I’m firing on all cylinders this morning and it’s nice to hear the studio humming.
October 31, 2016 by
October 27, 2016 by
I’m creatively unexercised. It makes me neurotic. When was I in the studio last? I feel cheated on time lately, though I know that we all are given the same number of hours, minutes and seconds every single day. Time is fair.
I check back through my day planner to see if I’m guilty of squandering my days. I don’t think I am. I’m working as hard as I can. I see the lists I’ve been making, every single day, for weeks and months — the way nothing seems to get crossed off, the way I transfer lists over into the days that follow and the pile of things to do just grows and grows. I felt hopeless today. I cried a little. I had a miniature existential crisis. I questioned my faith, my lifestyle, my food, my desire to hunt, our farm, whether or not I should blog anymore, if I’m going to lay down on my deathbed some day and regret having an Instagram account…I wondered what the heck I’m working so hard for. I wondered why I can’t just find the sweet spot with small business, the sweet spot when it comes to balancing photography, writing and metalsmithing…cease the need to constantly evolve.
I picked up my camera and it made me feel tired. I turned the studio on and just looking at my tools made me feel tired. I went outside to deal with the last of the garden. I picked the beets and carrots. I made soup. I answered emails. I fiddled the day away. This evening, I went down to water to find a little quiet and be in the wind and spitting rain. It didn’t solve any of my problems, getting all tangled up in the breeze, but I had a sense of space as I watched the rapids froth and roll and I knew everything would be ok.
Summer is over. My life is so hectic in the hot months. It takes a long time for me to settle in to the winter months, figure out how to live with Robert again and share space, slow down, sleep deeply at night and readjust to having a helper in life. I want to fast forward to the good stuff in life this winter but I know I have to patiently and calmly fight for it. So I will. So I am.
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I feel completely sick about this US election — I’m not talking about the candidates (I don’t want to open that can of worms in this space — besides, I identify as a libertarian and I really have no dog in this fight), I’m talking about the way people talk to each other and treat each other and squash each others opinions and spit in each others eyes. Alienation and public shaming is the new pink. It exhausts me. When is the last time you sat down with a total stranger, asked them their opinion on this election and simply listened to what they have to say with an open mind and an open heart — connecting as humans, not clashing as enemies? I have been asking everyone I meet who they plan to vote for and everyone seems terrified by my question, at first, until they realize I’m not going to jump down their throats and make them feel like trash. I just want to know. It’s my way of understanding the people around me.
We learn by listening to each other. By hearing opinions. By being courageous and open to the idea of having our own notions changed. Are you afraid to learn and grow? Are you afraid of changing your mind? See each other. Hear each other. Listen to each other. Even if you don’t agree, be kind to each other. It’s just politics. And I think, above all, politics requires diversity. Absolute power corrupts. We need a mixed bag of kittens in Washington DC because this nation is split right down the middle and both sides of the matter deserve and require representation.
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Rob just arrived home from elk hunting. Thank God. I’m going to whip us up a nice dinner. I hope you are all snug in your homes tonight. I’m so glad you are in my world.
XX
The Lonesomest River
October 26, 2016 by
I reckon curiosity is the driving force behind exploration. No places lead the heart and mind forward like the wild country of the interior West. When I found out I was scheduled to float the Owyhee River last spring, an area that has always tugged at my sense of curiosity, I was elated. This region looks like an unmade bed from the sky, draped in a frenzy of undulating hills, rumpled and deeply eroded canyons and plateaus, etched and carved out by spring run-off and the Owyhee River itself — it is, in fact, the second largest, intact, unprotected swath of land in the West. My kind of country, to be exact.
Owyhee is not an Indian word. To make a long story short, the Owyhee was named after three Hawaiian trappers who disappeared in these canyons while on an exploration for a Canadian fur trading company — they probably died of bad luck or at the hands of resident tribes — or perhaps, part way through their expedition they said, “Screw it. This country is too wild, too impossible.” And they threw their guns to the ground and stormed off to retire in supreme comfort on the Oregon coast. Either way, they were never heard from or seen again. At the time, the spelling of Hawaii was Owyhee and trappers began to refer to the region as such, in memory of those three men who rode out and never returned.
