Archive for the ‘Roundrock’ category

chagrin and humility

June 6, 2019

Sure, we can all laugh about it now. But at the time it was a peak moment of embarrassment for me.

Winston Churchill was credited with saying, upon hearing that some political adversary was a modest man, that “he has much to be modest about.” I try to live by that maxim.

On our recent trip to Roundrock, I went to the hardware store in town to see about a few things, and I thought I could get a new chain for my chainsaw and just be done with the inexpertly sharpened old chains (sharpened at the hardware store in faraway suburbia) that had let me down. The hardware store had an entire corner devoted to Stihl chainsaws and equipment. Those are fine tools, but my chainsaw is a Husqvarna. I described the saw to the man (“a chainsaw whiz” he was described) and said I had a 16-inch bar that I needed a new chain for. I also told him about my misadventures with the sharpened chains.

He must have been able to read me easily, because he said he was reluctant to sell me a chain if he wasn’t sure it would fit. Well, it happened that I had my chainsaw in my truck, so I said I would bring it in and he could see for himself what kind of chain I needed.

I pulled the dirty saw from its case and set it on the counter before the whiz, and then I had one of the most humbling moments of my life.

“Did you know you have the chain on backward?”

Never, until that very moment, did I have any idea that you could install a chain backward on a saw. It never entered my simple mind as a possibility. I had changed the chain on my saw dozens of times over the years, and it seems that those dozens of times I had just happened to put it on correctly. Only this last time had I happened to put it on backward.

The man showed me the direction the teeth needed to face as the chain whirled around the bar, and then he kindly offered to put the chain on properly, at no charge.

The last time I had tried to use the saw, my daughter-in-law was at the cabin and I was going to give her the “treat” of cutting down a tree. But instead of sawdust we were only producing smoke — because the chain had been on backward! Sooner or later I’m going to need to confess this to her.

When we were at the cabin last week, after I had climbed down from the roof from doing my repairs, I thought briefly about firing up the chainsaw and finally removing that tree that was blocking some of my view of the sparking lake, but lethargy had me in its thrall by then and I decided to save that chore for a later visit.

another dry day in a wet wood

June 5, 2019

Copious rain is a double-edged sword, one that cuts both ways, a mixed blessing, a two-way street, a pis aller. It fills my lake and makes it hospitable for fish and humans that venture in, but it threatens the dam and washes out the spillway. It reduces the threat of a fire in the forest, but reduces the ability to make a fire in the ring too. It brings the green but also the humidity.

And, apparently, it leaks through the roof of the cabin.

What you see in the photo above is the ceiling of the shady porch (overlooking the sparkling lake). The black and white business is, to my best guess, a water stain, and it’s an old one since I’ve been watching it get bigger for a couple of years. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have let it go on so long, but at first I didn’t realize what it was. (I’m not sure what I thought it was, but since the roof had never leaked inside the cabin, I suppose I thought it couldn’t be water.)

Once I resigned myself to the idea that it was a leak, I decided that on my next trip I would bring a ladder so that I could have a look at the roof over the porch and see if my untrained and uniformed eye might see something so glaringly obvious that I could a) fix it, or b) get someone out to the cabin to fix it.

The ladder I brought, a six-foot folding step ladder, was sufficient to let me peek over the roofline and have a look-see.

The roof of the cabin meets the roof of the porch with a joint that has an overlapping metal piece. And beneath that, screwed into place, is a foam gasket of sorts to fill the gaps created by the ridges and valleys of the metal roof material. What I saw was this:

What you see bulging from that overlap is the foam gasket. And you see it after I had used a stick to attempt to poke it back into place. It was bulging out much farther. (To the right and left of it the gasket sits beneath the overlap properly.) My guess is that water running down the roof (from the top right) and across the overlap could not then continue down the porch roof (to the lower left) with the gasket bulging, so it collected there and eventually backed up under the overlap. And then into the ceiling of the shady porch. And so the sword cut the wrong way.

The step ladder I had brought was not tall enuf to let me climb onto the roof without great peril to life and limb. (Plus my wife wouldn’t let me.) (Plus, I was too scared.) So my desperation solution was to try to poke the gasket further under the overlap and then walk away and not think about it. I did that, poking it so far that it disappeared altogether, and I had no idea if that was better or worse.

