skybearchalets

bohemian waxwing rhapsody

2011-01-29T09:55:00.000-08:00

irruptive unpredictable
confiding & gregarious
the wandering bohemian waxwing

words of ornithology
only begin to describe
the illusive bomycilla garrulus

yesterday
75 or perhaps a hundred or more
among the persistent tiny crab apples
along a winter street in the Soo

nomadic & unconventional
they speak and move as one
and as many

their voices and wings
weave
a rhapsody--
enthusiastic improvisational
uninterrupted & ecstatic

what makes the world turn ?

2011-01-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

what is not expected...

yesterday at Searchmont Resort
'Permafrost Revival'
still chillin after 25 yrs.
old timey greets post moderne
live music gets goin'
banjo & mando
g'tars & voice

behind the stage
outside & on the other side of the glass
two boarders jam with harp & slaps
rick & britta turn to include...
the earth itself
gets to spin
a tune or two

Two oh 11 in its prime

2011-01-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

its true, 2011 is a prime number
the only year between 2003 & 2017
divisible naturally only by itself & one.

that's the rub
it stands alone--
making our resolve
more solitary
& natural
among a divisive past
or future

'eleven' harkens back to a levity
among elves
their elasticity
elated & elliptical--
venturing elevenfold &
at the eleventh hour
towards an elegy,
elevated & evanescent
demanding the
undivided attention
of our primal nature

totality in solstice

2010-12-23T16:22:00.000-08:00

even if you couldn't see it--
consider the drama...
on the longest darkest night
the moon is full
then its light too gives out
creating a dull red opaque face
looking back at you and all the ancestors
since this last happened in 1638

imagine Jan Ver Meer, age seven, in Delft.
painting his first picture.
eye on the detail,
pupil in the moon
camera obscura in the sky

those who came before
were not so much frightened
of the spectacle
as they were respectful--
that is what we've lost
in how far we've gone

ridin' the rails

2010-12-16T16:46:00.000-08:00

so i asked forrest
what was the best part about taking
the Via rail from Sudbury to the Cdn. Rockies?
he sd.--the jam session in the dome car!--
with brushes on a tissue box, harps & guitars.
syncopated with the rhythm
& the engineer's whistle wailing in F

there is hope for Canada, for youth & the rest
it didn't end with the festival express
music still happens on a train goin' west.

blogging the bog cranberries

2010-11-09T15:15:00.000-08:00

harvesting the wild today
as november 9th weather co-operates,
two stones throw from lake superior.

red berries in standing water,
probably enough vitamin C in this bog
to nourish the entire hemisphere

grey jay by any other name

2010-11-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

Grey colour predominates
as tamarack needles
paint the earth gold and fade.
November turns the sun away from this hemisphere.
The further north, the greater that denial is.

If I ever entertain doubts about having relocated
to the north country, thoughts vanish with the return of
Wisakedejak, the whisky jack
Canada Jay, the camp robber,
Perisoreus canadensis, the grey jay

As the sun dips, jays leave their green forest boreal home.
Wisakedejak and her lifelong mate cache food each day
in the clips of spruce bark. Skillful and smart, ghostly and gifted,
they sweep out from the treetops,
to engage humans like no other species.

Landing on your hand,
taking the bread from a hatbrim,
or pausing to look you deep in the eye,
there can be little doubt of why you chose this place,
or why it chooses you.

