Saturday, April 20, 2013

NHVSP Update 10


Last week here at Northwoods, and its been packed. Allow me to recount you our progress and stumbles.
            Not more than a week ago Misha came to visit us and brought our brand new canoes, still so new and clean you could eat off them. We spent quite a bit of time outfitting these new unruly beasts of plastic and foam to get them rigged up for the road ahead. No detail was spared; foam knee pads, thigh straps, floatations, painter lines, the whole nine yards. We all worked in the Northwoods wood-shop up near our camp, and after a couple hours of rigging our boats were ready for water use. You should see these things, they look like some kind of European speedboat, ready for a track run in Italy racing a Formula One car. Beautiful vessels they are.
            We went for our test run out on the flats of the Clyde River, near the highway overpass. Everyone seemed to be getting the hang of it pretty well, no catastrophic failures or punctured boat hulls, but just as we approached a stern looking sheet of ice, and were practicing leaning into turns, the first casualties of the water fell in, flipping the boat one-hundred and eighty degrees around, head over heels into the water. Kerensa and Kenya looked quite like the proverbial wet cats as they got fished out of the frigid water and into the adjacent boats standing by. Thus we learned our first lesson in canoe technique, the “T” rescue. Simply enough its just getting into a T with your canoe with the flipped boat and then hauling it rail over rail onto the upright boat and righting the flipped one onto its belly.  As for our soaking friends, they departed back to camp to warm up and recuperate.
            The day was far from over though; we had another flip into the water, with Angus and Zack this time, but for some reason, a short spurt of insanity I bet, they stayed for the rest of the class on the cold and windy river. After this class, we all rode our bikes back to camp on Ten Square Mile road, and although it was muddy like you wouldn’t believe it, it was pretty fun for everyone, since the only moving we’ve been doing is under heavy packs with skis, this felt quite like flying down a road.
            We had another paddling class with Misha again the next day, and went to what although he called “swift-water” I call “whitewater.” Terror in the water for me comes at the lazy speed of two mile an hour currents, and with the task at hand we were given, which was paddling UPSTREAM, you can bet I was in the throes of panic. We all did it though with much blundering at first, but by days end, wet and happy and cold, we all could more or less turn in and out of eddies, which is the slow part of the river where the current turns back on itself and makes a little parking spot on the fast moving water. There is something in the primal fear of all people, of losing control of their surroundings, and I figure this fear is prevalent in people on the river, when its going fast and they just don’t know what they’re doing, so it’s very important to us that we learn how to avoid situations like that.
            Misha left us the next day with as much wisdom and instruction he could give us in the time allotted, and parted us with words of encouragement on the new route. We were all supposed to go to Maine to see Chris and Ashirah Knapp, and learn paddle making at their school Koviashuvik, but we were far too swamped with work and so we chose instead to stay here at camp and finish our work without being rushed. It’s been a good sacrifice so far, and although we haven’t gotten much free time, our work has been worthwhile and productive. Things went well over the weekend, although the weather has been inclement the whole almost the whole time, with sporadic rain, sleet, hail and snow throughout.
             The 15th was a break in the sky and the sun came down in beautiful form, filling the land with light and warmth. We went on a long bike ride up to the top of a hill over-looking Lake Willoughby. The climb to the top of the hill was hard, it was muddy and warm out, and the little rivulets of water ran down the hill, imposing on our good roads, threatening to make them into pure mud. We did ascend though, and the road to the bottom was a clear shot of gravel and half paved concrete, a mile long stretch of downhill derby delight. Ripping down at what I figured to be at least a hundred and fifteen miles an hour we rounded the corner into the town of Westmore and settled down on the white sand beach of the lake to have our lunch and learn about glaciers.
            We rode back on the flat roads with the occasional down hill and made good time in the late afternoon, with the golden sun at our backs. Upon our arrival back, we made it with five minutes to spare before our guest arrived for dinner. The county game warden, who we invited earlier that week, came to speak to us and just to pleasure us with his company. He was a friendly ex-military man, with an air of authority and training that comes with his profession as a law enforcement officer. We ate dinner with him, which was kale and wild turkey, which Noah’s mother brought to us earlier that week, a premium score of road-kill delight.
That next morning we went for a good run. It was still fair weather with a southerly breeze blowing at our backs. We stopped at the top of the hill near our camp, by the dairy where we get our milk, to watch the sunrise. We sat under a set of spruce trees across the way from a flat field and had an unobstructed view of the coming sun. Much has been written on the subject of sunrises, but I feel obligated to share what I saw in that patch of sky. I sat watching the coming light before it came into the sky. The sun was just beneath a large hill off in the distance, and the sun gave it a crown of light. It took no more than five full minutes, but as the sun crept up, it felt like it would never peak, and all of the sudden it did, it burst over the ridge in a explosion of light as if the earth had never seen light before, a wash of light blanketing the world. It is no wonder the ancient peoples had the sun as the center of their worship, and feared its loss in the night, and prayed for its return in the morning.
The following days were days of fun and work. We went to Butterworks farm to see where the yogurt we eat comes from. Its not what you’d think either; it’s a small farm, for the scale they put out on, and it’s a cozy one too. It really speaks to their way of production, which is ethical and in touch with the products they make. The owner, Jack Lazor, gave us a tour and let us sample his maple kefir, which is like fizzy yogurt, and let us pet his cows. Both are of excellent quality. We sorted beans for him in return, which was sitting at a conveyor belt pulling the bad beans from the good, as they fell out of a grain hopper and rolled across the track into a bucket for bagging.  We took home a small case of yogurt for the road and we thank Jack for his