Since the morning was young and the sky was blue and all things still seemed possible (not really), I thought I could take myself into the nearby town where there was a hardware store (where I’ve spent thousands of dollars) and perhaps an informed solution. And so that’s what I did.

The town is on the banks of the great Corps of Engineers lake, and while we were there, we took the chance to see how close the water had come. Turns out it was VERY close. Many of the streets, that I have driven upon, were underwater. The new playground ,that seemed far beyond the reach of the lake, was underwater. The walking bridge, that connected the bisected town, was underwater. I don’t think the good people of the town were traumatized by this. It seemed to be treated as an inconvenience, and the town square was bustling with cars and foot traffic. (Remember, this was a Friday.)

At the hardware store, I showed the man there some photos I had the presence of mind to take of my cabin roof, and he knew exactly what I needed. And he even had the part (another gasket) in stock. He explained to me how to install it, which I was grateful for since I never would have thought it through if he hadn’t. It cost me all of a dollar and a half, and I bought some chain oil for my saw, and I thought about buying a new chain, but I’ll leave that story for another day.

While I was there, I figured I would also need to rent a ladder tall enuf to let me climb onto the roof of the cabin. But before I did that, I called a neighbor down there (who runs cattle, has a shop big enuf to fit my house in, and is an all around nice guy) to see if he had a ladder I could borrow. He did, and he told me he would have it waiting at my cabin by the time I returned from town. Nice guy!

So with our goods in hand, we returned to the cabin to find a nice tall ladder waiting against the roof of the shady porch. All I needed was a small socket on the end of a screw driver handle, and I could get right to work.

Getting on the roof was a challenge, not due to the physical requirements, but due to the mental challenge of it. I can’t recall the last time I was on any roof, much less on a metal one, in the sun, with large rocks on the ground all around it, about twenty miles from the nearest hospital.

But up I went, and I got to work removing the screws that held the overlap in place. They were also holding the gasket in place, which was nice to see. I had to take out a half dozen in order to get enuf play in the overlap to get the bad gasket (about three feet long) out and the new gasket in. Kneeling on the metal roof was the hardest part of the job, but the view was nice, once I grew confident enuf that I wasn’t going to roll off the more-or-less gently sloping porch roof.

As evidence of my heroic time on the roof, I provide this photo:

That’s the lake well below. (And my booted right foot.)

I got the new gasket installed, and I think it was even properly installed, and then I took my timid self over to the ladder and began my effort to get on it so I could climb down. It was actually easy to do, and I wondered why I had any fear at all.

The rest of the day was anti-climactic after that. (I leave it to you wordsmiths to tell me if that sentence can be taken literally or not.) I remember sitting in the comfy chair on the shady porch overlooking the sparkling lake and contemplating attacking that oak tree that has bested me twice before. But I decided against it and realized that if I got home soon enuf, I could get on my bike and put ten miles of the trail behind me before a few craft beers in front of me washed away the dust of the trail.

We had lunch. We cleaned up around the cabin. We packed the truck, And then we drove over the mostly solid gravel roads out of our forest. Along the way, we met my neighbor who lent us the ladder, and I thanked him again. Then we reached the county road and took our detour to get around the flooded area. Soon enuf we were on the highway home, another nice weekend at Roundrock in the books.

dry days in a wet wood

June 4, 2019

We’ve been having an unreasonably huge amount of rain in my part of the Midwest in recent weeks. And my little forest down in the Missouri Ozarks has not been spared.

But Thursday and Friday of last week were forecasted to be rain free, so I took a vacation day on Friday and skipped out a little early on Thursday, and my wife and I (and the two dogs) pointed the Prolechariot toward Roundrock for what we hoped would be a relaxing overnight at the cabin, with a campfire and even, I hoped, the call of a whippoorwill.