The Owyhee River is considered a wild river (as in Wild and Scenic) and not in the social-networking definition of the word — you can’t pull off the highway at an overlook and take a photo of this piece of water while the wind tugs at the brim of your wool fedora and your lavender ombré hair billows in the breeze. The Owyhee winds through a desolate area that is approachable by a few unmaintained two-track roads or by foot. There is a put-in and a take-out (which is remote) on this river and nothing to speak of in between. Sixty-seven miles of this river are free flowing, subject to water level changes throughout the year, even day to day. The Owyhee can be floated in mid-spring when water levels are optimum and those water levels depend entirely on snowpack. Some years the Owyhee is floatable, this spring was one such year, and I was thrilled to find myself on that fast, murky water looking up at the thousand foot ramparts, green with springtime fuzz, streaked with volcanic tuff.
The float itself was exquisite. Rhyolite Canyon and Chalk Basin are the highlights of this trip from a boating perspective but what I cherished most about this journey was my ability to explore on shore. I took every chance I could to walk out into the hoodoos in the evening light and scamper to the top of crumbling domes and ghoulish rock formations. The landscape above the river is wind bitten, water washed, unstable; the hoodoos resemble an ancient gathering of striated, neapolitan-hued gargoyles, eyes tightly shut against the brilliance of daylight and the sting of the breeze. It’s otherworldly. At night, I thought I saw monsters dancing in the light of the moon.
My curiosity dragged me up slot canyons, to cliff edges, over cactus patches, through glades of Indian paintbrush and I photographed the details I found lovely and astounding. I explored as much as I could and found myself wishing I had more time to wander, to find all the answers for all my questions, to dig deeper into the landscape and have a greater sense of home there.
The last morning on the river made me downright wistful. I packed my tent. I sipped my coffee as slowly as I could. I eventually sat down in a boat. I felt the current take us in its hands and draw us out. I watched the sun rise up over the canyon wall numerous times as we drifted around bends and shifted our perspectives. I remember feeling the bright power of day as it struck me suddenly, new with every turn in the river, and I was charged by the energy of that repeated moment, by the day punching through vertical rock formations, the flint and spark of sun on stone. Joy Harjo wrote,“…Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time…” And despite a full, strong heart, despite excellent company, despite the power of that last morning on the water, I found I felt lonesome before I even left the canyon for the lonesomest river in the West: The Wild Owyhee.
Depending on the snowpack this winter, you should run this river if you can. And if you’re one of those unfortunate souls who lives a life without boats, here’s a way for you to take this trip.
October 18, 2016 by
I’m planning on doing a scheduled shop update in early(ish) November. The date and time are yet to be announced. It might be big or it might be small, it depends on what I can make between now and then. What I have will be what I have. I did get a few emails over the summer from folks who prefer official, heavily previewed and scheduled shop updates so I’m trying to give lots of advance notice before everything goes live. However, I will continue to stock the shop at random times, too. Because I like it when you are able to peruse my Etsy shop calmly, and I like it when you write me notes about how serendipitous a purchase was for you. I like that, also.
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I’ve been slowly closing down my gardens at the strawbale house. It’s amazing that another growing season has passed. Sometimes I ponder on how many different ways there are to measure time — sunsets and sunrises, the coming and going of the growing season, full moons, clocks, bug hatches on the river…
Food I put up this fall:
-cardamom plum jam which is HEAVENLY — the farm has three types of plum trees and since this has been my favorite jam since I first made it at the Pocatello house years ago — REMEMBER THE GOLDEN TICKET GIVEAWAY???!!! — I can delight in the fact that my pantry will never be without this culinary miracle
-regular plum jam
-zucchini pickles
-cucumber pickles
-beet pickles
-cilantro pesto
-basil pesto
-and in the freezer I have an infinite amount of frozen chopped tomatoes which I will turn into fresh marinara sauces and restaurant salsas this winter, I used to can this stuff but simply freezing the fresh, vine ripened produce seems like such a better use of time these days
-also in the freezer I have stocked grated zucchini which is super to add to anything
I put up a fair amount of elderberry syrup this fall and it’s not too late for you to make this glorious stuff if you have access to fresh berries where you live. That said, I have heard of people making this syrup with store-bought, dried elderberries so if you can’t pick them yourself, you can always glean some from the interwebulars. This syrup is delicious on french toast or pancakes and I like to take a TBSP of it daily as a tonic for a delicious immune system boost. I have read it’s a great alternative to cough syrup/cold medicine for kiddos, too. It’s the easiest thing in the world to make. Here’s the recipe I roughly used.
