Chicken Talk

Most of our adult lives we have had chickens and like everybody who harbors the fury two legged velociraptors, they provide not only the tall eggs but the numerous poultry stories that can be exchanged over a few beers. Cindy had Densel, the big beautiful black rooster who loved to be held, if not affectionately coddled. He strutted. Unfortunately, Densel was not the cage fighter he needed to be to fend off Colorado's, Bloody Bad Bobcat who apparently fancied him for other purposes.


We had a nice pen of six at the start of the summer. They were most comfortable in their urban compound, very much away from the hustle and bustle of a more dangerous rural setting. The single most viscous predator was the gray squirrel that lived in the big maple. So we thought.

In one of our travels we received a call from the neighborly vegetarian that was looking out for the girls. It seems the coup had a new occupant, another bird that didn't have a seed-eating beak, nor claws for scratching the buggy earth, but rather a notorious raptor, commonly called a chicken hawk. The young, probably Rough Legged Hawk, had found he was capable of killing large chickens but didn't really know what to do with them other than hang out and dispatch them at random. Thus, three docile layers lost there privileged lives.

The wonderful vegetarian caretaker being true to her convictions gave them a nice Christian burial in the garden rather than having about two weeks of endless chicken fricassee and a nice selection of buffalo wings. I would have buried them in my gullet as a gesture of appreciation.



We presently are in the company of three fine surviving hens, two Barred Rocks and an Aricana. In the winter they hunker down and almost hibernate except to aggressively consume huge volumes of grain. The top of the coop is now wire covered, the miserable juvenile Hawk has moved to ravage other urban settings. I wish the bad boy raptors would just stick to miniature Poodles.

Wisconsin Winter Walk

In the afternoon, the stinking rain finally called it quits, but everything outside was soaked to saturation. Even the accumulated snow was nothing but a large slushy, in some cases a yellow slushy. None of it looked worth touching.

Last night the cold returned and in the morning the entire landscape was crispy and displayed a ridgidness. The slight dusting of snow at least removed the wear, hid dog deposits, disguised the dirt roused by the snow blower and shrouded the soggy gloom.


With the new winter feeling in the air, this evening we decided to walk the trail on the north end of the mill pond. The old berm has a packed surface but the rain had created a condition were there was a quarter inch of ice over the old, one inch of snow. The crust was capped by the dusting of light snow. In the woods the new thin ice was over six inches of residual snow, so venturing there was down-right hazardous but the trail passed as fair game. However, each step created a resounding crunch that would have made Dr Zhivago forget about the fur clad Tonya. It was deafening, but at least we had a walk and it wouldn't be across the steppes of Russia.

We passed over the bridge looking for the resident River Otter but apparently the river's gloom bound him to his bankside home. Not a ripple to be seen on the quiet, glassy, untouched, steam, not even a giant Brown Trout lurking. But on the other side of the river, on the edge of a thicket, we found a fresh track of an animal we have yet to identify. We have seen this track before. The beast, of say ten pounds, partially drags its body as it moves through the snow leaving a trough. Here and there a track does show itself. Tonight, I intend on identifying the fellow traveller.

Like us, I suspect he was happy to be out.

Ice on Lakes--A Thing of Beauty

On numerous occasions I have been belittled for ice fishing. Some individuals have referred to it derogatorily as ass-fishing because of the habit of fisherpersons sitting for log hours on a lonely bucket on some hazy, frozen lake in sub-zero weather. Flatly, they think it is stupid and mention the words "ice-fishing" in a not so quiet disdain. I have seem others hold their fingers to their heads indicating the letter "L" as if to subtlely imply loser.

However, ice fishing is a quiet, zen-like experience and is most fitting for those who are at peace with themselves. We see ourselves as enlightened, the ones filled with the simple pleasures of knowing our place in life, of feeling the intensity in waiting and patience.

But in addition to being so obviously spiritual, it also boasts the shear excitement of the catch. Yesterday, Jim Treb and I ventured out to Spring Lake to spend a pleasant afternoon savoring the crisp and wintry air, all the while listening to the wild goose frolic in the unfrozen river and watch the Bald Eagle peruse the lowlands for a delicate meal of dead rotting fish or dismembered possum.

Then it happened, Jim threw a momentary glance to his tip-up to the east, and as he did, the flag flashed skyward, indicating, that at that very moment, there had been a clash of aquatic life. A giant Northern Pike had eaten his struggling minnow. Jim slowly, but cautiously set down his Miller lite, and stealthfully worked his way to the now moving tip-up. It was a tense moment. His first steps were well thought out and deliberately not placed in rapid succession for fear of alerting the bite of the mighty fish. The reel spun with a deliberate intention. Jim, now gloveless, reached into sub-zero water and grabbed the line. In a flash he struck the fish. The fight was on.

He for a moment struggled to hold as the water wolf ripped out the line through his numbing fingers. But like the fisherman he is, he held and slowly worked the angry and viscious fish to the ice hole much like the Yu'pik Eskimos. In a last gallant moment, Jim brought the fish up into the frigid air. His hands were close to frost bite but on his face there was a certain satisfaction knowing he had carried the day. He was a fisherman.

Never, ever tell me ice-fishing is not exciting and at the same time introspective and enlightening. He measured the fish at 25 inches and returned it to the Lake unharmed. It was too small.

Wisconsin Contraptions

I am a fan of contraptions. The ones that really get my attentions are those of power and those of beauty and function combined.

