The Pile of Wood, the One that Needs Splitting

The cold lingers; Yes, it really lingers and while I am prepared to deal with it, I am growing a touch weary. I am an outdoor person and at times feel it is completely necessary to breath outside air. I like to walkabout, piddle with my stuff, maybe hang in the cluttered engine-filled shop. But the wood pile is ever present in my world and I enjoy knowing there is work to be done.

In the summer wood boring grubs fall out of the oak and the minute I walk away for the broken mess a wren or some other worm feeder will come running. In the winter, I don't see the grubber birds, but with luck the larva will remain hidden somewhere to be consumed later.

In the last few day when the temperature hit a warm 15 or so, I went out and dug the wood pile to exposure, that is the unsplit pile, grabbed a bolt and split wood for a half hour. I then stacked it in the back wood shed. It is work but that is the entire idea. I just need to get the blood flowing and in reality, frozen wood splits easily, almost exploding from the contained ice. I do notice that bending over and picking up a 70 pound bolt in cold weather lacks the same pleasure it does in warm weather. Ya,, even in the summer it hurts. Muscles hurt,  bones creek, joints bitterly complain, but the spirit is good. In an antiquated way, the splitting of wood is righteous, it is worthy as Alvin Herzog used to say. It has genuine value and will provide for my well being. I am easily pleased.

The wood I am splitting was brought in late in the year before the snows. I had planned on getting into it, really, before the snowy part of winter arrived. Normally, there are days all winter long were it is comfortable to be out there banging away at the pile but this year has been very different. For a good two months most of the nights are below zero and the days in single digits or maybe in the teens. To top it off, the wind has been incessant, just enough to make life a little more miserable with it intended bit across the face.

This wood is not for this year, so in truth it could sit there unmolested, but it doesn't look good as a scattered  unorganized pile. It demands attention to be taken away and put in an organized place where, for me, it is more comfortable. So, I chew away at it, fighting the elements and the piled snow. At the age of seventy, it is getting more difficult and I can see a day when this business is going to come to an end. That will be another unhappy day as it is one of my most favorite hobbies. Maybe it is as the song says, "I don't mind the wind and cold, I just don't like the growing old."

So this year, if the snow ever leaves, I will be off to the woods and attempt to lay in many years of wood so that in the future I will still be able to sit by the fire in the winter. With a winter like this one, sitting by the fire is pleasure I do not want to lose.

Men Ice Fishing---The Great Outing

A Day on Hard Water

The weather broke on Wednesday. Dennis turned 64 and there was not a cloud in the sky. Forty degrees seemed spring-like making our collective blood flow like the Ganges in monsoon. It was perfect, a convergence of nature’s sublime forces all arriving, as one friend turned another year older.

He was child-like in his enthusiasm, seeing the birthday event not so much as a time to receive well-packaged material gifts, or even a nice well-endowed trust fund,  but a time to celebrate another day, a day not consisting of working but to bask in the glories of nature’s bounty with a rag-tag group of friends. It was time to go ice fishing, a time to go ice fishing with comrades for a day of pleasantries, and buffoonery in the noonday sun.

That being said, the gear was assembled in the order of importance,  one Smoky Joe, lawn chairs, a small folding table, numerous tubular meat products, a broad spectrum of beverages concentrating on the work of the local brewery and a slathered chocolate cheese cake. In addition, there were some fishing poles, 5 in total, a selection of minnows, , a tin of wiggling grubs, a few Goldenrod galls, and an ice cutting spud.

For a group of nine there appeared to be scant fishing outfits, but some individuals were walking the one mile to the lake not so much to fish but to join the festivities----and they were, for the most part, known to be worthless fishermen.

On our arrival, after trucking in the sleds with the “fishing” gear, the idea was to find some used holes so we didn’t have to spud out 30 inches of ice. Low and behold, there were no fresh holes and the reworking of the found holes was more work than most of us really wanted. However, with communal cooperation, four workable holes were created, but on the attempt at the fifth, one of the exhausted hole punchers, by the name of Rick,  managed to momentarily lose control of the spudding device and sent it to the bottom of the lake some 40 feet down in the deep briny. He mumbled something to the affect that he had seen a really big fish and tried to spear it---or something like that.

Providing four holes was not bad, so we set up two tip-ups and two jigging poles, all that could really be handled comfortably by this group. Some participants viewed the real fishermen with disdain or thought we were mentally deficient for just sitting there waiting for that big bite.  In truth,  all were eager for some action.