The drive down was uneventful until we got close to the huge Corps of Engineers lake. This lake was built for flood control. Its watershed feeds into the Missouri River (Big Muddy) and then into the Mississippi River (also, I guess, Big Muddy). There are a number of lakes we pass and streams we cross that I watch to gauge how much rain has fallen in the area. All of them were full and swollen. Most of the streams were out of their banks and flooding the surrounding woods and fields. We saw the back up from the Corps of Engineers lake long before we got to the causeway that crosses it. And I have never seen it that full in the dozen-plus years I have been traveling to this part of Missouri. The water level was within a few feet of the top of the causeway.

The lake is actually designed to get this full. Its purpose is to hold back as much water as possible from the big (muddy) rivers in times of flood (and then release water in times of drought). So even though the land around the lake looked hopelessly inundated, it was actually doing that by design and intent.

All of this made me fear for the status of my little dam on my little lake above my little cabin in my little bit of woods on the edge of the Missouri Ozarks. The lake has both an overflow drain and two spillways to bleed off the excess water from the hundred acres of watershed that feeds it. Given how full everything was that we passed and crossed, I fully expected my dam to have been breached. (As long as I’ve had this lake, I’ve had this fear.)

My fear was fed further by the county road we take from the highway to get to our woods. It was closed. Parts of it were underwater. (This was actually back up from the Corps of Engineers lake just downstream.) So the flooding had reached within a few miles of my lake. Fortunately, I know of a back way in that is on the top of the ridge, assuming I could find another way to get around the flooded stream that closed the county road. And I did, but when we crossed the bridge for that same stream on the alternate route, the water was also within a few feet of the road. But once past it we were on the dry and dusty ridge again, zipping down gravel roads and coming out on the county road again just beyond the private road that (eventually) leads to my woods.

From there we had no trouble. We crossed a few wet-weather streams getting in, but we splashed through them with no trouble. I expected the gravel road through my trees to be soft and mushy, but it was fine, which was a good enuf sign, but there was still the hill down to the cabin to traverse, and soon enuf we would see either a very full lake or a very large mud hole with a breached dam in front of it.

We saw the lake. The dam had not washed away (though the “repaired” spillway is getting more eroded). Nor could we see any sign that water had gone over the dam. The drain and spillways did their job.

With that settled, we then settled into the comfy chairs on the shady porch overlooking the sparkling lake and got ourselves attuned to cabin time. Since it was late afternoon, and we had burgers to cook, I got busy building a one-match fire in the ring. Fortunately for me, the many storms recently had dropped a lot of trigs and branches around the cabin, so I had all of the kindling I needed within easy reach.

I had half expected the kindling to be wet from the recent rains, but it caught easily enuf, and soon I had a roaring fire:

Our burgers were delicious, and the dogs agreed. We sat in the chairs listening to the night forest tune up, and far away I could hear a whippoorwill (but no owls, oddly).

Soon enuf we were retreating to the cabin for the night. But Friday was full of its own kinds of adventures, and I’ll tell you about those in a new post.

a good Saturday at Roundrock

April 23, 2019

I may not have given enuf heed to the weather forecast when it spoke of the nighttime temps falling close to freezing on Friday. Surely, I had thought, a day reaching into the sixties followed by a day in the seventies could not produce a night between them that would be c-c-c-cold! But it was. Through the night I kept pulling the blankets over my chilled shoulders and even covering my head with the warm afghan my mother had knitted me when I was a wee lad.

I did my best to stay in bed as long as I could but finally rose around 7:00 (which discerning readers will know is a whole four hours later than my normal Saturday rise), hoping the mid-April sun would quickly warm the air. Didn’t happen. But stir I must, and I pulled on my cold clothes to face the day, vowing it was time to pack the truck and head home. (I also hoped that the phoebe had returned to her nest for the night to sit on her eggs and keep them warm.)

But my wife wanted breakfast, which consisted of assorted fruits and bowls of hot oatmeal prepared over a (dodgy) propane stove. And this consumed, I began to feel the day take shape. The morning chorus had begun by then, and a pair of ducks that may have spent the night on our lake below, took themselves into the air for whatever business they had elsewhere. And as it always the case on a chilly morning, the inside of the cabin was colder than the outside, so getting up and getting out and moving around soon warmed my reluctant body and I began to think the day might hold some promise after all.