Today, I will take the latter. In the picture you will notice the rather intricite device with the pully wheels. This contraption was used to move hay in a barn. It was mounted on a rail so it could be moved across the barn celing. From the attached ropes it was connected to the U shapped metal device that was dropped into the hay stack in the barn. When the rope was pulled up a tooth on each side of the U protruded in to the hay and made it possible to lift the bundle and then slide it across to the hay shoot which lead to hungry cows down below.

What I like most was the decorative roller and pully portion. It also swiveles and is down right ingenious. Mind you, this unit was used prior to bailed hay. The dried fodder was gathered from the field and plopped in the hay mow. If the hay was too green the chances of spontanious combustion did exist and the barn could be lost.

Mike the antique dealer tells me they sell nicely for a kitchen device to hold pots and pans---might need a little cleaning but hay? (I mean, like cool.)

Missionary's Position

Oh boy. Here is a new article I cut from the Madison paper. Now mind you these things are barely papers in the classic sense because the internet is far more comprehensive than these miserable rags they still call newspapers.

However, this is of note because of the topic. It seems China has passed the good old US of A as the biggest market of automobiles. At first thought, one might say, "Wow, that means there are all these new markets for the wheels of industry".

It stated that it was thought that this would not happen until 2025 but bingo--this year. In their judgement this dubious accolade would go back and for from the USA to China for a number of years with the 12-13 million units being sold in each country. As they used to say in Colorado, "I tell you what, I think we got a problem here. "

It would seem to me that fuel for these autos is a finite resource that, by many accounts, seems to have peaked in production back in May of 2005. Might there be a commodity availability issue on the horizon. Just where do they think they are going to get more and more fuel for all these vehicles? I mean, a year ago the 13 million Chinese that just bought their first car were walking or bicycling. There is just something here that doesn't add up---or is it me? Do you suppose this will impact emissions? Like, why should I cut back on my use of fossil fuel? Might as well just buy a big board and ride the wave. Then, in the end I suspect we may all have to cut back on consumption----voluntarily or by mandate.

Revolution Watch

Just today some official made the announcement that students at the U.of W in Point should make an effort to graduate early as a way of saving money and free up space for other students. On the surface that doesn't seem too bad but in my day one did everything one could to stay in school as long as possible to have fun. My bill at the end of 5 years was $500. This guy said by leaving a year earlier a student might save $15K. Man, it ain't the same.

Why go into the real world? By going fast you just have to work harder and then get out in the job market and not find one. Talk about a drop in the standard of living. Lose one more year of nonstop fun! Hell, in a couple of years they will be telling people not to come at all. Oops. That might be true.

In the Kitchen. A Reflection

Well, it got frigging cold. While I find this on one hand alarming, on the other hand it is an opportunity. I can sit around and feel sorry for myself, maybe wet my paints, maybe bitch, hide in the corner whimpering like a girly man or I can embrace the day----sorta of a sub-zero carpe diem thing. I still may wet my paints but there are drugs for that and there is also beer, which in a couple of hours I intend on embracing with gusto if not elan. What does that word mean?

Better yet, we decided to bring back the summer. To do this we rounded up fresh produce from the garden which we now have stored in buckets scattered around the house. They are scattered because we are trying to find the perfect cool spot. Some are up in the upstairs bedroom that is now down to about 42 degrees (according to Gayle), another is in the basement at 50 degrees and one more is in Ann's studio at 55 degrees. The carrots, beets, rutabagas and parsnips are tucked comfortably in maple leaves feeling like Russians on the tundra.

A nice assortment has been extracted from the studio and prepared by cleaning, scrapping and cutting. They might have been a little warm because they are sprouting just a touch. Still, they are looooking good. In addition, potatoes were added choosing smaller firm ones for Julia Childs style texture and appearance.

To top it all off, we included a nice cut of chopped venison that was secured last year when it was dispatched due to unanticipated, unintended vehicular contacted. With a pleasant ensemble of spices, the entire composition was plopped on the wood-burning cook stove and allowed to rest and work for a few hours. I love the cold because it makes the warm soooo good.

The Wood Pile--Providing Heat

Years ago when I was making my first wood pile, Billy Bandt told me that wood was particularly wonderful because it heated a person many times. It wasn't just the heat that came form the burning. Now, he was a man I truely admired, and he owned a saw mill, so I knew he had to be right even if he did have a twinkle in his eye.

He watched me hack away with the maul and then said, "See how warm you are getting." I'm sure I grinned and got his drift. Then in great western style he offered up more backwoods heat related information. "Now when you cut it down you also got warm, you hauled to the truck, and unloaded it here, the entire time getting warm from a little work." I'm sure knowing Billy and him thinking I was a hippy also was considering, and may have said, that in my case it may have not been "that" much work.

With more pondering, I also learned that I had to haul it into the house and get it in the fire. Then the ashes had to be trucked out to the garden all the while heating me up.

What I liked most was him enjoying the moment, standing there just watching and grinning, hands in his pocket thinking that we were young and stupid. He loved his wisdom and being able to share it. Such a simple thing but so wonderful.

I never forgot that day and still love the many forms of heat generated by wood. The pile of split is a reminder, it is a thing of beauty, that represents Billy and the effort that goes into it. Actually, Billy was another form of warmth.

Reflections on the Actic #9

I believe this will be the final posting on my unbelievable trip to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. I could go on forever but then most of the adventure was for me and my compatriots. We will remember. Each day I think about it in little ways. Many times it is just moments of seeing things that were so new, so untouched, so distant, so raw. Unless I were to wax prophetically, I probably could not really write where my thoughts would want to go. I am not Leopold, nor Muir, not Stegner but I am me and I saw many things great and small and for that I am thrilled.