Initially, there was some interest in the fishing but due to the complete failure to attract a single bluegill, bass or mudpuppy, the banter turned to taking note of various person’s misguided childhoods. Matt started the grill and threw on an attractive selection of tube steaks including some organic veggie item that appeared meat like but was made from algae or, seaweed, moss, or something. Midway though the first Epicurean delight, a flag up went up about 30 yards off.  After yelling and profound belittling by non-combatants, three of us bounded out as if we were headed to the Shakleton cut off.

As we crouched by the sprung tip-up, it was clear there was no giant fish running the line. A slight retrieval confirmed it was a false alarm, but at least we had action. It was back to the party center for more cake and brews.

While all of this seems to be nothing more than a party on hard water, it was, in fact, a rare opportunity this winter. Each participant, comfortable there on the ice, repeatedly marveled at the glory of the day, not that it was forty degrees, which was a thing of wonder, but at the surroundings of wooded lands and rush filled marshes. Here and there a chickadee skirted, a crow cruised by and under the ice, away from us, the winter-worn fish slept out the winter.  Not another person was to be seen, nor a cottage. It was a hundred years ago----one fishing party on a lonely lake.

A number of coyotes had slipped across the lake, probably at night, looking for that one fat rabbit but more likely content with a burrowing mouse or vole now deep in the snow.

It was a day of days, the kind all the lovers of Wisconsin’s winter weather
long for in their dreams. Five hours passed and not one fish came to us, and we tried, but that was not really the intention even though a nice fry would have been welcomed. It was just a sunny day on a lake with friends, laughing and  reflecting on all that has passed now that Dennis has hit sixty-four, yes, when he’s sixty-four.

Revolution Watch----Peak Oil Revisited

This peak oil thing just keeps coming around, goes away for awhile due to narrative control by the cornucopians but still keeps coming around. I understand why folks don't want to hear about it, but it seems to me that in order to comfortably slide into a new paradigm of less abundance, it might be worthwhile having a clue.

So what I like are graphs, ones that have been put together by known, well-informed academic types who have there eyes and ears to something outside the usual banter of glassy-eyed politicians and slope-headed under-evolved, reptilian-brained Jesus freaks.

The first graph here is of USA production of oil. One can see there has been an increase of 2.5 million barrels a day in the last few years ('09 - '13). Prior to that, our production had been declining right down the Hubbard curve. All of the new oil is from the fracking plays in N. Dakota and Texas. Oh, we use 18 million barrels a day.

 The next graph is for total world production and again one can see there has been an increase during this same time frame. From '05 to '09 it had been flat.

 The next graph is world production without the USA included. Interestingly, this graph shows a continued flat production (on average) What this means is that world production has made almost no gains since '05. It is broadly known that US production will again turn down in a couple of years and during that time world production will stay flat or decline, again down the Hubbard curve. This will again leave us in the position where the world will see total declining liquid fuels.

 As a side note, it is already known the available net exports have been in decline for 5-6 years and a further decline in over all production will really accentuate the total available net exports. None of this is good.

This graph goes along with the most recently announced bit of information that Shell is pulling out of the off-shore oil play in Alaska and out of the shale play in the frack areas of the U S because as they stated, those plays are "mature", meaning there is no money to be made and will not last long.

The graph above is interesting because it shows what is happening with investments of big oil players. They are investing huge amounts of capitol and not getting any return. In other words, oil is getting very hard to find. To me this information is chilling and needs to be absorbed by everyone. The message is clear. We need to make some changes while we can.

The Big Winter I am not Afraid. I Like It

So do I look like I care if there is climate change? So far I don't give a damn. Yes, there has been more days below zero this year than all the rest combined of the last eight years we have been here. And yes, I am spending too much time in the house reading, or writing (I know, I have not don't much of that) but I am also playing my fiddle more and rather organizing my memoirs---what I can remember. The stove is very warm and the heat is healing, therapeutic, a soother of the soul.

Keep one thing in mind, it is beautiful out there, with all the fluff and purity---rather reminds me of myself but not in a Johnny Weir sort of way. The only down side is it is really hard to get around without snowshoes but that has also been done. Still, when the thermometer hits 18 below, and it has been worse some say, the desire to go out and even get the wood is challenging. I don't cry but I do find myself hustling and mumbling and even saying, "Jesus jumping Christ, it is a cold son-of-a-bitch". Then remember the picture of the frozen bottle of whiskey my kid, Ian, sent down from Alaska last year, taken while he was camping! He did not complain about the cold---the temporary loss of whiskey was a concern, however.