jeffrey riordan hinich, copyright 2010

Agawa Falls

2010-09-22T17:35:00.000-07:00

or as it was called in 1903 by Stewart Edward White, “Big Falls”.
I could borrow his para-phrasing when he wrote, 'I'm not going to tell you how far...or exactly where it is'. Suffice to say that the round trip hike exceeds five hours with only a quarter-hour allowed in full view of the mighty eighty-five foot drop. Still, no words can fully scribe it, no film will show its deep mystery. Only an artist's sketch and a reel or two might reveal what lies beneath the veil.
In SEW's “The Forest”, speculation centred on what lay above the cataract, whether the pools were placid, or the trout prodigious. Nearly in sight of the falls, White and Towab's fishing party of a hundred plus years ago veered off towards Howling Wolf & Black Beaver Lakes. Breaching the upper canyon, they descended to “Big Falls” from its northern reaches, thus completing a great ellipse of the territory.
Today, I solo into that steep valley after a night of intense rain. The Towab trail is soaked through, each rock and root has the capacity to hurl the hiker. On one occasion, it did just that as I crossed above a smaller falls, recovering after a few lost steps. If I can't find my way, it will be days before I'm discovered. Perish the thought. The thunder blood pounds before the view as I clamber from the Towab, out onto a precipice where doubtless others have stood before.
The lore of the Agawa says that in 1916 members of the Prairie Club made this trek all the way from the mouth of the river. I see the ladies in their parasols and long dresses, the men with bowlers and their smokes.
Today's result is the same.
Upon arrival it takes your breath away,
then doubles back,
flooding in with emotional drama.
Spray lifts up in chorus.
Healing ions permeate.
There is this now only...
and Agawa spills away~
Jeffrey Riordan Hinich
copyright 2010

Portage to Twab Lake

2010-09-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

Summer, 2010
The portage trail between Wolfe and Twab Lakes has been used continuously for
dozens of generations. Today, Rick and I grapple with the canoe, while we are ever vigilant for any sign or sensation that may point us towards the great man himself, John Tawab, the spirit keeper of a speckled trout lake that today bears his name.
We have both made the effort on this beautiful day, sharing an abiding connection with Tawabinisay, the Man-Who-Walks-By-Moonlight. Celebrated in the books of Stewart Edward White and Charles B. Reed and in the lore of a hundred previous years, Tawab's legend has always been here, linked to the waters near Lake Superior and to his people. Rick has also written and recorded a song that reminds us that Tawab “gave thanks to his Manitou”. We do the same at the foot of this historic portage.
This is my third attempt to reach the lake this spring, having fallen short on
previous tries from the eastern approach. Today, we follow a road in from the Lake Superior side, before launching our canoe on a sandy reach of Wolfe Lake. This large water body is blessed with islands of all sizes and descriptions. Short see-through passages nearly touch Twab and Hawk Lake on its northern flanks.
In 1978, my friend Joe and I portaged and paddled from Achigan Lake through the Mantyla trails to sleep out among the stars on one of Wolfe's many islands. En route we passed August's tilt, his dove-tail trapper's cabin built around 1930, covered in mossy cedar shakes . We never reached Twab on that trip, resolving to soon return. Some thirty years later that promise is finally kept.
In the intervening time, I've learned that the cultural history of this land
is inextricably linked with this elder and spirit guide who continues to shape my life.
Born around 1865, Tawbinisay was a member of the Agawa band living near the mouth of the river. A famine swept the village in 1879. As it was recorded at the Hudson's Bay Post, “the grave site increased in size that winter”. Tawab witnessed that tragedy as a young man, perhaps resolving to place his faith in the land and waters that sustained him rather that in the supplies that might or might not reach the post.
He does not seem to have become embittered by the cross-cultural impacts of that period. In Stewart White's 1903 book The Forest, he writes, “Tawabinisay has a delightful grin...he tries to teach you, to show you things, but he never offers to do any part of your work” Later, White pays him the highest compliment, saying “he is the most gloriously natural man I have ever met”.
I have taken to the trail in earnest these past years, to Burnt Rock Pool, to his namesake lakes and portages, to visit the band elders, and to the sweat lodge itself in an effort to connect, learn and give thanks. Today, Rick and I watch for the blazes on the old cedars and the yellow birch. I touch the flecks of wood revealed by the axe so many years before. Launching the canoe on Twab Lake, the offshore wind soon blows us along the western shore. The lake is dark, running deep under our canoe, spooling from its spring fed source. Rick takes a few casts, while I scan the shore for white birch or anything that might signal the site of Tawab's camp, if indeed he really lived here.
In 1900, Tawab's traditional grounds were on the Agawa, where he led early explorers and fishermen to Black Beaver and Kawagama Lakes in search of prodigious speckled trout. In later years, he settled near Batchewana Bay. The lake we paddle today is a mere ten miles inland from Superior. According to the elders I have spoken with, such a distance would present no obstacle to the Ojibwa travelers of that time. At a cabin on Achigan Lake, another ten miles to the east of Twab, I have seen his picture, taken with moose hunters in 1930. Perhaps he even shared his knowledge of the trails and cedar boat building skills with August, whose Hawk Lake site is only a few shouts away. The generations between us have faded, but the path remains certain, though you may have to crawl on the earth to read it.