I did notice on the way out while standing on the so-called land strip, which is actually in the 1002 area, an area that has some oil exploration, that I could see the hand of man. There on the ridge to the east it was possible to see one set of tire tracks from a large seismic testing machine. They were made over 50 years ago and were still as visible as they were the day they were made.



As we flew out, we went over the "developed area" where extensive exploration had been done. I took no pictures. They would have made you cry.

Revolution watch

I've heard folks make references to this kind of thing in the past but today I found this most interesting. The Easter Island statues, majestic as they were, were manufactured by the local inhabitants during the last years of their culture. Apparently, as the situations there got more stressed they built more and bigger statues with the last ones, partially carved, still in the quarries. It was their last appeal to the Gods for help, I suspect.



One has to wonder if this giant recreational facility in Dubai is not a similar adventure?

Does anyone think it will ever get used? Like Dude, who can affort to go there? And why?

Reflections on the Actic #8

The subject of our hunt was the caribou and while they appeared to take little note of us, the key was to get close enough to make clean business of our intention. All along I found myself repeating the notion that these animals may never have seen humans before and wondered just what their response might be and would that be a factor in the hunt. On the day of our arrival, three larger bulls had walked right past our unoccupied camp just after we set up and never even did more than briefly look up. Were they truly oblivious to man? Like the bears, probably not.

The wind had picked up as we moved to the north and each day brought a harder push, sometimes being sustained at thirty mph. It kicked the boats around, made us fetch the winter gear and slightly compounded the hunt. We had seen three bulls walk across the river in front of us a half mile down river and up wind. The boats were pulled over and we set off to set up an ambush to the west. Ian and I quickly headed across the shallow braids of river, banks of sandy gravel , dodging and acting like real hunters of the north.

The caribou quickly skirted the base of the cut bank on the west side of the Canning River and as we approached, they meandered up the first draw feeding and seeming oblivious to us. We, like good hunters, kept our scent, which by this time I am sure was growing as bathing was out of the question, away from the critters. But before we could get in a good position, they disappeared over the top of the cut. Maybe they were more savvy than we thought. We quickly moved forward on the river bed. I knew I was not about to scale the steep bank some two hundred feet high, so our only hope would be that one of the caribou would just happen to drift back into the shrubbery and offer himself up.

Luck had it that the largest of the three did just that and I had my caribou. That, of course, is when the work began. The caribou managed to walk out onto the upper tundra before it fell, so we all had to climb in order to retrieve the meat and antlers which is required by law. No waste, our policy and State policy. We quietly thanked the animal, the tundra, the land for the gift and set about our work.

Photos by Craig Roberts

Missionary's Position---Insurance

As I mention in my intro info to the right, I have a new feature to my Blog. This is the first posting of that sort.

What I have here is a statement from a hospital for the billing of a knee replacement. One will note that the bill is a tidy $58,893. It is also seen that that payout by Kiaser was $11,578 and the patient paid a $1,000 portion. What is interesting is that the bill is paid in full!

From what I can learn the insurance company has a pre-arrangement with the hospital to pay a set amount for this proceedure---aparently what the cost of the operation should cost--or what it is really worth. For discussion this is about 20%.

When I first saw this, I was astounded because two years ago Ann, the good wife, had breast surgery and she had no insurance because no one would insure her because of a previous bought with cancer. The bill for the cancer treatment was about $75K. That was the bill we received. Does this other bill imply that it should have been $15K? What the hell is going on? Why should anyone who does not have insurance pay any more than 20%? You tell me the system is not broken.

Grouse in the Wisconsin Forest

Ruffed Grouse, or partridge, live in thick forest of Wisconsin. Like "Duh", you say. "Where else are they going to live?" My point is simple. I like to hunt grouse because they are very challanging as they burst from the alders, spruce and popular thickets. But I also say they "live" there becasue the still do. This season, so far has produced one grouse and it took two of us to shoot it. So all the rest of them are still there---living and laughing.

Dennis and I went north to Antigo and from there into the National Forest. So far, so good, but we did not want to repeat the last outing that didn't even produce many holes in the air from missed shots. We at least wanted some action or our shot guns were going to be angry. It is rather like training your beloved dog to hunt and retrieve and then provide him with no retrievable birds. The dog will want a divorce. Hell, he'd be yelping country and western divorce songs.

As we worked the road system looking for that one optimal habitat location, Dennis in all his sometime magic, said', "There it is, the perfect spot". I'M thinking, "Ya right." but I thought there was some possibility so I turned around in the middle of the highway and headed down a busted-up logging road and bingo. Dennis is beside himself. At his age probably close to wetting himself.

We bounded out of the Subaru and mounted our effort. Within minutes birds were flushed and shots fired but always with the spoken words, "Damn, he got up wild. Just a flash, but I had to go for it." We walked a solid three quarter of a mile and it was always the same excuse, mostly by Dennis.

We turned around and worked the other side of the lane with each of us thrashing through the thicket knowing there were going to be birds. Dennis jumped a couple and the shots went out and he proclaimed, "Got a tree. Shot it in half." I was ready because I knew there were more. There right infront of me, on the ground was a sneaking grouse trying to do a subtle exit. I squared up. Clicked off the safe and made a little motion to flush him. "Whirrrrrrr the damn thing blasted off in classic form. I pulled up and shot two rounds, both noticibly behind him. I thought, and even later said, "Is it possible I am too slow for this sport. That bird was thirty yards off before I fired---and I saw him ahead of flush?" Two ours later we found ourselves short a box of shells and not a morsel in the pan but it was still a great day--I could have been playing hunting video games---no, I don't think so. I don't care if I picked up twenty ticks, three cuts and a trashed ankle. Im going hunting.