I say, Sweet Jesus." On a number of days when it was really down there, the birds did not even come out and left me wondering if they had in fact died in mass. I always recall my brother Crow telling the story of finding a mound of dead doves huddled against his house after a big freeze. Here, they survived and are back, not happy but back and fat with our sunflower seeds.

Ya, it is cold and ya, it is snowy but what is winter for. Not for pussies. My wood pile is getting low but the freezer does have two deer and a mound of vegetables and fruits. Tomorrow I am going ice fishing and yesterday we went snowshoeing. I love it. Climate change that is another issue. I like the cold but I don't want a glacier again.

Synfuel by Rail through my Town----Missionary's position

Everyday the train passes through town, big trains, many cars filled with lumber from the north, some carrying grains--mostly corn for ethanol, and a goodly amount are tank cars. They are for the most part black and contain a liquid like substance called synfuel which comes from the tar sands of Alberta. Now, it is possible there is some propane and maybe, some conventional crude oil,  some finished products from cracking plants/refineries to the west, but mostly I suspect, it is synfuel.

Is that a big deal? Not really sure unless one of these days we have an "incident" like those that have been  happening around the US and Canada and that would be a derailment or a crash with fire of some sort. I do believe in the past there was an "incident" right here in town but nothing came of it as there was no synfuel in those days.

So am I supposed to be concerned that this massive train goes over this bridge and within 300 yards of our home? I have noticed that both of the concrete bridges/overpasses here in town are quit old, maybe 100 years old and both of them are cracked to the nines. Those cracks are in some cases exuding various liquid compounds, but mostly water filled with soluble carbonates or salts coming from the old bridge. The are stalagmites building in and on the drip-offs.

I suspect the chemicals mean nothing but do rather imply the bridge is full of cracks, deep cracks. Seeing our village has mandated a run-your-water-all-the-time rule due to deep frost---some 7 ft we are told, that would imply that any water deep in these old bridges is also freezing ---AND FREEZING deeply. One would have to recall that on freezing water expands.

In the eight years I have been here, I have never see any work done on those overpasses, they are even doing a bit of crumbling. Grain no problem, wood no problem, synfuel not so good. I do remember the big fires of this stuff burning, and yes the stuff in the tank is not just crude oil but tons of other chemicals associated with mining tar sands.

So right now all of Canada's tar sands product is coming to the USA, some through existing pipelines, the rest by rail. So if the XL pipeline goes through Montana or North Dakota will this get rid of our oil trains? I suspect the real answer to all the questions is, do we really need this stuff? Yup, if we want to keep business as usual then we have to use more and more crap because the good stuff is mostly gone. Gonna be a hard lesson here somewhere.

Missionay's Position-------Are we but Locust?

I'm not the first person to wonder if the humans were a plague species. It is beginning to seem as though we are showing, and have been showing for some time, the ability to approach the environment as if every once of it can be consumed. Now, we don't just go after the eatable vegetation like the lowly bug, but also recklessly peruse consumption of all earthly things, many just for recreation. We are relentless.

That is right, we scoop up all the fossil fuels we can find and then use it to destroy the natural world and introduce our selected food producing species. So all the diversity goes away and mono crops cover the land. Then they are sprayed with numerous "organic" poisons to make sure those crops maximize production. 

So, as a species, we can run up our numbers to the limit because we believe (that is faith) there will always be more and more food because we are sooooo clever in our lambasting the natural world. . It is now obvious the earth is being trashed as many of the natural systems are being depleted, be it the fisheries, or tropical forests, the atmosphere. They are being consumed much faster than they can be replaced.

The definition below states that as we become over-crowed, we swarm to points where there is more food. But what happens when we swarm to the next area and it to, is over crowed or being "used" ?. Like the locust we consume everything including those revved up GMO plants. One day there will just not be enough at which point we, like locust, will simply die off.

"Research at Oxford University has identified that swarming behavior is a response to overcrowding. Increased tactile stimulation of the hind legs causes an increase in levels of serotonin.[5] This causes the locust to change color, eat much more, and breed much more easily. The transformation of the locust to the swarming variety is induced by several contacts per minute over a four-hour period.[6] It is estimated that the largest swarms have covered hundreds of square miles and consisted of many billions of locusts. Plagues of locusts appear in both the Bible and the Quran,[7] including one of the biblical Plagues of Egypt, where locusts ate all the crops of Egypt."

 Interestingly, there is also another catch, for when the resources we are using to expand this population deplete, we will be hanging out there like Wiley Coyote.