My tree cutting plans being thwarted the day before, I turned my thoughts to the other chore I had in mind for the weekend: spreading more gravel around the cabin to improve the firebreak and to hold off for a little while longer the incessant march of plants and small trees encroaching on the cabin.

Over the years I’ve had three loads of pea gravel delivered to the cabin site. Or rather, two. The man who installed the stone steps up to the cabin had spread the original layer gravel around the area and had left me a nice pile of gravel to use as I might. So that was the first pile. And with shovel and wheelbarrow and muscle, I had scattered it here and there, attempting to preserve and even extend the open space around the cabin. A December visit two years ago with my son-in-law and grandson (a Brooklyn child who was three at the time and so fascinated with the wilderness) saw the delivery of the second pile of gravel, which my son-in-law spent most of our visit moving to deepen and extend the open space. And then, a few months ago I had a third pile of gravel delivered, in part because I now love having a pile of gravel to play with but also because of a mix up with the crew repairing the washed out spillway on the dam that resulted in them owing me money, the amount equivalent to the cost of a load of gravel.

So Saturday would involve me filling the wheelbarrow a few times and spreading the gravel around the cabin. I’m slowly working my way outward from the cabin, going “downhill,” smoothing the rough spots and building up a layer of gravel that I hope will be deep enuf to keep the weeds and scrub from finding a foothold. (I’m told about two to four inches is enuf.) It’s a big job, bigger than in seems when I’m imagining getting it done in a day. The space to the east of the cabin, where the fire ring is, is roughly 50 x 20 feet, not counting the area where I park my truck. It has a layer of gravel on it already, but it’s thin in some places, and my wife wants at least one spot that is level so the table we set on it will also be level and our food won’t slide off. All of this requires an eye for the slope of the ground and, as it turns out, sufficient muscle to keep at the work long enuf to make a visible difference.

Here’s a tip: before you begin filling your wheelbarrow with gravel, be sure to have it pointing in the direction you will go when it’s full. I’d learned that lesson with the first pile of gravel, and I’ve been diligent about it ever since. Fortunately, that direction is also slightly down slope, which makes the delivery part of the job easier.

So I filled it and then wheeled it to the spot near the cabin where I wanted to begin the work. Tipping the wheelbarrow up, I dropped the minuscule pile of gravel in place. Hardly enuf for the need. Then I used the shovel and my feet to spread it to a more or less smooth state. (A few rainstorms and gravity will smooth it further.) I could see then that the half dozen or so loads I intended to move that day were going to make not much difference at all.

But I kept at it, now just dumping the piles in place but saving the smoothing effort for later. I think I filled and moved more than a dozen wheelbarrow loads on Saturday morning, making a noticeable difference in the original gravel pile but still only covering a space of about 6 x 6 square feet. Still, the work was getting done, and the muscles were getting a work out, and the ibuprofen was waiting for me. The depth of the layer of gravel will diminish the farther I get from the cabin, in part because of the slope of the ground but also because, for whatever reason, the scrub doesn’t seem interested in growing in that area and doesn’t need to be buried.

So I had about a dozen minuscule piles of gravel laid out, and I figured the hauling work was done for the day. Then I began to spread the piles and flatten them, keeping the general downward slope away from the cabin but making it less pronounced in areas and burying some large rocks that would sometimes catch the toe of my boot. This buried the base of a large tree about two gravel inches above the true ground level. I don’t know if this will be a problem or not. Somewhere I heard or read that the substance of the wood in a tree changes at the point where it leaves the ground, so the roots have a different characteristic than the visible trunk. I don’t know if this is true; nor do I know if “burying” the trunk in two inches of gravel will affect it, but it will be worth watching (since the tree stands close to the cabin, and I wouldn’t want it to fall that direction).

So the gravel work did make a visible difference in the area I’m slowly working on, and it left a clear indication of where the work stopped so I’ll know where to begin again on my next visit. I want to maintain an even and continuous slope away from the cabin on this side because when there are heavy rains, bits of forest debris are washed across the space. Where the gravel is higher in the path of the wash, the bits of debris collect. This shows me where the low spots are and a little bit about the flow of the water across the area. I want the flow to continue into the leaves beyond the retaining wall. The same applies to the fallen leaves that blow across the gravel. They will collect in any low spot (though less than the debris will) and pile up against any barrier (which is why I raised the wood rack two feet off the ground).