Alaskan Outback

I have always loved what some refer to as "Old Iron". These are massive engines that were used during the early days of the industrial revolution to make it spin. May of them are immensely heavy and work with very coarse systems that are largely constructed of cast iron. I own a couple of 20s vintage engines that I find to be both intriguing and also primitively innovative--if you will. My 3 hp McCormick-Deering engine weighs some 400lbs and has two massive fly wheels. 3 horse power! It has the same weight as a modern V8---but in my antiquated mind the old timer is more basic, more primal, a raw engine.

Interestingly, everything about the motor is understandable and repairable. I have read old accounts of farmers saying they bought one in 1923 and were still using it after the big war--and it had been run almost daily. At 600 rpms the wear was just not the same and if need be, the bearings could be changed in a few minutes.


Well, in wondering around the outback of Alaska north of Coldfoot in Weiseman, we ran into a treasure load of "Old Iron" all of it having been left over from the great Gold Rush almost 100 years ago and lingering into the 20s. As we wondered around town, we noticed the various hulks of left-overs scattered among the long abandoned buildings. Some of it almost completely overgrown and trying to go back to the soil but frequently and amazingly still free to turn---and probably still useable. In one instance, a local citizen, probably left over from the old days, had accumulated a sizable assemblage of nice "iron" in his yard where it became a rather interesting lesson in history.

The bulk of the equipment consisted of winches of various configuration. I always liked winches because they are a lot like wenches but less fun. The winches were all driven by attached steam engines that in some ways are very much like my old McCormick gas engine---pistons, cranks, babbet bearings, crankshafts & cylinders. The big difference being that the steam engines also had be attached to a large boiler that had to be close by. The boiler and engines had to be connected by a maze of hoses and pipes. The boiler was probably fired by wood but then Alaska has coal. It must have been a sight to see all of this
"iron" all fired up puffing and a steaming, clanging and spinning.

The idea of getting all this gear up north to Weisman and north of Fairbanks by more than 200 miles is something to ponder. It is all about finding gold, maybe about adventure, but wow, it had to be tough. All for gold.

Revolution Watch

The Economist magazine has just published a most interesting article on the merits of slowing down population growth. They stated that countries with stable populations are economically better off. To my knowledge this may be one of the first times a major publication has made this statement. In the past it has always been an understanding that population growth was the driver of innovation and economy. It was the old Julian Simon thing that the world's resources were endless and lets just have at it and it will all work out because Adam Smith has it right.

There has always been detractors who clung to the old Malthusian ideas that there are limits and that if we just keep breeding all hell will break loose. Well, for interesting reasons, the name of Malthus never seems to go away even though he was deemed an idiot years ago. The ever presence of his name seems odd all in itself.

The article states that population will level off at 9 billion or so and all will be fine, even though there are other groups that think 11 billion may be more accurate (6.7 billion now & 75 million more each year). The Economist notes that birth rates are falling and by 2050 they may be at replacement only levels. Now that does not mean population will quit expanding because of the inertia factor which they kindly mention. They also mention the limitation of resources (maybe hinting at "Limits to Growth"Opps!).

All in all it is admirable they are having this discussion because it is, in my opinion, imperative. This, I believe is a step in the right direction. I do believe there are many holes in their discussion but I will credit them for the effort.

Reflection on the Arctic #7

Last night Craig Roberts, our faithful photographer of the arctic, sent a few photos. What a good camera and a fine eye can do is impressive. While his photos cover all aspects of the trip the three offered up are the dominant mammals of the coastal plane.

On the day of our arrival, and after the tents were up, we hiked up to a high cut bank of the Canning river and started our endless starring off into the distance, a pastime we never seemed to tire of. We, of course, glassed off in all directions wanting to see vast herds of 'Bo and roaming bears looking for only squirrel flesh and maybe the scarce Musk Ox or Dall Sheep. We saw little more than tundra expanse initially and I suppose were disappointed, but I am sure Ian and Tara knew full well that would be a fleeting thing.

As we turned toward our camp some two hundred yards off, there on the wash were three bull caribou sauntering past our tents. They seemed unmoved by our homestead. We were unarmed because the rules say we can not hunt on the day of arrival because Fish & Game does not want folks to use planes to spot game, plus meat management for 10 days is not ideal. We watched and admired the brutes whose antlers (horns to some) were massive and seemingly unmanageable. This bull, I believe was the smallest of the three, still an impressive sight.

On our return to camp, and after our first meal, Craig headed to the river for a little rinsing of plates. In minutes I noticed a bear of some stature moving in his direction but across the river. The "Bear Alert" was sounded the artillery was secured. Craig managed to take this picture of the bruin as he skedaddled off, not amused by our presence.


On the later part of the trip, and farther north we had a better look at one of the bears favorite snacks, the ground squirrel. While these rotund ground dwellers are readily seen what is almost more impressive are the excavations the bears do to get at them. The diggings are over broad areas and must require tremendous energy. But I would suppose the grizzlies are so powerful that a few simple digging motions probably tear up huge swaths.



The squirrels are similar to Prairie Dogs, a little smaller but with similar antics. The various hawks and Golden Eagles of the north cruse the holdings of these ground dwellers but really don't seem to have much of a change. Then maybe they follow the bears and wait for them to flush the fat fur balls out of their holes. It is all dynamic and ever changing.

Do click the photos for a nice close up.

Found Apples

Tonight I learned of an interesting event. It seems that a organic friend (someone who makes every effort to eat organic food) of ours was at a bit of a bash. The fandango was brought about because a friend of his had run across a large supply of respectable apples all sitting or hanging unused in an old orchard. When the individual asked the owner of the disfunctual orchard if he might sample a few apples, the man replied, "Help yourself to all of them. The have not been sprayed, so the are no good to eat." Thus began the day's squeeze-off by a excited band of herbal curbal organic types.