One of the sad parts seems to be we are more like locust than we think in that we appear to have no clue what we are doing--just innate behavior. Every individual that even mentions slowing the consumptive growth or population growth is shouted down. Like locust we can not produce a narrative to approach this very serious problem. So the swarm is forming, in some places more than others, to only meet the same fate of the large grass hoppers. But in our "eating" we eat everything, not just food, but the roots, the stems the branches of all life. What do you do?

Drama in the Snow

Eight inches of snow fell the other day.  The air was cold, not ridiculous, but crisp and piercing. Every piece of landscape from forest to village was white  and exuding of purity. It was the reason winter weather warms the soul.

The snow lay undisturbed waiting for activity to make its mark.  In the last light of evening, a squirrel bounded from the huge maple in pursuit of seeds under the feeder, most of which by now, were buried. His first leap left him embedded in the powdery snow, almost to the point of disappearing, his ears just protruding from the cavern in the fluff. He bounded out, making a couple of desperate launches to get himself to the seed pile he suspected was under the snow.

A few busy Juncos lit on the snow to scrounge for any fallen morsels. The feeder itself was covered in lumps of white and the birds, while anxious, had a hard time boring through the accumulations, but some had, and others, including the redbird, prodded out sunflower seeds. By evening there were still few marks in the surrounding snow as most of the backyard visitors apparently preferred to take the leap, or flight, in the morning.

That evening, while tight against the evening fire, an excited call came in from my brother, the one on the Ogdensburg swamp, proclaiming that he had had an event, one that involved the new snow. He went into great description of the drama of it all and was falling all over himself with delight and fascination and analysis not untypical of Sherlock the Wildlife Observer---but in a Wisconsin tone commonly found in that area, if you know what I mean, hey.

 There had been an attack in his side yard, one that only the snow could reveal. I had great pictures of blood and guts all over the place much like I would have seen if his bumbling hound stumbled into the gut pile I left in the back woods.

 Coyotes had been heard drifting through the timber, and meadows, and  there were the prints, some close in.  Rumors were running wild about wolf sightings as some hesitant locals wanted to cower by open doors. Then there was the Mountain Lions, the catamounts, even Black Panthers that prowled through swamps of bogs---and stalked lovers in the lane. They had seen a Fisher perusing the area under the pear tree maybe looking for a stray cat to devour.

He hardly got started, when in my 9:00 stupor, I figured a fourteen mile ride would be worth it because a light snow was still falling, and the breeze could move the powder around covering the evidence by morning.

On arrival, I was met by both by my brother Crow and Buddy the aforementioned gut-pile-loving hound. The dog was not gore covered so he had played no role in the “event” . He, being more inclined to enjoy his spot by the stove, seemed oblivious but charmed by my arrival. He quickly retreated to his domain not having the intellectual capacity to appreciate the sideyard escapade.

Off we went to the site only one hundred feet from the house and smack in the middle of the yard. There, imprinted in the snow, was a track of a mid-sized animal leisurely heading south toward the woodshed. Directly on top of the track, six feet off the trail, was the perfect impression of a very large bird. Two taloned feet sunk deep in the snow almost straddling the track. The wing marks, measuring forty one inches spread in each direction. It could be seen that the wings were used to block the impact but also to lift the bird off the ground because two feet away was another set of wing marks, lighter ones, where the next stroke landed.

In addition, there were two more shallower footprints as the giant bird lifted off. As amateur raptor specialists (we admire birds of prey), we tried as best we could to put it together. Yes, it was an Owl and by the size of it, it probably was one of the Bared Owls that hang about the area entertaining us wood-bound travelers with their well-timed hooting and rather obnoxious “Monkey talk”.

One of the more unusual aspects of the hit was there was not a single feather, fur or spot of blood and the target animal appears to have turned tail and walked, and only walked back in the direction it came. No a single piece of hair. It was as if the owl in its adventure, got to the target and decided at the last moment this was a bad idea and aborted only at the last minute. Its legs were spread and not concentrated on the target. He must have given it a feathery belly rub and split to rethink the effort.

For the life of us we could not identify the target. It was way too big to be a mouse or even a rat. Plus, just what is out this time of night--- Raccoon, feral cat, possum. It made no sense but what ever it was, the Owl wanted no part of it and maybe at last moment did a quick risk assessment and boogied.

Personally, I had hoped for more evidence of a real struggle and maybe some blood and guts, still the drama was there. Just one more reason to love the snows of winter.