Revolution Watch---Population Growth

I recently have read a number of accounts of how nothing we do to solve our issues with air pollution will make a lick of good as long as the population is growing exponentially, or geometrically for that matter. The minute one goes over the amount of change that needs to be made, let's say in percentage of change the following response is, "As long as the population of the earth is changing by 240,000 a day we can not hope to offset the increase of emissions." It is just math.

Even Boone Pickens ran into this a few years ago when he proposed a 600 unit wind farm in Texas. He was pleased to announce that the farm could power 1 million homes. He said this could all be done in 5 short years. I was impressed until I did some math. Lets see, The USA is still growing by 2-3 million a year so in, say a year and a half there would be about a million new homes needed. Now wait a minute, 5 years of great new technology and we can hardly provide enough new clean energy for 25% of the new population.

As a result of all this math, I have always wondered why this excessive population growth is never really discussed, after all there are a million examples of this dilemma. Even today as I write, I remember reading limits to Growth and recalled that one of the expected problems of excessive growth, and exceeding carrying capacity, would be large amounts of human migration.

So what do we have in Europe and what really is the cause? Strife, hunger, thirst, crowding, war mongering and religious wackery. Then today in the NYT is an article on the increased immigration into the USA from the south.Border

At the same time I hear military experts saying in future mass migration will be a security issue. Then there is me just wondering where all the resources are going to come from to provide for these 7.4 billion (heard today some are now projecting a future of 15 billion as birth rates are apparently stabilizing). Still there is no discussion.

So, I remembered the piece written in '68 called Tragedy of the Commons Tragedy of the Commons  and went back to only to be discouraged. Garret Hardin said in conclusion, "The only way we can preserve and nurture other and more precious freedoms is by relinquishing the freedom to breed, and that very soon. "Freedom is the recognition of necessity"--and it is the role of education to reveal to all the necessity of abandoning the freedom to breed. Only so, can we put an end to this aspect of the tragedy of the commons."

And so the tragedy goes on, and on and on. Seems like all we can do is watch.

First Day of Deer Hunting---and More

The Wisconsin forest, on this November 21st, was by no definition a warm place, no matter how one looks at it. Twenty-two degrees simply has to be appreciated as being chilly, not bone cold but crisp as old man winter reaches out extending his frosty fingers. Walking out there in the early morning all encumbered with mounds of clothing, may feel even momentarily hot but once sitting motionless, that cold seems to have a way of working its ugly hand into every button hole and fold.

The path to the stand had numerous obstacles put there by the meandering deer who in their desire to harm hunters, have left no rock unturned. Those erratics left over from the last ice age appeared to have been ever-so-slightly lifted an additional couple inches out of the soil. The blackberry canes have somehow been planted on both ends making a tripping lanyard suitable for taking down older hunters as they shuffle out. It is a tough life being a hunter and that frost-kissed, lonesome morning walk was a reminder of the ageless struggle my Neanderthal brethren had to endure---oh wait, they were Cro-Magnon and they only had spears. Well, there is a similarity.

Having struggled early-man-style to establish my stand, the next issue was concealment which involves not only blending in with the natural terrain but also eliminating all signs of human scent, either by having none or by covering up those natural fragrances with the odors of the forest. Eliminating all odors is cumbersome in my world in that I like soaps that make me smell like a French prostitute (just kidding) but I do like to smell “good”, not too musty, or organic, or overworked, but tolerable. The idea of covering up my scent is also problematic because that would require sopping oneself with various deer extracts, fungal exudates, or obnoxious fecal aromas commonly found scattered on the forest floor.

My choice was to sit on the ground, face into the breeze hoping my human odors would not be able to travel upwind. Hunting while sitting on the ground has its disadvantages from those hiding in trees---like scent dispersal. I justify this ground dwelling by claiming being high in the forest is unmanly because I don’t “do” trees---I’m scared. Cro-Magnons didn’t do trees. The concept of only hunting into the wind does have limitations in that one’s field of vision is only about 180 degrees which for me is fine because if I turn quickly to consider a backward shot, this will involve flopping on the ground in a day-glow orange heap.