kindness and willingness to show us his farm. One piece of advice he gave us to take home was to always stay small, small is better than large, and I’d guess that’s pretty true for the things that you like doing
On the way back to Northwoods we got ice cream, a sure sign of spring even though it was cold enough that if you stood outside, your ice cream literally could not have melted all day. At the ice cream place, we also saw someone in shorts, even though it was also about thirty-eight degrees. I cannot tell if this is a sign of spring, bravery, foolishness or a combination of all the three.
The next day was one of full throttle working, but it was all for the greater progress, so I didn’t feel to worked. A former Semester teacher, Nate Johnson, came to teach us about hide tanning. He taught us how to scrape the hair off and how to tan it in the future to make sure we can all make moccasins later this next month. Its smelly work scraping the hides, but totally worth it, Nate left us that evening and in his stead came Polly, from Mahoosuc Guide Service. She and her partner Kevin run a dog sledding and paddling guide service in Maine. She brought us chocolate chip cookies and a slide show to watch of her years in the Yukon Territory as a dog sled musher and hunting guide. She showed us pictures on an old film slide projector and they were of stunning top-notch quality, and had that vintage genuine look to them, the look that these pictures were taken sincerely and not out of just the want to document, but to preserve a moment in time, and they did that.
As our last days draw to a close, we’re getting ready to leave, everyone is bustling about, filling in last minute jobs and tasks, random loose ends have to be cut before we can cast off into the river, and its been busy. The weather is warming up and I can only hope it stays that way. This’ll be the last update for quite a while, since were not stopping till we get to Lake Champlain, but till then, all is going well on the home front and we will carry on, my wayward sons and daughters.

           
Pushups and Poetry: On Cold Water and Cheese

            There’s a moment where you feel fear and excitement, when you see a rock in sight, a rock that if you don’t move the canoe right then, you will hit that rock. And who knows what will happen then. You have this fear and excitement running through you and put your paddle in the water, and putting your paddle in the water, trying to think clearly through your fear, magically or maybe not at all, just my luck! You do the correct strokes that turn you away from the rock in your way.    – Kenya

           
Jack of Butterworks Farm
River, river, running river
down I go and I don’t know
don’t know how to hold me up
& panic, grab the gunwale
running river down I’m pulled!
river grabs me, lost the gunwale
cold & panic, panic more
& breathless —
get to shore.      —Anonymous

           
Yesterday, when all my troubles seemed so far a whey
            In the depths of my dairy bucket, something scary was brewing
            Like the salts of Nantcuket, the sour scent made my nose hairs bent
            And from the bottom of the bucket came ricotta
            Standing there with my hair looking steazy, I said
             “It aint easy, being cheesy”  —Anonymous


Socks and Sandals

My socks and sandals.
My two pairs of wool socks
It doesn’t make any sense
My feet are warm
Until I’m in the boat
Until we don’t lean enough
Until they are soaked
And laying in puddles
Then they are freezing or frozen
My socks like the womb of a
Woman that’s been dead for a while
My feet like the dead babies inside them — Lotte