31 degrees Fahrenheit

2010-06-07T18:06:00.000-07:00

frost warnings go out tonight
across the north country--

dark of the moon
covers new potatoes
with ice shadows

sky clear
with distant stars
from a planetarium of light--

not much heat gets here
lost in transition

wind in our sails

2010-05-31T18:02:00.000-07:00

May 29, 2010

one hand on the tiller
another on the deck
we catch wind
winding us through the north channel
blue waters among green islands
tacking back and forth
new stories scatter in the breeze

later on at the song circle
guitar & drum
banjo & voice
lift up to a rising moon
tribal medicinal songs

2010-03-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

maple syrup 2010
each tree presents it's own character
sun to your back as you gather the sap
don't let the work smother the fun
neighbors gather around the evaporator
wood spirits/springs gone by
springs yet to come

maple syrup time!

2009-03-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

there's a magic in the sap that's all
a syncopated mystery
boil the night and water away
maple syrup it has to be
3 score trees
and then another ten
facing south
and slightly western

its just a tap in the bucket
and then another stop
40 more times makes
a single syrup drop
the thought itself is distilled by 400
but what we're left with is more
than the steam of atmosphere
or maple streams to the reservoir

sleighs bring down the mountain
precious sugar to the shack
the patterns lay in crusted snow
lead you forth and back
the table is set
the pancakes are thin
the syrup is amber
let the pouring begin

In Memoriam Alex Olar (Mar. 17, 1924-Mar. 1, 2009)

2009-03-09T13:16:00.000-07:00

I can't pick up a squared timber, or a foundation jack, or a level, without thinking of Alex Olar.

When we bought our first homestead in the Wabos Valley back in 1983, there were several buildings that needed leveling or moving. “Go see Alec Olar” I was told. “He does that better than anyone else”. I soon became his apprentice on site, as we worked with small pieces of wood and steel, slowly coaxing buildings back onto their foundations. I was new to this and Alex was patient but persistent, reminding me of the details that could assure success or guarantee failure. He also went to great lengths to steer us away from folly, those building ideas that only looked good on paper. His methods were tried and true: keep it on the square and level from the footings to the rafters. Without the support and friendship of Alex and his wife Dorothy, Britta and I probably would not have survived here.

When it came time to construct a barn, we again listened to Alex. He brought us three straight 28 foot long black spruce from the swamp, “gun barrels”, he called them. These supported the gambrel roof of the second floor. The economic eight foot components of the roof allowed for easy lifting. When it came time to build a second barn, we followed the same techniques, although Alex was then retired from that type of work.

There was however, one last effort Alex helped us with when we bought this 80 acres back in 1999. Only one of the turn of the century buildings from Henri Salmi's homestead remained standing. The log design was typical of the early Finnish settlers; compound dove-tails, hand-hewn cedar logs and a cove and bead stacking system. It was well worthy of restoration, though it was mired in the soil, the lower logs rotted. We asked Alex if he could perform one more miracle. Fortunately for us, the word “impossible'” was not in his vocabulary.
The next three days were spent in preparation; lifting the building, removing suspect logs, laying track and steel pipe rollers towards the new foundation. The twenty foot transport was accomplished in an hour with Alex directing and coaxing. Together, we toasted the incredible success.

There was one bright May day some years back when I caught up with him in Searchmont. He reminded me that these days are best for “guys like us”. First of all, I was glad to be included in that category, but I knew what he meant: There's lots to do in those bright long sunny spring days with no black flies, yet!
My hat's off to you Alex, and I'll remember to take full advantage of those days as they come around each spring.

strange yet true continues

2009-03-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

It's not so far fetching as it might seem, big blue baleen and the mighty pine.
One spouting in the brine, the other sprouting towards the sun.
Divergent species sharing a similar fate.