The muscles in my back suggested it was time to stop this work, so I did. Yet during the couple of hours I was at it, I first shed my hoodie and then later the cotton flannel shirt I was wearing. The April sun in the unbroken blue sky was doing a good job of warming the morning, and I was glad by then that I hadn’t packed up and left when I was cold at dawn.

Watching over me as I worked, and watching over the cabin when we are not there, are a number of masks we have hanging on the trunks of the trees. They surround the fire ring area, and there are a couple on the other side of the cabin. I’m pretty sure I’ve had interlopers visit my cabin (bits of trash, cigarette butts, and the like tell the tale), but so far these masks have not been molested. (Wasps did build a nest inside one of them once.) We had brought along a new mask to hang, and since the day was warm and the muscles were tired, I suggested we hang it, though not at the cabin.

Far up the road behind the cabin, right near the northern property line, is an old oak, much older than the trees around it, and it’s right on the edge of our road. I had hung a wooden birdhouse on it years before. The birdhouse rotted and fell (and went into the fire later), but the nail in the tree was still there. So that’s where I wanted to hang the mask. It’s a faux African mask, and I suspect it’s made of some easily reduced substance, but up it went, and here it is:

I don’t suppose it provides much menace or caution for interlopers, and it may even provide target practice, but I like having new and noticeable things appear in my forest so that anyone who happens along will see that we visit regularly. (Also, to the left in this photo is my new neighbor’s property. The first thing he did was cut down a quarter mile of trees along our mutual property line, which is his business and his right, and I don’t consider it a problem, but still, the mask!)

Not long after this, we headed back to the cabin and began packing up for the drive home. The dogs were fully in favor of this. (So odd: they are intensely eager to go to the cabin and intensely eager to leave!) This coming weekend is looking good, weatherwise, and I’m pretty sure my muscles will have recovered by then.


As to the photo at the top of this post, I admit it’s not a very good image. What you see is a reflection of trees in the lake below the cabin. But it doesn’t look right, does it? The trees are out of focus at the top and the sky above them appears muddy. The reason for this is because I flipped the photo upside down. The trees you see the most of are the reflections. The actual trees are upside down at the bottom. And the sky you see at the top is the reflection of the sky in the lake water.

I had done this once before on my old blog, Roundrock Journal, but I didn’t explain what I had done. A number of comments said that the image was unnerving, but they couldn’t say why. That photo was in better focus too.

a good Friday at Roundrock

April 22, 2019

Friday afternoon, given a shortened work day, my wife and I and the two dogs hauled ourselves down to our little cabin on the edge of the Missouri Ozarks to revel in the wonderful weather. And while Friday’s weather forecast was good, Saturday’s was even better, so the plan was for an overnight. That much worked out as planned.

When we arrived at the cabin I quickly learned that the phoebe, whose mud nest is affixed to the side of the cabin under the porch roof, had moved in again. She was in her nest when I crept around the corner to spy on the porch, but she took off soon after that as our comings and goings scared her away.

She had been busy in the two weeks since I had been to the cabin, as you can see here:

My wife took this picture with her phone, and while it’s not the best image ever captured, the conditions were not good (holding her phone over the nest and snapping blindly), and it is certainly far better than anything I managed to capture with my phone.

It is our custom when we arrive to sit on our front porch and gaze down at the lake below (above) and muse and converse and more or less attune ourselves to time again in the forest. Doing this, however, meant that the phoebe would not be sitting on her eggs, and that made me feel like a bad steward of the forest. This is at least the fifth year that the phoebe has had a nest on the cabin porch wall, and most of those years have been in this same nest, which is nicely protected from the weather. (One summer we counted three broods that she had hatched and fledged.)

I took myself to the comfy chairs around the fire ring, but my wife insisted on sitting on the porch. The day was warm enuf that I don’t think the eggs were in any immediate peril without their momma, but as the afternoon cooled, my wife joined me by the fire ring where there was still some sunlight, and later, an actual fire for warmth.