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

NHVSP Update 9




Hello interested people, and welcome to a new chapter in updating history, written by a new writer, yours truly, so buckle up for a wild ride of literary twists and turns. As with new beginnings we’ve had plenty in the week prior to the arrival of the parents. Before everyone arrived we all received our new big job assignments, for the lineup we’ve got:
Elliot on Kitchen Wizard and Naturalist
Wayland on Seamster and Culture Keeper: Baker/Yogurt Maker
Kenya on Boat and Camp Manager
Angus on HyGenie and Medic
Lotte on Base Camp Food Manager and Wild Foods Forager or W.F.F. for short
Max on Writer and Hide Tanner
Noah on Trail Food Manager
Sam on Bike Repair and “Fitness Fun-stigator” like instigator, but with fitness related jazz
And last but not least Kerensa on Navigator and List Master General, also called Logistics
     So far we’ve launched into them pretty fairly, we’ve got a deer hide for tanning already going, the route being planned for boating and biking and food is already flying in a bustle around the kitchen, waiting to be packed. List making is already running high into it’s prime of life, with a list for what looks like just about everything, from personal gear to the camps we’re going to.
     Aside from big jobs we had some craft making in the days leading up to parent day with our good friend, Chris Knapp. He joined us out from his fortress of fun in Temple, Maine to make pack-baskets; the long sought-after project semester has been waiting to do. This was a pretty laborious task involving a lot of foresight and careful planning, but it was all well worth it to see our hard work turn to beautifully woven baskets.
The process starts with harvesting your brown ash tree, which we did in a local swamp across the Clyde River down the road from NorthWoods. We did this all pretty thoughtfully, thinking about which tree wasn’t doing so hot, and taking it out to help the other healthier ones grow better. After felling it, we bucked it up into several manageable logs, and hauled it back to base. You spend an awful lot of time then scoring the log with knives and pounding off the growth rings in floorboard-sized straight sections with a three-pound hammer. It’s hard to get a good visual of this, but to sum it up, we cut the round growth rings into roughly straight sixths around the circumference of the log and then when you pound the log on those sections, they peel off flat. As a whole we did this for two days, and got quite a bit of “wood splints,” as they’re called. Once we had our desired amount we called the operation to a new phase, which was cutting up the splints to size and width wanted, which was pretty quick business. After the splitting of the splints, we made our baseboards and straps for the baskets, and began weaving, which was the bulk of the work, and where the baskets began to take shape. We wove for about a day and a half and finished the day parents arrived, and they were beautiful for the showing, just in time!
Nathan, Hanah and Misha showed up on Saturday after their Canadian ski trip up north with a school class. They brought us food and although Misha left, Nathan and Hanah stayed to give us a communications workshop, in which we said some much needed truths to one another. An old Kroka friend, Pasha, came to teach us about the making of dry bags, which look like big rubbery envelopes now that they’re done.
We also visited Sterling College on Wednesday, down south of here in Craftsbury Common, where we gave our presentation and were lucky enough to get two treats; dinner made for us and a lecture hearing Sandor Katz speak, who is a semi-famous fermentation specialist. He gave a talk about the fermentation process of many foods, including sauerkraut, yogurt and kimchee. Sterling was a real interesting place to see since it’s a fair jumping off point after Kroka for some people looking to do the same things, like agriculture and natural history.
     Parent visit rolled around Friday afternoon, with everyone looking happy and nostalgic to see their families and friends, and we thank all the family and friends for coming out to see us, for feeding us delicious treats, and listening to all our stories.
 After all the folks left and all was said and done with the winter expedition, which came to it’s close in the performance, Emily’s parents, Robert and Jennifer, brought us some roosters to put down for food. It wasn’t a real somber experience because there wasn’t too much to be sad about, we didn’t dwell on the fact that we were putting down an animal, but that it was becoming yet another part in the circle of life, and so we thanked them and processed the animals well, with nobody looking too squeamish at all. Jennifer taught us how to pluck and gut the chickens, and showed around the inner workings of the rooster. That night we had venison and fresh chicken for dinner, and the leftovers of the parent potluck lunch that day, and we all went to bed satisfied on the memories and joys of the week.
We’re scheduled for rain though for the next few days and although it puts a grey-slated light on the area and makes everything damp, it still stands as a true sign of spring. The birds sing in the early pre-dawn grey at five in the morning without fear of freezing to death now that it doesn’t snow, and in a place before waking up, laying in the tent, somewhere off in the hazy unconscious of sleep you here the patter or rain on the roof of the tent fly and can feel no feeling but life itself, a nameless state of rest and waiting patience. But we all take the weather with a grain of salt and don’t dwell to much on how wet it is and expect better, sunnier times in the near future, with dreams of spring on all our minds.


