The days are warming. The sun rises earlier in the morning as we reach the spring equinox, and conversely the sun sets later in the evening. This normal turn of the season could bring on a deadly turn of events for the wilderness trekker. Be advised. After dawn, on crisp days in the early morning, the crust of the snow may be frozen, like heavy skim ice on a lake. This occurs from the retreat of the sun in the darkness of the night. This crust can make for deceptively easy walking early in the day. Many a unwary traveler has left their snowshoes back at camp or perhaps in their car, not thinking I suppose of the danger that may occur. Miles from their snowshoes the traveler on foot my find that the afternoon sun has warmed the snow and the crust no longer supports their weight. Thigh deep snow can be like white frozen quicksand and quickly tire the winter trekker. The mind numbing chill of hypothermia may not be far behind. Keep in mind, that death stalks the impetuous and the ill-informed alike. I can’t emphasize enough, never venture into the woods without a source of fire. Even a short hike can bring disaster if you are not prepared for the worst. If you find yourself stranded make a fire and prepare for a night in the cold. If you haven’t already read Jack London’s almost immortal tale, To Light A Fire put this short story on your must read list. Take London’s story as more than metaphor, prepare for survival in the wilderness, read, study, and think about all of those who might be left behind if you perish. And, as what might seem almost commonsensical, don’t do as Jack London’s protagonist did, make your fire underneath a conifer tree with branches loaded with snow. It goes almost without saying while still light, gather enough firewood for the long winter night. Make a snow cave or shelter of some sort and if you don’t know how get a book on winter survival, or just ask a Boy Scout. As night descends, and the temperature drops the crust may well again reform, making for an early morning safe return to camp or car. If it doesn’t stay put and keep warm by the fire. Someone will probably know you are missing and seek help. Remember snowshoes are more than just quaint wall hangers. Don’t leave camp without them. Hilton Everett Moore
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I’ll tell you right off that what this letter is not, it is not about dendrology-- the study of trees, and a subspecialty of botany. No, what this letter is about is the Ironwood tree. The Ironwood tree can be found over much of the Eastern United States and Canada. Any good book on dendrology can help you identify this tree if your woods are in the area and range described above. The tree is not a flashy ornamental tree, in fact you might call it humble, or even nondescript. You could miss it entirely on your trek in the woods if you are not specifically looking for it. This tree does not tower over others, nor does it display brilliant colored leaves in the fall like a maple or an oak. There are no brilliant yellows of the aspen when it sheds its garment in the early fall either. Sometimes it is called Hop Hornbeam, as it’s catkins resemble the hops used in beer making. By the way a hornbeam is the yoke that oxen in the Old World wore which was fashioned from this tough old tree. At other times it is simply called leverwood which is almost self explanatory. Don’t be put off by scientific hoopla and take the time to look this tree up in whatever reference source you use. It is worth a look. It is the character of the tree that I wish to examine, and its relationship to human character. I am not sure whether humans resemble trees, or vice-versa. The point I am making is that there is a relationship of living things to the human race. Character, is just that, character. All living species have it. Character is endemic in all things, animal, vegetable and maybe even mineral,--- if you look at the Zen of life. So though the Ironwood tree may be humble, it is an essential species and one that the human would be wise to emulate. Afterall, trees are not simply just trees. Till next week, Hilton It would be nice to think that perhaps winter is winding down at the camp. However , it’s too premature to think so. While the days are getting longer, and on occasional sunny days there is mild melting, winter is not releasing her iron grip on the woods around the camp. The snow lies deep and still, and the melting of the snow on the metal roof only happens on warmer days when the sun, like opaque wings of a moth lets slivers of light peak through the grey horizon.