Leviathan. The very name itself rises from the depth of our shared language, to sample the vapors. Blue whales, the unknown “sulfur bottoms”of Melville's book, are perhaps the largest living creatures ever to travel this earth. Diving for hours, living for a century, and reaching a length improbable, a width gargantuan. From the crow's nest, Ishmael cries out “there she blows!”, betraying an awe that transcends his time and circumstance.

Strobus. A name first given to describe the unlikely bundle of five soft needles. White pine, by far the thickest and tallest vegetable in eastern North America, questing for the light. An super canopy platform, living four hundred years, gathering a height of 150 feet and a circumference of twelve. Pine captures our attention, as we look 3 times to see the top and then to a point beyond our perception. We tromp the woods on the lookout for a stick nest. “Timber!”, perfect for eagle or osprey, raven or broad wing.

The fibre and blubber was easy plucking for the plunder. It was a massacre unexamined, a genetic and geographic separation, inevitable. Masts of pine were required for the sailing ships, lights of oil for the towns. And so the shouts went out: “Lower the boats/repair the sleighs/sharpen the harpoon and the crosscut/haul on the bowline/there's daylight in the swamp”. And no one paused, or it was not recorded amidst the pining and the wailing.

Hiking among the last remaining old growth we hug and release the giant stems. We bury the treasure in our arms.
Tacking among the whales, the tourist boats tilt, our penchant for the photo trophy remains.
We need some reassurance that the ocean itself has not drowned.

Oil and greed. Stupidity and the saw. The targets shift, old attitudes remain.
Now whole systems crash.

the strange but true tale of the white pine and the blue whale

2009-02-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

Snowshoeing again, this time into the Wabos North Wilderness area with Seamus, Ted, Josh and Jeramiah. I should the say the ages of J & J add up to about 17, whereas Ted, Seamus and I together are a hundred and something. But we are all but mere infants compared to a particular white pine we are seeking. Its rings tally over two hundred and fifty years. We are therefore searching for the shade of an elder, one whose life began long before there was a political entity known as Canada.

Alongside Station Road, we strap on the snowshoes for the steady climb to the north. Just as we begin, a lone coyote crosses our path. Everyone catches sight of it, then coyote suddenly stops to look back at us. There is a mutual recognition and it's gone. It is a reoccurring theme. A lynx or a wolf or a moose will cross your path quickly, then pause at the edge of sight for a brief moment. It may be a curiosity between species or an imperative of cross purposes. Either way, we are enriched by the encounter, as we climb to the highest lookout afforded us.

To the south, we can see the downhill runs of Searchmont where we all were yesterday. Because of this shared February holiday, the mountain is fully occupied today. Seamus' binoculars betray that the dozens of dots we see are really snowboarders and skiers, shredding the gnar.
Below us and to the east are the Sky Bear Chalets and the backdrop of Wolf Mountain. I can barely discern the snowy roadway that connects the two. I adjust my sunglasses to take in the nearby rainbow sparkles at my feet. Snow crystals dazzle the eyes in the bright sunlight.
Together, we turn away from this view to drop into a pocket paradise to our north. Seamus and I have taken to calling this place, the oasis. As the glaciers retreated, a shard of ice remained, carving out a cold acidic bog. Slowly, at glacial speed, it has filled in, first with sphagnum, followed by black spruce and now cedar. Among the cedar, there is one very tall white pine.

When I think about the plunder of the many white pine that populated the Great Lake regions a hundred or so years ago I can't help but consider the leviathan and their similar fate. Great blue and sperm whales, and the great white and red pines were each magnificent and widespread in their own realms. A 19th century way of thinking soon reduced both populations to a scattered few left to tell the tale. Call me Ishmael or call me Aldo Leopold but I cling to a scattering of what remains as the ecological ship founders. The genetic pool has been drained and the friendly giants have run aground, separated from their nearest mates by a cruel division of time and attitude.

Five pairs of snowshoes drop down into the boggy oasis of Wabos North to seek the sage advice of Pinus Strobus. A stunning greenery awaits us among the dormant hardwoods counterpointing the predominant colour of winter. Cedars of all diameters tilt and weave in the spongy moss. One cedar in particular has a daunting task, as it lends supports to the sole surviving pine. Without this extra effort, the curving lean of this sun loving giant might have long ago been its downfall. The two species are anchored here together in a curious coupling. In cameo at least, cooperation has trumped competition.