Gratitude to all our families for coming and sharing wonderful food       and stories.









Tuesday, April 2, 2013

NHVSP Update 8


                                 
Our village at Northwoods
We are now at the end of the winter half of our expedition! We have arrived, safe and sound, at the NorthWoods Stewardship Center in East Charleston, Vermont. We have now completed setting camp, and have begun pounding ash logs to make into baskets.

During the first three days here at NorthWoods, we set up our camp — three wall tents and two pole tents. What a lot of poles to cut and boughs to gather! We worked hard, and it was a good three days. We got to shower and clean our laundry, and we unpacked, organized, and repaired all our winter gear. We learned to use plastic-welding to make ourselves polyvinyl chloride dry bags, which we will take on the river in the spring.

The next day, we started out with an Easter egg hunt, using our orienteering skills to take bearings from one egg to the next, and we set a tent in anticipation of the arrival of Mr Chris Knapp and his family. We then participated in a communications workshop led by Mr Nathan Lyzack, in which we studied the elements of conversation, and practiced having helpful, productive conversations to help draw our group closer together. In the afternoon, we went out with Mr Knapp to fell, cut, and peel a brown ash for our baskets. A cedar swamp was the setting for the felling, and despite tripping on the enormous quantities of fallen logs in the swamp we located a good, healthy tree, perhaps eight inches in diameter at the base, fairly quickly, and we were able to bring it back to NorthWoods and peel it before supper. We had a ‘social contract meeting’ in the evening, reflecting on how well our conduct and work had followed the community contract we wrote during January, and discussing ways we can bring ourselves towards the ideals expressed in the contract.

Today, the first of April, we began scoring and pounding the peeled logs. First, we kneel on a log, drawing along its length with a knife to divide the log into the sections we will use to create our basket splints. Second, we use small hammers to pound flat against the outsides of the logs, separating the growth rings from each other. Finally, we lift up the growth ring we have released, and begin scoring for the next layer.

We look forward to hosting our team’s parents upon their arrival this weekend, and eagerly anticipate the many wonderful activities we will undertake during the rest of our stay here at the NorthWoods Stewardship Center.

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During the last three-day section of our journey, our team of nine split into three sub-groups of three students each, and we undertook the last sixty kilometers independently, followed at a distance by the trip leaders. Along the way, each group had different experiences, and so we present here a reflection on the journey from each of the three groups.

Kerensa, Kenya, and Lotte

We had been looking forward to solos since the day we knew about them — and our solo was all that we had looked forward to and more. Being independent from not only our leaders, but from the male students as well, was freeing. No one was there to tell us how many breaks we could have — we just got to ski, be with each other, laugh together, and soak up the experience as just us women — moving by our own power.
One of my favorite memories from solo was our last day — camping in a cedar jungle right on the Clyde River. We had a late start to the morning, but it wasn’t long before we had set out for our last day of travel, with war paint and smiles covering our face. We were almost at our final destination and a man pulled over in his truck. He knew who we were and he smiled, asked us if we always looked like that, and told us we had made it — congratulations. And we had — we had completed the winter journey. —Kerensa

Elliot, Sam, and Noah — Represent 207!