NOTE: I used fresh berries instead of dried berries that I picked myself along the Salmon River and Payette River (berry to water ratio is more like 1:2 if you go with freshies). I used cinnamon sticks instead of powdered cinnamon. Thumbs up to fresh ginger.
Now that you’ve read about my domestic conquests this fall, let me tell you about a major flop. I brew my own kombucha because it’s delicious but also because it’s fun to have a quasi-revolting science project on the kitchen counter at all times. I sprout for the same reason (except sprouting isn’t gross, it’s beautiful and simple). Rob gave me a kombucha brewing kit for Christmas and I managed to keep it alive and well until the end of September which is when disaster struck. I came home from a trip and somehow, a fly or two had crawled past the clothed and banded cover into the brewing jar. Well. This led to that and my poor kombucha mother was literally crawling and wriggling with maggots. It was awful. It was a scene from a horror movie. I had to toss the whole thing and begin again.
Take note, young domestic goddesses: When brewing kombucha, ensure your muslin cloth is firmly secured to your brewing jar during the warm months or trauma will run rampant.
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I’m just finishing up what has been a wonderful book about the rise and fall of the Comanche Nation. I highly recommend Empire of the Summer Moon.
In the evenings we’ve been watching snippets of Anne of Green Gables because we always watch it once the weather is turning cool and Robert thinks Anne is hilarious and spends most of his time comparing me to Anne and then I agree with his comparisons and I laugh too. It’s good to have an outside perspective when it comes to your personality and to be able to laugh at your quirks, shortcomings and idiosyncrasies. If you can’t laugh at yourself, from time to time, all is (maybe) lost.
A friend introduced me to Angel Olson this summer and Burn your Fire for no Witness quickly became one of my favorite albums of all time. I own it on vinyl now and take it for an afternoon spin most days. Hear and love it, as I love it.
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The rains have come and I wish I could write down how the sagebrush, rabbitbrush, bitterroot and thirsty earth smell. The scent of the autumn world overwhelms me. As I run in the evenings, I can’t help but smile at the sound of our massive quail coveys on the wing and their distress calls as they try to regroup in the brambles. The aspens on the other side of the river are 14 karat. The rapids are as constant as ever, booming in the night, folding over themselves and then running free. The coyotes have been mingling with the stars in the witching hours. There’s the spur rattling gallop of the pheasant roosters as they flame brightly in the Russian olives. And how could I forget Tater Tot’s eyes when he locks up on a point…
It’s the best time of year.
Farmy
October 12, 2016 by
1. That’s our new mouser, Sugar Baby. I originally named her Bronte because she came to me from the moors, cold and alone. But since then, her name has transmogrified into something else and it suits her. She’s a handful.
2. We moved the Airstream home from McCall yesterday which means we are now living in two places at once instead of three! We’re slowly simplifying our lives here (in some ways) but for now, it just feels really nice to have made it through another fire season, safe and sound.
3. We still have not moved into the farm. Robert will begin a kitchen demolition tomorrow and since we have some travels planned, we’ll be scurrying here and there and everywhere until December which is when we hope to finally move into our new place. I’m homesick for our new house. I’m homesick for my studio.
4. We picked almonds today which involves climbing a ladder and shaking the branches until they let go of the fruit. Almonds are beautiful. So many folks don’t know what an almond looks like before it winds up in a trail mix with cranberries and peanuts. Well, they come dressed up in a thick skin of chartreuse velvet. I kid you not. They’re exquisite. We have a whole orchard of the darn things. A fresh almond tastes like a squeeze of fresh marzipan. The flavor is off the charts and the nut meat moist and lovely.
5. That’s our weeping willow. That’s our trout pond. That’s our irrigation working hard. That’s our hay field. That’s our reaped hay cut and drying in a lovely swath. That’s me, making a hay angel, because how could I resist?