The found, no-good apple is a beautiful thing in my world, not that I have not eaten plenty of the wax-covered, near flawless, heavily sprayed ones found in our stores, the ones shipped in from New Zealand. The backyard, unmolested apple exists around here in great volume, so much so that with little effort and permission, one can select his preference in untreated apples until he is red with consumption.

It turns out my brother Crow, has a neglected tree he planted many years ago and while it has been mistreated it still insists on putting out apples, that after first frost, are sweet, perfectly firm, the right kiss of sour and last for months. Last night, Ann made a pie of the foundlings that required only decorative sugar and some cinnamon. By noon today the pie had succumbed. As they say in Wisconsin, "There it was, gone." I felt better for it.

Crow's tree is sadly misshapen, almost as if it has been through a code 5 hurricane but still it fights on. Today, with all the leaves gone, Crow and I looked up at the sad tree and decided the apples were too superior to not make a major salvage operation, an operation the put his sorry old duff up in the tree to shake the thing silly and get the apples to fall into the tarp. Without dislodging once form his fifteen foot perch, he shook the apples loose. Tonight they are comfortable in our home and ready for apple sauce with no more debt to brother Crow than one pie of his choosing.

This winter the tree will be trimmed back, the grounds will be cleaned and the neglected tree with the worlds greatest apples will be given a new life. There is just nothing like a found apple, free of any of man's leavings.

Reflections on the Arctic #6

This morning, as the weather slipped into a 36 degree gray day with a 20mph wind and light rain, I got to thinking about some of our days in the Arctic Refuge. We only had 2 occasions on the Canning River where the weather was a genuine issue. Both of them occurred as we approached the Beaufort Sea. Now, reason would say that this was likely because of the affect of the ocean but after 8 or 9 days we were also getting closer to winter very rapidly.

At the time it didn't really appear to me that this was such a big deal but looking back with today's conditions in my face, I found myself reevaluating the conditions up there. On about day eight when we were to get up, it was raining fairly hard and blowing a steady 30mph with the temperature slightly above freezing. In fact, the low lying hills just above the alluvial plain where we camped had a noticeable covering of snow. We decided to sit tight for the day and wait for better weather. Sitting tight meant just laying in the tent all day and attempting to read. I found I was amazingly good at actually half sleeping most of the time and I rather enjoyed the pure pleasure of the lofty down bag (down is largely prohibited in the Arctic--once wet, you die).

At one point, and I don't even remember the time of day as it was still mostly light all the time, Ian approached the tent Craig and I were lounging in, and quietly but intently announced the presence of a number of bull Caribou passing just to the east of camp. We, great hunters and all, hardly stirred because we were lost in the comfort of the tent. It was truly uncomfortable outside and we thought a day of uninterrupted rest was appropriate. The caribou slipped away unmolested.

What occurs to me now is the thought of having to sit tight on the tundra for a week and what it would have meant. One day, no problem, but if those conditions were to have persisted, which they can do there, life would have taken a sudden and dramatic change. Now its not that we were not prepared to deal with it, but the fun factor would have diminished. To be way the hell in the middle of nowhere and have to cope, and probably move because we had to get to the pick up miles away, might have changed my spoiled view of the delightful arctic.

Today I sit by the old radiating pot bellied stove in Wisconsin. The wind howls outside and I am very comfortable. Up there it is very hard to even find a small twig. We had only two fires on the trip and the only real one was on day two. We had plenty of food and 125 lbs of meat but if the plane could not land, the lounging would have become monotonous and we cantankerous.

Ian did remind me that it was good we had experienced the other side of the Refuge, the side that is not always a delightful holiday on the Canning----reality is a good thing.

Famine Food in My Garden

Recently, while consuming a nice side of mashed rutabagas, it was brought up by some less than enthralled participant that this root crop consumption was nothing more than eating famine food. Was this an insult? I once was told by our German exchange student that eating sauerkraut was for the lower class individual that could not find his way to purchase better fare. He lifted his nose at my hand crafted kraut.

Well, I thought about that and did realize that most of the root crops, maybe excluding the noble potato, are not widely appreciated. It would seem they are rather base, rather dirty, underground dwelling fare. At the same time they grow like the dickens, are easily stored and many of them are loaded with nutrients of all sorts.

Jake and I, only a few day's ago, harvested seven rutabagas, just seven because most of our immediate friends and family are particularly adverse to this elegant root. But what brings attention is the size of these things and how only those seven could hold off a famine all by themselves. The one pictured probably weighed some eight pounds, had almost no worms and when cooked would power me through a couple of days of good wood cutting.

Now I know some will say, "Just what does one do with a rutabaga of this size?" It can't all be eaten in one sitting and even the largest admirer would probably hesitate to conquer one of these brutes. They don't freeze well and if left idle will eventually wither and no longer have the ability to fight the famine. Dry them? Rutabaga chips? Canned rutas?

Ok, so there are issues. I have considered a rutabaga festival where the entire crop is set forth in many forms and thereby hold off starvation for the entire community for a few days. You say, "But nobody is starving."

Well, they still taste good in moderation and knowing they are there is like having a form of money in the bank, not real good money (or as Ann would say, "Chump change") but still a form of wealth. I'm not going to give up on them even if I am overweight.

Revolution Watch

In the last week I have received two of the enclosed documents reminding me that the new interest rates on my gas credit cards has taken a slight change. It seems they saw fit to raise my interest rate to the low level of only 25-29.95%. Now mind you, I do not care because I NEVER carry a balance, so they work just fine. But can you imagine what this means for folks less fortunate who depend on these things to maintain their American dream. What if a person has a $10K standing bill or maybe a couple of them?