In these three days, our group learned, laughed, and lived. Each day, we arose and cooked a breakfast over an outdoor fire screen. We then set out onto the trail, and we hustled. It was a lot of fun to be able to look back on our day and see how much faster we moved as a group of three than as a group of nine (and we didn’t stop for many breaks).
One day when we had only thirteen kilometers to travel we were able to reach camp in time to cook a delicious mid-day pot of oatmeal! That day, we carved wooden spoons and worked on our personal research essay drafts. We were glad for the leisurely afternoon. Each night, we cooked a soup for supper, and each night it was delicious. We went to bed early, and got lots of sleep — what a wonderful feeling!
One moment which stood out on the journey was the descent into the Clyde River valley. The snow had largely melted from the ground, and the descent was steep and icy, down a dirt road. There were patches of gravel where the ice had melted away, and because we were moving quite fast on the steep hill we would occasionally run onto one of those patches, and it would be a­ struggle to keep our balance.  When we came into the valley, we arrived at a more used road, where there was little enough snow we were forced to remove our skis and walk to our destination. We stopped by the Clyde River on the way, and cooked some meat over the fire, rested, and worked some more on our essays. It was a good day. —Elliot

Max, Wayland, and Angus

Although I cannot tell all sides of this story, I can tell my side to the best of my ability. Northeast-bound and away we woke on the morning of the 24th, and saddled ourselves up with the various implements we needed for the next four days, pots and tarps and food and such. We did this all in the dark of the hayloft of the barn at Heartbeet, and to me the whole affair had a rushing, ominous feeling, like the feeling of someone stocking supplies for a coming hurricane which they feel they may not survive. Although I knew we’d survive, I still felt a leaden ball of dread in the pit of my stomach. I rounded up my fellow travelers, which felt like the task of herding cats, and arranged them in front, ready for the march. I double, triple, quadruple check our things, everything was in order, and off we went up the hill.
A grey sky hangs above us as we ski north on the mudded road, I look at maps which resemble nowhere to me, and I conclude that although I don’t know where we are, I also know where we aren’t, so lost is not what I’d call us. Skiing north forever, sometimes frantically rushing, often leisurely though, we arrive at an old dairy farm at a country crossing of two roads. We go over and ask for water, and two men answer the door, one large and one small. They invite us inside to sit down, and although we’re on a tight run, we agree. We sit down, and the two men offer us lunch, a pork sandwich on white bread with mustard. We accept graciously, with mouths watering. We finish our food after our brief conversation, and are offered bananas. Thus began a trend: receiving bananas wherever we went on solo. Departing happy and full, we crawl to camp on the edge of a beaver pond in a stand of spruce trees.
We set camp at the oncoming cusp of darkness, eat quickly and sleep. We rise early the next day and stalk out of our pond in the still, clear, frozen morning air with the sun and the blue shining sky radiating onto us. Still northbound, we ski to the town of Glover, near Lake Parker, and stop in the general store. In the store, a man who looks much like Walt Whitman stops and speaks to us. He says he’d like to interview us for the local paper, The Chronicle, seeing as he is the lead writer and publisher. Over coffee, he asks us questions and we tell him what humorous recounting we can, our highs and lows of the trip. An hour or so passes by in this way, and we leave him after he is satisfied with the story. We carry on to the town of Barton, the largest local township. We skirt through it, and drop into the local market, buy ourselves cinnamon buns and, yes, bananas. Off we go into the setting sun. We ski out of town into the hedged woods and old pastures, cross over a stretch of railroad tracks, and stumble onto a run-down barn. An older man in his late fifties is stacking things in it, and we offer to help. He takes our offer and we help him stack “priceless valuables” into his empty hayloft. As darkness falls on us a few doe run up the wooded hills in the distance and the man, James, asks us if we’d like to sleep in his loft. Naturally, we accept, and establish our base for the night in the nest of hay and clutter, and settle to a nice macaroni supper.
We awaken safe and sound to a beautiful sunshine, and pack out. Eastbound and down at this point, we ski hard through a seemingly endless expanse of snowmobile roads to a cross in the roads. We stop there at a small house for water, where an older couple employs us to split wood in exchange for a meal. Gladly we take up this offer, and after several hours of splitting, we go set camp near Lake Willoughby. We go back to the house of the couple, Frank and Renne, and eat our ham supper, a wonderful treat of food and hospitality. Our hosts bid us farewell after the meal and off we go, memories in mind and food in stomach back to camp.
We arise early the next morning, and walk the muddy roads to East Charleston. The sign greets us: “NorthWoods Stewardship Center”. We ascend the muddy path, and arrive. It is surreal to finally be here and have had our journey done. The road comes to a close… for now. —Max





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Thank you to the NorthWoods Stewardship Center for hosting us for these three weeks! NorthWoods is a nonprofit organization founded in 1989 focused on land use and forestry conservation and education efforts in the Northeast Kingdom.