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."