the latest from Roundrock

I managed to get myself (and my dog) down to Roundrock between violent storms last weekend. I’d actually skipped out of work early on Friday, spent a little time packing Prolechariot (my truck) and then trying to sneak off without Flike (my dog) knowing. But somehow he discovered what I was doing and whined to his mother, and soon he was in the truck with me, burning up the highway betwixt here and there.

If I think I’m going to be visiting my woods in a coming weekend, I tend to study the weather maps throughout the week, watching as the forecasts change and get refined. If the reports were true, then my little bit of forest on the edge of the Missouri Ozarks had received rain all week. This was good since I had more old wooden fence to burn in the fire ring. Friday evening was my window of opportunity. (As I was loading the rotten fence bits into the bed of my truck I was amazed at how much work I had actually gotten done in my last fit of motivation. No wonder I’ve not been motivated at all since!) I much prefer having large campfires when the woods are wet.

The last few hundred feet of road leading to my cabin goes through the middle of my woods, and first I can see the green roof of the cabin between the trees, then I can see the lake. Ever since I’ve had the lake I’ve worried that I would come out and find it missing. (This came close to happening a couple of times!) I worry that the heavy spring rains will fill the lake so that it overcomes the overflow drain and the two spillways and washes over the top of the dam itself. If the dam began eroding, it would likely continue until the lake behind it was drained. That hasn’t happened yet (though, as I said, it came close twice), but I still peer through the trees every single time I drive down that last bit of road to my cabin.

As it was when I visited on Friday, the lake was about three feet below full pool. That’s fine with me. That gives it capacity to absorb more spring rain without using the drain or spillways. (The lake was built in a gravel-filled valley. Plenty of water leaks underneath the dam — and through it in some places — so even when it’s full, water is bleeding away from it.) I took the picture above from the top of the dam, looking west. It’s always a pretty sight. Flike wasn’t too interested though.

Here is the view from the front porch of my little cabin. I spent my first hour or so there on Friday just sitting in a chair and taking in this view:

The light-colored bit of shoreline you see in both photos is the same spot.

I may have mentioned that a phoebe has built a nest on the wall of the cabin under the porch ceiling. I checked it when I arrived and found five baby phoebes huddled in it, and during my hour of decompression, mama phoebe was scolding me from the trees nearby by to get lost.

My plan for the weekend was to burn a lot of stuff on Friday (though preferably not my hamburgers) and on Saturday to take my awesome weed whacker into the acre below the dam where I have a hapless plantation of pecan trees. I want to clean out some of the scrub growing in there that is beginning to look like trees as well. Wading into the tall grass and scrub to do this work would, inevitably, cover my body with ticks and chiggers, so my plan after that was to take a dip in the lake to wash off as much of that infestation as I could. But as I think I’ve said before, nature always wins.

Friday came together just as I planned. I made a one-match fire (it’s all in the tinder — this time I used a year 2000 paper map of some place called Iowa) and was soon tossing rotten fence pickets onto it. They are made of cedar, so they popped and sizzled as they burned. They gave a lovely light, as the poet said, but I began to have misgivings about burning the fence. To me, a campfire is a place for quiet reflection not a place for disposing of trash. I much prefer burning oak logs I have cut and split myself than trash I’ve hauled 100+ miles. So I’ve decided that I’m not going to bring any more ex-fence to the cabin for burning. (I still have at least two fires worth of fence parts already down there.) I cooked my burgers and gave half of them to Flike, and I waited as I always do to hear a whippoorwill. I didn’t hear one. I understand that they are in decline in their natural range, and I think it has to do with habitat destructions. I try to maintain my forest as much of a wild place as I can, and I want to think that a whippoorwill will find it a favorable place to live and raise a family.

I did manage to burn up what I think are the last of my grad school spiral notebooks.

How long ago had I scribbled in those pages? And never opened them once since then! Simplify, as Mr. Thoreau says.