Initially, a proper site had to be chosen, one that will give some concealment and also accommodate my three-legged chair, the one given to me by my wife after she learned of the Lazyboy incident. This would be the episode when a cheap deep-seated Chinese chair was used to turkey hunt. For reasons still discussed, I was not able to extract myself from the comfort of the seating  enough to blast a turkey five miserable yards away--behind me. The three-legged outfit (her solution) is fine but has the tendency to tip if not soundly stabilized on the ground, or f I do not anticipate the blast from my giant, antiquated buffalo gun.

The site chosen was behind a few branches and fallen logs but still very exposed considering the fact I was entirely clad in orange of the most obnoxious sort.  My face was completely visible to every half blind rampaging rodent. So once in place, the forest now had this clump of day-glow orange, and a fully visible Lincolnesque face. My running nose was also being attended to with a flopping white tissue. Downwind of my position was a huge wedge of scent found only in France and big cities. Yes, the scene was set for the harvest.

A few minutes into the hunt and well adjusted, life in the forest was starting to come alive, indicating my efforts had been well thought out. The morning started off by checking my clothing for ticks forgetting it was now 23 degrees---but I have seen them walking toward me while I was sitting in snow. No insect life on this day.

Settled in, comfortable, and tick free, nature began to reveal itself. Above me in the morning light, unimaginable amounts of Seagulls quietly jetted over either looking to simply circle in the morning light,  or to scout out a hot lunch so frequently provided by the spreaders of manure. They came in waves, quietly, almost reverently, maybe searching, maybe just holding a communal flight looking for Jonathon Livingston .

While the forest initially offered no sounds, in time a Nuthatch begin busying itself on the tree in front of me, probably looking for that one special grub, the one which would power him for another hour. The bird was like me, a hunter---not that I was busy. I was an ambusher. The ambivalence of the Nuthatch indicated my act was working well, really.

A Downey Woodpecker joined the early morning crowd banging on a distant tree. The gulls continued their flights and I found myself contemplating the soaring bird’s goals in life almost forgetting they had a pack with the deer to distract hunters. I drifted in thought seeing myself as a lone hunter hundreds of years ago struggling to bring home food.

Unlike the earlier Paleolithic hunters, after two hours alone in the forest, a frozen forest, the warmth of the fire called. Not disappointed, appreciative of the trees and this reality, I stretched and rose knowing two-hundred yards away was a leather sofa next to a warm stove.

As I drifted off, face to the warmth, a quiet sleep gained the day. I later learned a large flock of elegant swans whispered over the tree tops.

The Wood Pile Continued

So the wood came home and there it sits all in three massive piles looking much like a considerable amount of physical labor.This statement is, of course, uncomfortably true. Still, the piles are in MY yard and therefor my possession and even in this disheveled form is future heat---provided I have the ability to get it in the house and snug in the old stove.

First, I feel it is necessary to put all the split wood in nice, meaning attractive,  piles which is where the real toiling part dwells. Ya, ya, some of it requires additional splitting so the work is two fold. Be it known I am not intimidated for time is my mistress and she is not running from me too fast, as near as I can tell. However, there is a certain discomfort in having these dispersed, and discordant piles looking me in the face as I drift in and out of the backyard. I will have to embrace the mistress of time and give up on immediate action of the rambling tonnage of winter heat.

To get the wood so comfortable in the yard, it turned out the window of a borrowed pickup had to be sacrificed, not by purpose but by accident of a small log just touching the edge. It shattered all over the cab and now will be adding another $200 or so to the cost of the wood. This was not planned but funds had been saved earlier by borrowing a wood splitter, so while costs mounted in broken car parts others costs were eliminated
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In addition to my own labor, I was fortunate enough to secure the labor of a younger, more agile young man to stack the first 2 cords thus giving me an idea of not only the labor needed for the rest of the project but also to get a look at the real quantity of wood I had--in truth I thought it was maybe 5-6 cords, but once the 2 cords were stacked and admired it was obvious the original estimation was lacking for here was maybe 9-11 cords. I was feeling better as the price per cord had now just dropped righteously.

Once the wood was piled up on the land, I did find it important to make my first tidy stack as a way of thinking I was up to the task, plus a person just needs to have an aesthetics wood pile to look at. So in haste I started on the willow which is easy to split and effortless to carry due to its light weight---and ridiculously poor heat value.