It was not as though I spent the afternoon sitting around, musing or otherwise. I think we are just days away from serious tick and chigger season, so doing any work where they are in control means getting latched onto and driven insane with itching. So my plan was to cut down some trees that offended me while I still could. Such as this one:

This spot is just down the hill from the cabin, and I’ve cut away all of the trees (but one my wife won’t let me remove) so that we have a clear view of the lake below (above) and a nice view of the cabin when we’re in (or across) the lake. (In the top photo, there is a large tree on the right. This scene is just behind it, up the hill a little bit.) The tree of offense is the one on the right. It’s on the edge of the passage I’ve cut, and its upper branches are reaching into the open space to grab the sunlight. That’s what trees do, of course, but I want my view! So my plan was to cut down this tree then buck the trunk into manageable sections and drag the branchy top to the nearby brush pile. That was the plan anyway.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m not comfortable using the chainsaw when I am alone at the cabin, and while I have never had a mishap with it, the conventional wisdom is that you should stop using a chainsaw as soon as you are no longer afraid of it. So with my wife present (and to a far lesser extent, the dogs), I wanted to cut down this tree while the ticks and chiggers were not yet in full deployment and my wife could drag my bleeding self to the truck and haul me (the 20 miles) to the hospital. Depending on the success of this, there were two other trees closer to the cabin that I wanted to remove as well.

But like the best laid plans o’ mice and men, this one gang aft agley.* The tree is a white oak, perhaps my most favorite species in the forest, but it was in the wrong place, and it was still small enuf to make it mostly easy to remove. I dutifully added chain oil to the saw then filled the gas tank. I managed to get it started with only a few attempts and then turned it to the base of the oak. First I cut a small wedge on the side I wanted it to fall toward (though this was hardly necessary given the slope of the hillside and the preponderance of branches, and thus weight, on the “fall” side). Then I began the back cut, which I expected to have done in a minute of effort.

The cutting went slowly. I got through the bark quickly enuf, but when I bit into the wood of the tree, everything slowed down. The blade was not sinking into the tree the way I expected. After several minutes of mostly frustration, I shut down the saw and may have uttered some Anglo-Saxon expressions. Then I fired up the saw again and leaned in. The same thing. I was cutting into the tree, but only slowly. I would have made faster progress with a handsaw, without the scream of a gasoline motor in my ear. I repeated this one more time before I admitted to myself that the teeth on the chain were no longer sharp. As with knives, the more dull they are, the more dangerous they are.

It happened that I had another chain in the carrying case, though I knew nothing about it: how old it was, how sharp it was, if it would even fit. But it was the only option I had at the time, and I could hear the ticks and chiggers planning an assault, so I carried the saw up the hill to a tree where I have a long nail protruding from it. Then I hung the saw by its handle from the nail and walked away. I had to let the machine cool before I began taking it apart to put the other chain on the bar and attempt to cut the tree again.

I hadn’t paid any attention to the phoebe all this time, but she wasn’t on her nest when I marched up to the cabin. My wife (and the dogs) were over by the fire ring, so it’s possible that the phoebe did return to her eggs and only skittered away when I lurched up the hill. As I let the saw cool, I explained the situation to my wife. In my garage in faraway suburbia I have perhaps a half dozen chains for this saw, and as far as I know, none is sharp. (It’s easier to just buy a new chain than to get it sharpened. Don’t judge me!) We discussed getting all of them sharpened and then keeping them in some better place, such as the cabin where they would actually be used. So that’s on my list of chores this week.

Once the saw was sufficiently cooled, I switch out the chain (it’s really pretty easy) and marched down the hill to the oak to give it another try. But the second chain was no sharper than the original, and I made no real progress through the tree. So I could see that the gods were conspiring against me (or just my lack of taking proper care of my tools), and I decided to give up the job for this visit. The tree seemed to be in fine shape despite the minor damage I did to its base. I fully expect it to be standing and leafed out when I return.