This entire country is run on debt. These cards drive the consumer society and the economy that goes with it. It would seem that this type of change in easy credit may slow the economy down, maybe to a level that is sustainable. Maybe this is a move in the right direction. Maybe it is an indicator of things to come. I guess one could call it a drop in the standard of living.


But then, if folks don't buy things how many others will lose their jobs because what they were making is now not being purchased? Rather seems like a downward spiral---sort of a revolution.

Reflection on Alaska #5

I realize fishing has been mentioned and for those who do not fish it would seem this may be over kill. However, the Dolly Varden has to be mentioned because of it true beauty. Of course, it goes without saying that part of the intrigue and specialness of it all is the surroundings in which they live. Our first real attempt to latch on to the silver beauties was at the location where a huge spring emptied into the Canning River. Crystalline water that would make Perrier lust, dumped head long into the Canning and headed to the sea.

Tara had said this was a sure thing because of her past experience but either because of our ineptitude, or belligerence on the part of the trout we were not able to secure a single silver darling at this unusual location. The massive spring poured out of the tundra and gouged out a huge hole that any self respecting trout should have lusted for. As one trout said to the other, "Man, like this crib is like to die for."

We were profoundly surprised not a fish was to have its lips ripped. We were stunned if not befuddled and maybe distraught, even despondent if not disappointed. We recovered and moved to the north bathed in arctic sun and the ambiance of a vibrant tundra. The marsh hawk flew past and the loons chatted among themselves noting our presence, possibly thinking we were out of our element. Their ancestors knew the Athabaskans and Eskimos but not many of the white tribe, the tall skinny ones that froze at first sub zero night with 60 mph winds. It was fall and we were warm.

A Day later was another well know holding area, a redd if you will, where they were rumored to be stacked up like a cord of good aspen. It was below a large cliff and extended to the south and north in the moderately moving ripples. We pulled the rafts into comfortable slack water and took stock of the surroundings while assembling our anxious gear. Craig, a fisherman of considerable experience, tied into a dandy right off taking one of his flash flies that looked more like showy transvestite in Los Vegas. But the big males went for the gaudy thing like kids in a candy store, or me for a wee dram of Talister single malt.

All of us got our satisfy (as they say in Wisconsin) as we landed a number of real muscle bound beauties. Ian lost one by thinking he could turn a monster while it ran with the current. As a result of the loss he caught the derision of even the seagulls. All the fish were returned to the river and ultimately to the Beaufort sea--that is if they didn't want to winter over in the big hole by the rock. We were not planning to hold over for the winter season so we moved on, reluctantly, for here is where the fisherman's heart resides.

Revolution Watch

Here is a chart showing the level of consumer credit. The interesting part is the last year or so. Very different than past years, even lower than the '81 and '92 years. Probably not good---sorta. But maybe we should be thinking of consuming more in the range of say Europe. This would be a nice life style but we would have to drop our consumption by 50% as we use twice as many goods as the average European citizen. Times are changing. Hit graph to make it bigger and more meaningful.

It Froze

It froze and I don't care. In fact, I am better off for it. I am quite tired of dealing with tomatoes. For reasons unknown this year's tomatoes of all shapes and colors, thanks to Treb, just kept pouring it on, pouring it on as if there were no garden tomorrow. We canned them, we dried them, we ate them, gave them to the chickens and even tossed a few questionable maggoty ones at the old grumbling lady as she hobbled past our place hell bent on using up our sidewalk. No, I didn't do that its just that when one has tomatoes of this profusion a person has to be imaginative, maybe desperate.

I don't want to be down in the mouth about them because last year the sauce ran out early on and getting our acidic acid allotment grew lean. Spring is the time of starvation here in Ireland, It is a time when we are down to blackened potatoes and a time when the bloody English are refusing to bring in wheat, even rotted wheat. The barks and brigantines are standing off the coast and the bastards are holding them at bay. If only we had harvested more tomatoes we would not have been in the shape we are in. But this year we are prepared. No amount of tactics of the Limeys will hold me down. I am tired of havin' me relatives heading of to the states for the good life. One sip of Bushmills and I am in the thick of a brogue.

Anyway, they are done and we should make it through with some forty pints of jalapeno laced sauce and solid bags of dried Death Apples. You heard it. They used to be called Death Apples because the Italians thought that being from the Nightshade family they were poison. If I am not mistaken they got them from us, we native Americans. For now the Death Apples are out of my life and I don't care. In truth, we are pleased by the abundance and this year. They were our featured harvest. But I am a free man now and no more the slave to the garden. Free at last.

Reflecting on the Actic #5

Floating the Canning River on the western boundary of the National Arctic Wildlife Refuge is, in itself, an adventure that goes through many twists and turns. About the only way to do it is with an inflatable boat of some kind. On our adventure we had a combination canoe and rubber raft. The deal is they have to be brought in by a small airplane that has limited storage space---in our case, four humans of various sizes and all our gear for about two weeks. We had to have extra food because not being able to be picked up on the exact hour is common, or exact day. Canoes hanging off the wings won't cut it.

What initially caught my attention was the level to which these crafts are packed, and I mean packed. The fact that we were hunting and fully intended on bring back lots of meat, hundreds of pounds of meat maybe, made it appear almost impossible to get it all in the two boats. But our guides, Ian and Tara, while younger than Craig (70) and I (65), turned out to be of sound mind and ample experience and unlike us, had it all figured out. The boats can haul about 1500lbs a piece or some outrageous amount. Everything, except us, had to be in water proof containers and strapped down with great care. It seems that in the Arctic, some hundreds of miles from civilized communities, makes for caution. They even made me wear a stupid personal floatation device that made me look like a not very macho retard. I am not sure appearances up there mattered unless, say, a bear were to choose the most idiotic looking. I stood tall and feigned importance.