The woodstove still needs it’s almost hourly tending. While those tasks might be seen as mundane by many, they are not meaningless. Without the constant attention, the glowing glass front of the stove, which allows me to appreciate the ambience of the fire, would be a steel ghost, ---lifeless. The stove is more than just ambience, it wards off chills and cold that would seep into the cabin within hours and envelope me in a very regrettable cocoon. Really not a pleasant thought. It is interesting that the mundane often takes on great importance in the woods. A flashlight without batteries can be dangerous when the power goes out and you are stumbling around outside in the dark. You must have a clean source of drinking water, so you either need a well, or be able to get water from a potable source. An injury requires a first aid kit which could be a real lifesaver. And, it goes almost without saying that firewood must be put up in the woodshed long before the snow comes in late fall. Cutting and stacking firewood may seem monotonous, maybe even mundane to some, but that is mostly a state of mind. The list of other mundane matters, goes on and on, a list that seems almost endless at times. Minor necessities may seem inconsequential until disasters, either small or large happen at the camp. As a closing note, don’t forget to have a bottle of brandy close by--just to ward off the chills, mind you. Letter From The Cabin 03-04-2018
Big mounds of snow surround the cabin where they were pushed by the young man that keeps my cabin plowed out. While we had some partial melting this past week, there remain large snowbanks to negotiate to get to the front door. Winter is still here and hasn’t really relaxed her grip on life at the cabin. Fortunately, I have plenty of firewood, so I can ward off the cold till spring arrives, Went to the local VFW Wednesday night for the weekly chicken wing supper. The VFW is several miles from camp. They are open to the public, and you don’t have to be a card-carrying member to eat wings and suck down cold beer there. Wednesday is the only time they serve food and many of the locals come out for the fare. I avail myself of the wings there when I am out to camp. I particularly like the Buffalo Hot Wings with blue cheese dressing. At the club, I get to hear all the local gossip and also get to rub elbows with the downstaters that have camps in the area. I guess this makes me an interloper of sorts, but what the hell, why not? All of us, wife Amy, son Seth, and Blue, the faithful English Setter and I will be going to camp next weekend. I will probably head out on Wednesday so I don’t miss Wing Night. I am finishing up work on several plays I have written and hope to have them in the can, so to speak, by the time I leave camp on Sunday. Writing a play, at least in my experience, is easier to accomplish than having it produced. There are many hungry playwrights. Please remember to go out to a live performance in your area if you get the chance. There are some amazing theatre groups in Michigan that are putting on great performances. Live theatre is a wonderful way to spend a cold winter night. See You, Hilton In the early history of the Americas, to the Chippewa Indians when the drifts of snow lay piled high and temperatures plummeted it was the month of the dreaded Hunger Moon. Scarce food drove men, women and children to harsh extremes. One source relates that among the Cree and Ojibwa cannibalism sometimes manifested itself to the degree that a “wiitiko monster” bewitched hungry men to eat human flesh. Early history has an ugly side.
But enough of that for now. It is the present and hunger of that sort has been largely eradicated in the United States, at least for humans. Deer though are another subject. In the Upper Peninsula deer often starve late in winter, especially in harsh winters like we had in 2013-2014. A walk through a deer yard often brings you to an emaciated carcass. Ravens hang in nearby trees and swoop down on the dead, and sometimes on the dying. Deer yards are common among thick conifer stands and white cedar swamps are that often the only refuge for miles. It is not unusual for a deer to migrate ten to fifty miles to these winter stands. Although deer need winter browse, many of the former yards, that in the past held salvation for deer, have been cut. In the woods now second and third growth deciduous trees now take their place. A sad testament to poor logging practices of our forebears. Though logging has it’s up side for deer too, as the wastage of limbs and tops make for excellent browse and sustain many deer through the long days and nights of the Hungry Moon. Regards, Hilton One Christmas, perhaps in the year 1960 or 1961, I was around the age of eight or nine, I was gifted a Red Ryder BB gun. The gun, technically a BB rifle, was, I considered, a gift from God to me. To a youngster brought up with the likes of The Lone Ranger and Roy Rogers as cowboy's hero's this rifle equipped me to vanquish imaginary outlaws and right the world's ills or-- to bring back wild meat for the table.
