Cmas Tree

Last year I forgot, evidently, to make a note of when we cut our Christmas tree.  I know where we got it:  Center Creek.  That is where we always go.  And I know what we got:  A white fir (Abies concolor).  That is what we always get.  Today we went to Center Creek.  And got a white fir.  A nice one, too.

Black (and White) Friday

In honor of the national holiday, I made this picture a little earlier today.  I'm not going to say where, but I will give two clues.  First, the tree is a great basin bristlecone.  Second, the picture was not made at Walmart.

Hornet's Nest

I very much dislike yellow jackets, or hornets, (which I consider to be the same thing, though probably they aren't).  I mean, I can see a reason for bees, by which I mean honey bees or bumble bees.  And, I don't mind wasps too much, given their slow flight and lack of aggression.  But, I can't stand those pushy yellow jackets—swarming and angry.  Whenever I detect the beginnings of a hornet's nest anywhere at The Homestead or on The Farm, I get rid of it.  While they are pretty bad actors, they are no match for a full can of hornet killer with a 30 foot spray—especially when deployed from inside an armored personnel carrier.

In any case, I thought I was pretty well on top of things this summer:  Vigilant and well-armed, I'd succeeded in keeping the dangerous insects down to just a pair of black widows in the corner by the door.  (I know, black widows and insects are not the same thing either.)  My false sense of security was, however, made alarmingly clear this week when the first truly cold weather of the season removed all the leaves from the shrubs around the house.  There, approximately eight feet from the front porch, was a large hornet's nest that had obviously been constructed, and inhabited, this very summer.  While no one was harmed by this colony, I'm sure it was due more to good luck than to any lack of malicious intent on the part of the yellow jackets.  Most importantly, I am wise to them now, and they won't be able to pull that trick on me again next season.

Snow Sports

The word from General Benson is that he is skiing fresh powder at Breckenridge; the word from Saurer is that it is snowing and blowing at Alta.  Well.  Right here in Parowan we tried one of our favorite snow sports:  Sledding.  There were only three or four inches of snow.  But, it worked out OK.  Just remember to close your eyes before you go over that little sagebrush.

First Snow

When we went to bed it was snowing.  So, I wasn't surprised to see an inch or two on the ground this morning.  What did surprise me was the temperature:  It was 8F when I got up.  Eight.  In southern Utah, two weeks before Thanksgiving, it is eight degrees.

Hiking Too Much

I was recently accused of "hiking too much."  Actually, I don't like hiking.  And, I don't think I do it very much.  Sometimes, though, I like to look at things.  For example, today I wanted to look at a pair of natural bridges.  So I did.  They were spectacular.  And, as I lay under one of them, with the sun dropping behind the ridge, I realized that I was a long way from the Chev.  It happens, you see, by accident.  (BTW, I know that no one cares, but if you look closely at the middle of the image (above) you can see a small bristlecone pine growing out of a crack in the rock.)

Shed Today Plus One

There was some digging; some jacking; some levering; some pounding; some lifting; and some pushing.  Afterwards, the shed, which had been leaning dangerously, appeared to be slightly more squared away.  I wouldn't call it pretty, but it should last another ten years.  (The only thing I'm still trying to figure out is why the general contractor told me I'd need "more lead in my pencil" if I wanted to be the one racking the walls?)

Shed Today

When we bought The Homestead five or six years ago, it came with a somewhat dilapidated old shed.  We have used the shed to store firewood, bikes, and gardening supplies.  There is, however, a chance that it will collapse someday—each year its splay-footedness becomes slightly more pronounced.  So, we asked M. Orton, who helps us with all of our home repairs, if he could rebuild it for us.  He thought he could, so he came over to discuss it.  We decided that the best plan might be to take it down, pour a small concrete stem wall, and then reconstruct it from the ground up.  After a discussion with the city building inspector—who said that taking it down would require us to move it back 25 feet to meet the city set-back requirement—and a cost estimate for materials—which started to make the project look like a five-figure boondoggle—we dropped the plan.  Instead, M. Orton is coming tomorrow with a collection of hydraulic jacks and a saw-z-all to see if we can't lift the walls, cut them loose, and push them straight, without moving the building.  We may end up with it on our heads, but it will probably be there anyway if we don't do something.

George Dobson's Aspen

On Tuesday I went out to look at some forest stands along a ridge between Peterson Flat and the boy scout camp.  It was a nice day and I ended up going almost all the way to the camp—a round trip of about eight miles.  There were a number of aspen groves on my hike, and, as always, I scoured them for carvings.  I am, of course, most interested in the oldest carvings because they provide a clue about the past.  The one pictured is from 91 years ago.  George Dobson hiked the ridge on August 2, of 1923.  The amazing thing to me is that the tree is only 10.5 inches in diameter.  It couldn't have been much smaller than that at the time of the carving, otherwise Mr. Dobson would not have been able to fit his name.  The tree is still alive, which means that over the past 91 years it has grown almost not at all.