I stopped stoking the fire after I’d burned up about half of what I had hauled down that day and let it smolder into ash, then I retired, heading in to the cabin for a restless night with Flike burrowed against me, panting with anxiety because despite how much he thinks he wants to go to the woods, he always hates it. (He’s afraid of flies and thunder and it turned out we had an abundance of each over the weekend.) So Flike, probably more covered with ticks and chiggers than I was, nestled very close to me on the bed and panted. He was in high anxiety mode. I told him to stop panting a number of times, which he did, until he didn’t any longer. I saw a long night ahead of me, but then a bit of redemption came. Outside the cabin, through the open windows, from what sounded like a tree directly above me, a whippoorwill began her repetitive call. I stopped counting the iterations when I got into the thirties, but she stopped as well and then returned once more a little later. So I got my simple desire after all.

I slept until I woke, well after sun up, which is rare for me. Flike must have gotten the message because he had moved himself to the rug on the floor beside the bed and didn’t pester me with his frantic panting. Before I rose from the soft mattress, though, the whippoorwill gave me one more serenade.

When I’m staying at the cabin on my own (wifeless, that is), I rarely cook myself a hot breakfast. (I make do with bagels or beef jerky or such.) But on this Saturday morning, I did. I set up the propane stove out of the porch and heated enuf water for two bowls of instant oatmeal. Nothing fancy, certainly, and hardly even cooking, but along with a banana and plenty of iced tea (unsweetened, of course), it was satisfying. As I was puttering about with this work, I could hear rumbling in the southeast. The sky was blue that I could see through the trees, so I wasn’t sure what I was hearing. There is an Air Force base within a hundred miles, but that is to the northeast. And there are some two-lane highways far beyond my southern ridge. But neither of these explanations seemed sufficient. Nor did I think the normal doings of the cattle ranch in that direction would be so noisy. As time passed, the rumbling didn’t. In fact, it grew more well defined. It was definitely thunder I was hearing, and as I glanced up through the trees again I saw that what I took for blue sky before was actually unbroken blue gray cloud.

Flike hates thunder, and he was soon back in the cabin, under the bed, panting frantically. There wasn’t anything I could do for him, so I just watched and waited. The thunder was almost continuous, and I realized that the good people to my southeast were getting a wicked storm. But the thunder was getting louder, the sky was getting darker, and the temperature was actually falling. It looked like I was going to see the storm next. (Also, a curious thing: when I arrived the night before the lake water was a monochrome brown, which it generally is after a storm since it plenty of mud and leaf matter has washed into it. My guess is that as the storm approached, the barometric pressure dropped because soon I was seeing the green mats of algae floating in the lake. I guess somehow they felt free to rise to the surface with their load of brain-eating amoebas given the change in pressure.)

So the stars were not aligning for me. While I could certainly weed whack in the rain and thunder, it wouldn’t be fair to Flike to make him suffer through it locked in the cabin (or in my truck). With the temperature falling as it was, I didn’t see myself getting in the lake that day at all. (It was in the 60s then.) And on top of that, there are three seasonal streams I have to cross to drive out of my woods and reach pavement. Two were dry when I came in the day before, but they have hundred-acre watersheds (each) and if I waited for the storm to hit, it was possible I couldn’t get across them if they were torrents. (This has happened, though I was coming from the other direction at the time.) So with all of those consideration, I began to pack up camp and prepared to go home early. Flike eagerly jumped into the truck when I made the offer and graciously let me pack up and clean up. As it was, I left the mouse trap baited but unset, so when I return next time I should find the cheese missing and the mouse laughing. I also left a small bag I use to carry things back and forth for cabin life. That was no big problem, but still.

I drove home in the downpour. For most of an hour I had the wipers on their fastest speed and my truck at a much slower speed. Fortunately, most of the good people in that part of rural Missouri had sense enuf to stay out of the rain, so the road was all mine.

On Sunday, the county where my cabin is issued a flash flood warming. It seems I skedaddled in time.

So I’m not sure when I’ll get back again. This weekend has possibilities.

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One Comment on “the latest from Roundrock”

  1. C Says:

    I have to admit, I’m a little envious of your cabin away from it all. It sounds like you’ve found the perfect spot in spite of the risks with the dam giving out and changing things significantly. I had mentioned to my wife that I’d like to get a few acres of land in the upper peninsula of Michigan for putting a cabin on someday, or simply to camp and not hear anything other than nature and have the sky uncontaminated by light from surrounding cities. She hasn’t given me the green light to do so, but I’m not giving up hope yet.


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