So each day as I step into the backyard there in front of me is three piles of dumped wood just waiting but also three growing stacks, one of willow and two of oak, one in the shed and the other in the back garden. I'm on it and still thrilled with myself as I will be as I, each and every day,  do my one hour of exercise.
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The Wood Pile

The Wood Pile

In truth, firewood collecting is mostly a hobby because in reality it makes little economic sense in a world of give-away natural gas. One does not have to be a hoarder to enjoy this activity, really. Some of us just love wood heat.

Recently, I had the opportunity to bid on a pile of accumulated timber harvested here in town. It was difficult because determining the content, both in quantity and quality, was like studying a mish-mash of pick-up sticks. My brother, who admires fire wood, encouraged a low bid approach, noting that the huge mound looked a great deal like “work” and why would anyone want to buy work. I now realize the disparaging comments directed at me had made some note of my age. I was undeterred as if blinded by love--or was it lust.

The winning bid was confirmed and a few realities set in, including, but not limited to, the fact that all the pile had to be removed in ten working days---WORKING DAYS!---I don‘t really work. I am retired. DURING NORMAL WORKING HOURS!

The pile was again approached, with the eye of a winner, and the realization that truth can be a cruel mistress. While it was obvious there was a species mix, it now became clear willow, cherry, and a “delightfully” large elm also graced the huge morass.

With that aforementioned mistress grabbing my aging arm, one had to start considering the actual cost for this hobby, this $276 pile. The presence of a fair amount of sand & dirt on the wood gave the saw’s chain a shutter and after the first cutting, it was obvious that Dave of Small Engine fame was going to be making a few bucks keeping me sharp. Still, there was no alarm because it’s good to support the local business that offers a great service. Then, I found our old F-150 had a suspension that was amuck , a cool $500 would make it whole again---but one could amortize that out through the years of use---and T & T would be happy with the income. Purchasing fuel for the saw and the gas-guzzling Ford has to make  Dave at the One Stop smile?  Another $100!

After a few hours of pushing chain saws at the pile with brother Jeff, he uttered a not so subtle comment about my ability to split the wood, that is splitting it small enough to lift it in the truck. He thought I was beyond being a splitter though it is part of the hobby I genuinely enjoy.  Ronald Reagan loved to split wood---but 5-6 cords! Jeff then affectionately described the merits of  OK Hardware’s wood splitter and how they can be rented for a modest price----$100 should cover it. He seemed to think I could sit down and just pull a lever.

My other brother, John, volunteered to help cut and split. In the discussion he thinks we need younger help, one with muscles and a willingness to actually do something---without getting hurt. He knows just the person and he will work for a very reasonable $10-15/ hr. He thinks that with, say, 8hr he can load the truck unload it, move huge bolts of 100lb. oak. $100 should cover that. Two days? I’ll have to buy an Ambrosia lunch no doubt,  $30?

In the mean time my wife, who very much enjoys wood heat, is running figures in her head, and decides the total to be around $1000, and if true to my past, there will be another hernia operation, or another joint replacement.

Even if I will be able to buy off my brothers with a purchase of Central Waters Brewery’s finest ($46) this firewood purchase is taking on a whole new meaning.

With these figures recklessly floating about, I was forced to re-evaluate the decision---not that I could change it. I do like supporting local businesses, and don’t mind giving the village a few dollars because it will be well spent.  In a moment of composure, I realized there has to be more than money in this endeavor.  That is when I turned to spirituality, and blind rationalization.

The wood does represent  a primal form of warmth, one that accompanies with it a multitude of olfactory delights and memories. It is not just stolen gas from a long distant pipe. It is an in-hand object that not only connects directly to the land I stand on, but one that has with it, the smells of life.

Cut and split, the firewood has a freshness, an odor of moisture and mold and earth all filled with mysteries. The white oaks provide the magic hint of forest flavor found in a fine dram of whiskey.

Then, there is the smell of  wood smoke that has the way of creeping into the house which, for me, is a flood of memories flowing from communal gatherings by a beach-side fire, of visions of a hidden blaze in the dead of winter on Goat Island, the lonely destination of our youthful skating adventures, and cottonwood fires on the Republican River in Colorado, the land of the Northern Cheyenne. Today, I heard again the metaphorical song by Morrissey called Birches which in its grace confronts the hot fire of the birch and the slow steady fire of the oaks--asking which do you choose.