The boat proved sea worthy and we headed to the north embracing the first class 5 rapids with gusto. Well, maybe class one but when an age factor of 4 and exaggeration factor of 2 are factored in, they were an easy 5. The attached photo (I wanted a video, maybe later) will attest to the action and also bring the scale into focus.

While there are many anecdotes to relate on the floating, I thought I might mention one of the more interesting, at least from the mighty struggle point of view. It seems at somewhere near the mid-point of the trip, the river becomes very braided into maybe 6 or so sprawling channels that might span almost a mile in breadth. It was my job as front navigator to follow the thickest of the channels trying to avoid skinny water. Skinny water meant we had to get out of the boat and drag the rig across gravel bars and the like. Now if it came to pass that we took a path that, in turn braided many times, we might find ourselves stranded in the great expanse. We would have to drag the outfit for miles. What if the braiding disappeared all together?

I was under great pressure as the other boat was following our lead. I had noticed that the Grizzlies had lined up along some of the smaller off channels waiting for us to make that one mistake, knowing we would be nothing more than bear chum out there in the open. I believe I had told Craig that if we were to be threatened, he being the oldest would have to go first as a way to distract the bruins. He could be sacrificed. Well, it turned out that I was able to guide us through the maze only having to trudge the craft a few times.

We prevailed and are better people for it---so it has been said. That which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.

Revolution Watch

Last week's local newspaper announced that the Waupaca county Library would be closed an additional 4 days each month and that some employees would be furloughed for a few more days as a way to cut expenses for the city and county. Neither event is good, However, it is an indication that the standard of living is dropping. Some employees will now have less money to spend, others will have less opportunity to go to the library. In other words, the local government will provide less service to its citizens. Unfortunately, this is something we will have to get used to. Some would argue there are probably less important expenditures we could cut, say the building of roads that in the future will not have the same value because there will be fewer miles traveled and what vehicles there are will be lighter and less damaging. Mass transit?



Manila last week was flooded. Officials said they were not able to keep up with infrastructure that would enable flood control for an expanding population. Manila has 12 million citizens in the city and a few million more in the surrounding area. This all speaks for itself even though the authorities do not have ears to hear it, nor the eyes to see it. It would appear that in the future there were still be less infrastructure per person than there is today and there will be more floods.


Today Alan Greenspan announced unemployment would go to 10%. I got my electric bill down below $20 last month.

Note from Alaska

I can't help but include this email and photo Jen and Ian just got from a very good friend in Alaska. Jobe is very clever, with a sharp wit and loves to write.

Dear Jen and Ian, I am a man now. I used to be somewhat of a man, but I consider myself a man thanks to the advantages of the high powered repeating rifle technology. Hows the home projects going? jobe

Reflecting on the Arctic #4

One of the callings of the arctic was to fish. It was known from the start that the Canning was not the mother of all angling holes. There were no colorful salmon, no long, leaping steelhead, no ferocious pike, nor snappy bluegills but there were elegant Grayling and majestic Dolly Varden Trout that ran up from the Beaufort Sea. At the Plunge Creek landing area just at the foot hills of the Brooks range, we looked at the crystal water only briefly before we were distracted first by a Grizzly Bear, and then by three very large Caribou that sauntered within fifty yards of the pitched tents. A line was never wetted.

It was also clear early on that fishing would only be one of our activities and really not a very important one. I do recall one fishing spot of more than common interest. I had moved back up stream to the south to get within reach of a hole under a large dome where I was sure large and numerous Grayling were holding court. In the first hole I caught a number of fish in the 20 inch range and actually found myself slipping the fly away from smaller fish--the fishing was that good.

Farther up stream maybe thirty yards there was a number of boulders in the water and behind them, still water pools. For a fly fisherman the catching is not everything. Some great enjoyment is gained from placement of the fly in a difficult to reach position and hooking a fish, then retrieving it through difficult waters. The more line thrown, the greater the accomplishment. It is like making a long pass in football rather than some short thing over the middle which any limp rist slackard could do.

I started my move into the holes but no sooner had I laid out the first presentation than on the dome above me a few hundred feet Ian and Craig started yelling out fish locations pretty much demanding I do as they say. Fair enough. They too were taking glee in my success and watching the entire affair from their lofty position. In addition, they were looking for Grizzles and Caribou.

With each cast I had to pause and survey the setting and then examine the beauty of each fish caught. The view to the north was the snow caped mountains forming a wall of never-ending brutal beauty. The tundra was in full fall colors not rivalled by the maples of Wisconsin. The only difference was that the willows and shrubbery were less than two feet tall and much of the wild, diverse reds were actually 2 inch tall bear berries.

Again, I found myself just looking from one side to the other and it wasn't to look for bears because I had the well-armed cover from above. Catching a beautiful grayling in a cold clear stream while the vision is filled with untouched wonders of the radiant tundra is just not the same as getting a thirty pound, lesion covered carp in the Detroit River. It is a world apart and not something to be taken lightly.

Beavers On the Ice Age Trail

I find it almost impossible to venture into the backwoods around here without finding something that leaves me in wonder. Admittedly, I am easily entertained. I love the sound a puffball mushroom makes when it hits the back leg of my brother Crow. I gives a hollow pop and then burst and covers his limb with thousands of black spores. The round mushrooms are appropriately light so they won't "really" hurt yet firm, making an easy to launch missile.