Behind the rural Methodist parsonage in Northern Michigan where my family lived was a mixed forest of deciduous and conifer trees. The forest was replete with wildlife of all types and to a child's imagination was a veritable wilderness. Shortly after Christmas, it was a cold and blustery day, with snow piled high in January drifts. I slugged through the snow powder with my BB gun slung over my shoulder seeking game of any sort. Gregarious chickadees floated among the low lying shrubs and bushes, with a general friendliness uncommon to most species of birds. They floated around me like errant clouds, chirping with their characteristic chick-a-dee song and chattering. One singular bird alighted close to me. Not thinking I took aim and shot it without mercy. It tumbled out of the bush dead at my feet. I was stunned that I could kill so easily without compunction. I can still remember the shivering notion that occurred to me that life and death were just flipped sides of the same coin and that a single flip could render in the blink of an eye either life or the end of existence. It would make a good end of this tale to tell all of you that this was a life-altering epiphany and that I never wantonly took the life of a living thing again. It didn't work out that way. I still hunt for game birds. My dog Blue, an English Setter and I ply the woods for hours at a time, seeking upland grouse or fleeting woodcock, but I readily admit that often this is just an exercise for doing nothing at all besides watching Blue do what he was bred for. I rarely shoot the old shotgun that I own and I still think often of that chickadee. These days the chickadees land tenuously on my camp porch railing and are a welcome sight for an old man. I suppose it took the life of a chickadee to awaken a sense of conscience in a small lad. I don't really know if it takes the death of an innocent to awaken compassion but sadly, I suspect it does. Hilton It was bitter cold this past week and Saturday morning the power at camp went out. I have a freeze alarm on the water pipes that went off causing me to worry about the plumbing freezing up. Fortunately the power came back on shortly afterward. I could have fired up the trusty wood stove which I normally have cranking away both day and night but because I had to shut it down to clean out the ashes the stove was temporarily out of order. In the end it worked out fine and all is well at camp.
I walk the trails at home with Blue , my trusty English Setter, most days. It is about a three and a half mile jaunt. We have been walking every day despite the frigid temperatures. The woods seem quite still in winter but that is just the fault of unconscious hearing. On my daily walk I hear chickadees chirping, iridescent black crows cawing in the early morning light, and the hollow tapping of the downy woodpeckers looking for bugs in well chiseled dead trees. My footsteps on the winter path make a loud scrunching on the frozen trail. By the way for you English Major types, the word scrunching is what is normally referred to as an onomatopoeia; which in layman's terms is a word that sounds much like the word it is associated with. Several examples are: crack; sizzle and cuckoo. I will be away from camp most of this next week as we are going on a mini-vacation but I will post again on Sunday or Monday. I look forward to writing these letters and hope you enjoy reading them as well. Till next time, Hilton Everett Moore Bob B. came for a visit this past week. It was cold and blowing snow much of the week. Bob is editing my recent novel Wilderness of the Beast, which is now finished and ready for a publisher to snap up. Came out well if I say so myself. My gratitude to him is immense as he guides my work and polishes my sentences like they are diamonds in the rough.
We went snowshoeing a couple of times this past week on an adjoining neighbors property and then ended down on the frozen lake as we walked essentially in a large circle. It was bitter cold but we were bundled up and with the hearty exercise it warmed the “innards”, as is commonly said in southern states vernacular. On an earlier walk in the week we spooked up a grouse that my dog Blue had sniffed out. It exploded into flight, bursting out of the snow where it had laid hidden. I don’t know who was more excited, the grouse or Blue. Due to the very cold days the woodstove gobbled up firewood like Blue gulps down his dog food but we stayed warm and protected from the bitter cold in the well-built camp. It was a pleasure having Bob come to visit and I only hope that he will make the long trip from Lower Michigan soon. Signing Off, HIlton Everett Moore |
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