The old stove will be hungry tonight like it has been for over 100 years and while the decision may at one moment seem misguided, the next it seems reasonable, maybe pathetically nostalgic, maybe momentarily magical, but definitely worth it. Stepping into the rainy backyard, the drifting smoke whispered across the fallen leaves and left no doubt there was no other choice.

Local Gardener Adjusts to Frost----Harvests Vegetables to Hold off Winter Death

The time arrived two days ago when the frost slapped down the last of the garden growth. I had held out picking any living plant that still was in a growth mode. This included the squash, the peppers, the sweet potatoes and all of the root crops, including but not exclusive of, parsnips. The later are all referred to as famine food around here in that rutabagas and turnips are only eaten during the most difficult of times such as the great famines of Ireland---and the one in Rosholt a few years ago.  Ann thinks I grow them in anticipation of troubles but the English will not drive me from my land. Up the Republic!

It was a good run this year and never once did the buggy vermin take umbrage with us. Other than skimpy tomatoes and the cucumber's belligerence, all went well in the patch. The sweet potatoes, a new offering this year, took advantage of the space allotted and spread out like migrants out Syria, but with less suspicion cast on them. During their robust expansion over an area of some 400 square feet, it began to concern us they were all hat and no cows, or as we might say here, "All leaf and no fruit". They were it turned out, like, partying down. It was not until today I dug them out---not realizing these things like to go down and not so much out. I had to do a major excavation, say down in the area where years ago the locals buried some of their dead. You know, Boot Hill was right here, so there was some fear. However, the land was fertile and the tubers abundant, fed by residual nutrients.

Years ago I did some volunteer work digging graves for the departed, only on one occasion to have the floor cave in as we got deeper. There was a burial under the one we were doing and thus,  I found myself unnerved digging sweet potatoes. I did discover a departed chicken I submitted to a nice Christian burial only last year.

The point is, today was the day to lay away some of the crops into cold storage, In addition to cold storage of fresh crops, the days following will be perfect for cooking vegetable/venison stew for the cold winter days. Ya, the fall is now here and the leaves are still in full color, the vegetables are fat, the wild rice partially processed, the potatoes slowly being cleaned and dumped in bags. All indications are we will make it through another winter---if I can now just get the hard cider up and working, the winters will be warm and slightly tipped over as I drive the cider to 20% by freezing off the water.

Giant Bugle-mouthed Salmon Caught

It was one of those special early autumn days when a person needs to go to water. A light breeze out of the south-west, not prohibitive to an angler, a gentle nuisance maybe, kissed across Little Green Lake. An algae bloom had taken the lake with a vengeance so the water visibility was no more than a foot, and likely not that. While the air was fresh, the algae still alive and prolific, was still enjoying its own day in the sun. The cloudiness of water kept the game fish, as near as we could tell, tucked away in the depth waiting out the  miserable .turbidity.

The fish simply could not see our lures no matter how well they were presented. Jeff thought by making a great din of surface noise, he might attract a fat bass but while his lure rocketed through the soup like a torpedo from a U Boat, not a single fish of prey took a moments notice. Dennis chucked a an array of plastics, including the always popular Wonder Worm, but in a moment of honestness admitted he only had one strike that I suspect, in my always suspicious way, was a submerged log put there to encourage naive fisherman. It was a sad day.

In an act of desperation, I decided to put on a rather large spoon, a bait that a self-proclaimed sophisticated fly-fisherman like me commonly views in disdain. It was attached to my bait caster with the 25 pound test line in an anticipation of catching the one musky in the large, but pea-soupy, but still pleasant lake. Knowing Big Green Lake has Lake Trout, I pondered with my always active imagination, wondering if just maybe there were Lakers here. I casually chucked the quarter pound glimmering chunk of metal outward in all directions but soon became distraught as Ann payed me no attention----- I was fishless and thought inept.

All that could be done was to head to the dock some half mile off, all the while trolling my flashy deep-diving spoon. I leisurely fiddle-farted around taking in the bird life and marveling at the aesthetic vistas, but also day dreaming of the glory days catching Dolly Vardens in the deep arctic.