Today's point of wonder was the beaver. We initially dropped into Sieverson Lake to the north of here first noting how low the water had become, probably from the five years of light drought, even though this year it is rumored that we are nearly 10 inches low in rain fall. That in itself was a touch unnerving with all the talk of climate change going around. Not a good pattern. On the lakes edge we found that the industrious beavers had cut some impressive trenches up the shore line toward the old waters edge where the trees were. The trenches were a couple of feet deep. Where they ended there was a well worn path heading toward the timber on the side of the rather steep incline of the kettle moraine lake.

On leaving the lake, we walked back up the trail which was also the path of the beaver. Almost one hundred yards from the waters edge we found the reason the beaver's forest venture. Among all the Maples, beeches, and oaks there were a few cottonwoods. The beavers apparently only like the poplar species. With the lake being so low there was nothing growing on waters edge and they had no choice but commit to the steep climb, which for a fatty, rather cumbersome beaver must have required pitons and ropes not to mention the extended exposure to coyotes. No doubt this was quit an effort.

We also noted that they would always cut the trees on the west side, so apparently the west wind would do the final work on the trees. All and all, it seemed a hard living, one that may have just been made harder by the changing climate. How long can they continue to haul cottonwood branches 100 yards down a steep incline? A thing of wonder.

Revolution Watch

Now and then I run across graphs and printed material that pretain to my Revolution Watch. Some are outright shockers. This one is of oil production in the super large Cantarell oil field in Mexico. As most folks know Mexico was our second largest supplier of crude oil up until a few years ago, with Canada being #1. This particular field in Mexico was a powerhouse but it has been declining at double digit rates of late. Mexico has already told the USA that in 5 years or less it will not be able to provide us with ANY oil. They are using more of their own and the wells are playing out. http://www.biodiversecity.com/Cantarell-decline0.png

This compounds issues for them as well as their revenues for oil, one of their biggest sources, will also decline. In addition, monies being send south by the 20 or so milllion nationals living here has also declined. Tourism is down but drug sales have held but the Thunderdome activity on the border is growing (more died in one year there than Americans have been killed in the total Iraq war!).

Problem for us being we will have less access to oil and Mexico may become unstable (some states appear to have been seen as failed states) which may increase the human migration activities.

Wisconsin Backwater

Like two juveniles with time on our hands, Dennis and I decided we had to go fishing. Even more like two grinning, mud stained kids we headed down a small, rather unknown creek that emptied into the Wisconsin River 5 miles above the laid-back, quiet community referred to as The Dells. We had spotted the stream on a map and double checked it out on Goggle Earth to see if we could see big Bass laying in there like so much cord wood. While the true fish count could not be established, the spot looked untouched, or at least inaccessible to anyone but overly ambitious youngsters or delusional adults.

Qualified, we departed in the canoe only to find that 2 inches of water will not float a boat. Still undeterred, we mounted our attack that involved trudging the bent canoe over inappropriately fallen logs, nettle covered shoreline and algae infested swamps. After the first fifty yards it became obvious we were going were few had gone and as a result the waiting fish would be ours in great numbers. Around the first hidden bend some three dozen Wood ducks scattered from their hidden dinner tables, some looking back at us as if we were a couple of Australiopithecenes, or maybe the real Piltdown men, coming to hunt them with throwing nets and bola-bolas. In looking at each other we may have noticed the similarities ourselves as the swamp and clinging vegetation was beginning to take a heavy toll on our normally well kept appearance.

As we carefully slid into the hidden pond we had seen in the satellite photo, more ducks broke from the impressive stands of wild rice. A pair of Sandhills Cranes yacked at us for our intrusion into their comfortable grazing ground. The great body of water in which we had hoped to lure massive bass appeared as a shallow weed-filled sea almost impenetrable to normal fishers. But like anyone inflicted with terminal fish fever, we stepped up to the plate willing to get hit by the first fast ball simply to get to first base just moments later.


The strained journey across the forbodding pond reminded Dennis of the African Queen episode where Bogart pushed the ratty old boat, the Queen, through the leach filled, reeking, swamp all for the glory and the admiration of Hepburn. He noted, of course, my failure to measure up to the beautiful distraught damsel. He was without cause other than the distant hope, a glimmer of hope that just maybe he would catch one fish. He cared not one lick for me other than without my help he would never leave this place and he would be nothing more than a headline in the State Journal about some elderly gentleman found half consumed by turtles with bones cleaned up by one of the eagles we had seen giving us the eye.

It was a hard pull and briefly we thought it might actually be possible that we could not go forward and we could not go back. The pond scum had swallowed us, and done it in concert with the massive Snapping Turtles we had been seeing.


Inches at a time we fought our way through to open water knowing there was no return except over land, a land were we could hear the distant sound of banjo music and see toothless, grinning rubes. Desperately and thankfully, we moved into the shallow open stream but no sooner did we pause to collect out composure when out of the aquatic vegitation appeared a giant Snapper whose jaws could crush our old limbs like match sticks. We reeled to the right not wanting to confront the prehistoric monster. He semmed so at home.

Talk about primitive. I mean we were thinking we were primitive,(remember the paleo man thing). The 35 lb turtle had moss and algae covering its back and the looked million years old. After collecting our composer, we stopped and chatted with the turtle, relating our great crossing---for which he appeared to have little interest. He slipped his old nose above the surface possibly to test our human odor. He looked at us knowing full well he had ancestors that looked just like him on this planet before there was a single human. We excepted that and watched him swim off as we stood fishless. (To be edited and continued)