While the two boys eat their lunch, we three take turns interviewing each other in front of the pine-cedar juxtaposition. It is a tradition Seamus and I began here at this site some years ago, providing dramatic perspective for our projects, http://www.lowcarbonhomes.info/ and http://www.skybearchalets.com/ We bask in the power of this place, and let the words channel out.
Ted speaks about his love of the ancient bur oaks of Illinois and Wisconsin. The openings of these prairie breakers resisted fire in much in the same way as this old pine has done. Ted puts his hands on the thick folds of bark that has ensured the tree's health and longevity.
Seamus refers to the dominance of nature in our lives. Here, that unwavering truth is self evident, but the same is true in other less obvious settings. In his words, “You don't have to look any further than your own back yard or to a single tree surrounded by concrete to see the same compelling principles demonstrated”.
It has been often repeated, although without a clear understanding, that we can't see the forest because of the trees. Perhaps we should look more closely at the spaces in between the trees, because therein stirs the magic. If we leave our preconceptions behind, we may notice a connectivity unimagined before. This unlikely oasis is linked to all other refugeum across this blue and green planet. Lands and oceans. Trees and whales.

As the shadows lengthened, we retraced our steps back down the mountain. The coyote has moved on, but the tracks remain, as do ours. When the snows return tomorrow, the mountain map will be redrawn.

February 11, 2009

2009-02-12T18:25:00.000-08:00

Connecting the Dots
Liz and her friends from Sudbury snowshoed the Sky Bear trail loop this past weekend.They reported that the snow now has taken on some structure after the recent thawing and refreezing. Powder is still part of that mix, but snowshoes don't sink quite so deep anymore.

As you complete the trail on this side of Wolf Mountain, several vistas open up to the west. Directly across sits the saddle, located near the centre of the Wabos North Wilderness Area. These 500 hcts. were set aside by the Crown back in 1999 and we enjoy snowshoeing there as well. From that vantage we can look back east upon Wolf Mountain. Between these pre-Cambrian bookends, we read the terrain of the Wabos Valley with its idyllic homesteads, some of which reach back to the turn of the previous century. At that time, Finnish settlers cleared much of this rare level and fertile oasis . Today as the forest has returned, one must strain to see where the hand of man had intervened. Somewhere, out there, a railway, a roadway or a waterway still connect the occasional dots of human activity.
A hiker to these high places is left with the impression that here, in this landscape, the laws of nature still predominate. The multi-billion year old granitic rock is covered with a multi-hundred year old wardrobe of tolerant hardwoods sprinkled with cedar, spruce and pine. A pattern of tracks in the snow, reminds us that we share this piece of ground with others, numerous and varied. The surprises of wind, sun and snow reign supreme. The sudden snap of a twig or a returning silence captures our attention.
We turn up collars or step back and listen. We are a part of the mix, not apart, after all.

Feb 8th 2009

2009-02-12T18:22:00.001-08:00

Standing on the roadside by the Sky Bear sign waiting for our guests, Paula and Scott to arrive, peripherally i became aware of some activity in a little grove of red spruce nearby. A pair of pine siskens were flitting about, slowly capturing my attention.This spruce, Picea rubens, is just outside its range here, the seedlings having been given to us by a neighbor some years ago. The Native Trees of Canada book tells me that the cones of the red spruce are persistent, hanging on throughout the winter. That was indeed the attraction, this dayThe siskens, that we rarely if ever see at the feeders, were working the branches. They would detach a single cone and place it neatly in their tiny feet. Then while perching, they would quickly remove the scales with their beaks to reveal the seeds, their sustenance.I've returned over the past several days, at the same and different times, and have never observed this again. The interface between the rare trees and the seldom seen birds has not been repeated, though many cones remain.What else is going on out there, just out of our view or time frame? Coincidence, design and happenstance underlie some of what we can't explain or choose not to.

December 27-January 1

2008-12-27T14:52:00.000-08:00