Then it happened! A strike of unimaginable proportions, a strike not unlike a Blue Marlin, a strike that instantly placed me, the gallant fisherman, into the realm of The Old Man and the Sea.  Mostly Ann would have said, "Ya, old man for sure, but the sea?" The rod was nearly ripped from my hands as the monstrous fish ran the line almost to the point of smoking the reel. I held as Ann claimed I had just hooked one of those logs. "No, no," I screamed. "This is a fish, Look at it driving the line, It thrashing and diving. This thing is for real". "It is a Snapping turtle she said. "No, no. This thing is a fish. Has to be a Musky or a huge Northern. What else would take a big obnoxious spoon?" I was beside myself and wanted so badly to see the mighty white whale, I was searching for an appropriate metaphor, grabbing another harpoon, yelling at the crew. "Hold fast you louts!" My first mate only grabbed the camera thinking she wanted to see the log I was about to boat. Finally, n a brief moment of comprehension she too realized this was the big one. "He's running under the boat. Cast the line over. Your pole is going to break. Give him line." she barked from the fore deck.

The fight was on. I looked for sharks not wanting to suffer the fate of the Old Man in the Cuban sea. I didn't want to just be left with the bloodied head of a prize. Finally, Ann was totally convinced as a huge froth of water erupted 15 feet off. The swirl moved the water like the outlet of the Wisconsin River power plant  dam. Then the tail broke the surface, the six inch across tail, the red colored tail of a Musky. This was the real deal, the prize, a massive fish, a once-in-a-life time monster. It ran the the reel numerous times some times pulling 150 feet of line. It could almost not be stopped for the shear power of the beast. On surfacing the next time I could see the fish was foul hooked in the tail of all places. That is when it rolled over and there it was the full view, the massive full view of the single biggest fish I have ever caught. The scales where the size of a fifty cents piece and the fish was a rich golden color.

I was a giant Bugle-Mouthed Salmon the like of which I have never seen. a near record breaker. In a moment I got out the never-before-used net and as I brought the fish alone side after the 20 minute fight it was netted. It had a mouth big enough to swallow a baseball and glistened in the evening sun radiating the vicious monster it was. As the other fishermen approached in disbelief (I had told them it was a forty pound Musky) I slowly hoisted the brute aloft wanting to gloat for I knew they were indeed fishless.  Ann snapped a few shots of me all full of myself. Seeing the fish was not half eaten by sharks, would not show well mounted, and certainly from my own experience, not taste well---even if Antony Bordaine would have tried.  it was returned to the sea.

In an after thought, Ann made note of a film she had seen called the Sent of a Women, then made comment on how I was now covered with the sent of a Carp. It appeared this was not going to play well for any of my future plans for romance. Ya, did I care? 30-40 pounds of Salmon and now I was a real man.

The Pope--What do we have Here

Every now and then somebody comes along that really gets my attention, not often, but here and there. He or she doesn't have to be a politician, and usually is not a religious person of the traditional bend, but this individual is possibly going to make a difference.

He even has the politicians, and maybe even Bill OReilly, thinking twice about some of the stupid positions they are taking---probably not. Was in Santorum who told the Pope to stick to religion and let the scientist do the science stiff? Turns out the Pope has a masters in engineering or something.while Ric S has a hold of a degree in stupidity.  In any case, it is good news the Pope is setting aside the nonsense about gays, about the churches unpleasant history of pillage, and most importantly taking potshots at unfettered capitalism. He thinks the average man is IMPORTANT. Imagine that. He thinks every individual deserves a chance and that the wealthy should not control every aspect of life on earth---even if the Catholic church has an unpleasant history of doing just that.

I think he is, like, so over the above approach and has even said there are many acceptable religions, and agnostic and atheists are just alright. The environment is part of God's creation and needs to be protected from the wrath of man---cool. None of the greed is good bullshit. 

Now if we can get by this one, which will be difficult because some folks still have the 13th century attitude that some infidels still need to be killed off. Oh shit. 

However, I still have one bone to pick and that is I would like to see the following go away and the fact that this shot was taken in Manila where the Catholic church still has its greatest sway gives me pause, It may be a ways off before he begins to talk about birth control and excessive population issues. Oh well!