, a tree fell—on the other river bank, fortunately—into my picture.  It was a dead lodgepole pine, and you can see it in the image below (framed in yellow).  It doesn't look very big, but if it hit you, it would likely be fatal.  The other thing to keep in mind is that the remaining live trees in the forest are almost never wind-firm, and that they will almost always blow-down, too.  (See, the top picture.)  So, whether the tree is live or dead, it presents a hazard to anyone in the forest.  Better that y'all just stay home until this whole issue, ahem, blows over.

Fruit Tree Tragedy

Our best pear tree broke today.  It was carrying a bumper crop of fruit on one of its branches, and the branch broke.  We had thinned the fruit, but probably not enough.  I had also tried to prop the branch with piece of wood.  It seemed like a solution, but I almost wonder if it didn't create a breaking point because the branch could no longer bend naturally.

In any case, it is very disappointing.  The garden has not done especially well this summer, but the fruit trees were looking great.  Now, we've probably lost a good portion of our pear crop.  We picked up all the developing pears and put them in a box just to see if some of them will ripen anyway, but it seems doubtful.  There were at least 60 pears.

Arborglyphs

Aspen tree carvings—or arborglyphs—are often common in the places where I work.  When a carving is especially interesting, I may stop to look and make a picture.  This week, for example, in Colorado's Park Range, I came across four carvings of naked women.  Two of them were by the same carver, and were so good that I had to photograph them.  (Now, Rural Ways is a family friendly blog, and by "good" I mean fluidly carved and realistic.  The image above has been edited for publication.)  I mentioned these to one of my colleagues, and he said that they are sheepherder carvings that have been recognized as an art form and cultural resource.  I googled it and found a fair amount of information about the carvings of Basque sheepherders in Nevada and California.  In Colorado, however, the sheep camps have traditionally been inhabited by Mexicans, and, if the final carving I found is a self-portrait, by South Americans.

Great Basin Gopher Snake

On Saturday, Ellen spotted a snake on The Homestead.  Valerie got a pretty good picture of it.  It looks like a Great Basin Gopher Snake (Pituophis catenifer deserticola) to me.  It is harmless to humans, but it should be hell on mice.  Between the snake and the cat, I expect to be rodent free around the garden.

View From the Office

We're working in the lodgepole this week, between Yampa and Kremmling, Colorado.  Most of the pines five inches in diameter and larger have been killed by the mountain pine beetle.  There is some nice looking spruce, and a few aspen clones, but much of the rest of it is fir.  We're not allowed to cut any green trees, so any treatments we prescribe will simply release the fir.  We call it the fir preservation and promotion project.

56 Days

At The Homestead, we've been waiting for rain since the 18th of May.  In anticipation of it, I began singing to Ellen, in my Bob Dylan voice, "It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."  Something must have worked.  When I got back to my computer today after a day in the woods near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, I had an email from Valerie.  The subject line:  Hard Rain.  Yep, after 56 days of scorching sun, we got rain in Parowan.

Garden Revenues

Because summer started two months early this year, the garden at Rural Ways is already producing.  We've picked peas, beans, tomatoes, and strawberries since the end of May.  Actually, Valerie has done the picking, and she has helped me by weighing (in ounces) her daily production.  At this point, the garden has provided about 130 ounces of food, or a little more than eight pounds.  It isn't much, really, but the true heavyweights—melons, winter squash, pumpkins—are still to come.  Plus, we should have a good crop of apples and pears and potatoes.  I suspect that we will haul in many, many more pounds of food.

But, does it pay?  This is one of the questions, right?  Is the amount/value of food you can produce at home worth the time and effort?  I mean, as you drive through California's central valley, you can see green fields 100 miles across.  The farms are so large, and the economies of scale so tremendous, that there may be no way to compete on your own patch.  If you can get tomatoes from California at a buck a pound, can you ever make a home garden pay?

This summer, we are taking a shot at quantifying the costs and benefits of the garden/orchard.  We have already spent more than $500 on hoses, soil amendment, seeds, tomato cages, etc.  Can we grow $500 worth of food to match?  Better yet, can we grow more than that?  In other words, can we make it pay?  I suspect that we will eventually make it pay, but, it may pay only about ten cents per hour.  In any case, our current revenues, based on average grocery store prices for our garden produce, plus the return on a couple of seedlings that we sold earlier in the year, is $49.26.

Clouds

So far, so good.  We made it through the 4th of July with no new fires in southern Utah.  Perhaps it was the flashing signs on every highway advertising a statewide fireworks ban accompanied by the threat of a $5,000 fine.  Or, perhaps it was the cloud cover.  On Wednesday afternoon a monsoonal flow came in from Arizona with wall to wall cloud cover and relative humidities of 26% (instead of the 6% we've had for weeks).  When we got up this morning the streets were damp.

(I'm not sure if we can call it "rain," but there must have been a brief drizzle.  For me, "rain" means at least two things:  First, it has to settle the dust; and second, it has to actually hit the ground.  It wasn't dusty this morning, but the ground under our trees was dry.  There wasn't enough falling from the sky to drip off the leaves.  So, I'm not sure we actually received "rain.")

In any case, the higher humidities and break from the sun were good enough for the Shingle Fire.  And, in our euphoria, we even thought we'd go for a hike.  Unfortunately, by the time we got out there, the sun was back.  We walked about half a mile up Noah's Ark and then decided that it was too hot.  How about some more monsoons?