My hands were oily and gritty from disassembling and reassembling the saw, so I washed them with the copious cooler of water I had the good sense to bring this trip. (I hadn’t two weekend before when it was just Flike and I, and I regretted that since I had to be parsimonious with his drinking water.) Then it was time to begin the evening’s fire for cooking and musing. Being April in central Missouri, any warmth of the day was soon to disappear as the sun fell lower in the sky then dropped behind the ridge to the west. I managed to build what I’m certain would have been a one-match fire, but I used two matches just because. (Don’t judge me!)

We cooked our bratwurst (meh) and shared them with the dogs, then we sat in the comfy chairs and stared into the flames, moving more or less ceaselessly since the inconstant breezes seemed to always blow the smoke into our faces.

The barred owls hooted across the lake, and some owl gave a cackling rendition, but the real interest was when the coyotes raised a chorus not that far to the west of us. Only once of twice have I actually seen coyotes in our forest, but I know they are there by their voices.

And though I suspected it was too early in the season, I did hear a whippoorwill call from just down the hill. I loved hearing this sound as a boy, and it was one of the reasons I originally bought myself a piece of Ozark forest. It also figures importantly in my One-Match Fire stories.

With the triumphs and frustrations of the day behind us, we decided it was time to retreat to the (more-or-less) comfy beds in the cabin for the night to sleep beneath a full moon and rise on Saturday to see what that would bring.


*Not really exactly correct usage of the Scottish here, but I think you get my point.

Roundrock overnight

April 8, 2019

Flike and I made an overnight trip to Roundrock last weekend. The weather forecast showed a window between rainstorms that included Friday evening through Saturday afternoon, so we talked about it and agreed to hurry out there to get in a campfire and some hiking and some chores. The weather was about perfect, as forecasted. It’s not as though I can’t go to my cabin in the rain, but the roads are soft then and more easily damaged (yes, I need a thousand dollars worth of gravel spread over some parts and the drainage ditch dug out), and there are three wet-weather streams I must cross to get to my woods. I have seen two of them in deep torrents that I didn’t want to take my truck through,* and that was in the days when I had the bigger truck that could go anywhere. So we look for dry-ish windows.

I keep a calendar on the wall of the cabin and mark the dates of my visits, and it turned out an entire month had passed since I was last out. Part of that can be blamed on unfavorable weather, and some on grandfatherly duties. Still, I’d like to visit at least twice a month so the cabin doesn’t feel neglected. Plus, it’s always good for my mental health.

Speaking of mental health, I once again had the unfocused anxiety about going to the cabin that I mentioned last time. I don’t know what that’s about, and it wasn’t as strong this time, but still! Flike didn’t seem to share this and only wanted me to throw a stick for him to chase. And if I didn’t, he foraged in the woods and came back with what he thought was a suitable throwing stick. (I’ve cut a dozen or so throwing sticks for him, and they’re in the cabin, but he tends to lose them, and then they weather and rot. So if I don’t immediately fetch one for him to fetch, he finds his own.)

We arrived early enuf on Friday to have several hours of good daylight to use before campfire time, so I donned the day pack of tools and such I usually carry, put on my blaze orange cap (to convince any trespassing hunters that I’m not a deer or a bear or a Bigfoot), and grabbed the long-handled loppers that I always take with me on hikes (to liberate cedars from their earthly toil). Then we headed west from the cabin.

The lake was once again (or maybe still?) nearly full (and I still haven’t figured out how to convert the video I took to a format that WordPress will accept without me upgrading to the professional version of the blogging software), so I wanted to go to the uppermost part of the lake to see if it had water in it. (I speak of it as though the lake is some grand body of water, but it’s really only about 2.5 acres, and by Ozark standards, that’s a pond, not a lake, but indulge me, okay?) I knew what I would see when I got there: gravel. That part of the lakebed has long since been filled with gravel washed down from the hillsides in the lake’s watershed. (As soon as I get another spare thousand dollars I’m going to hire a backhoe guy to dig all of that out, but for now, meh.)

From there we continued west, up the Central Valley that feeds the lake. Back on my old blog, Roundrock Journal, I wrote of an interesting phenomenon about the stream that runs through this valley. As I headed west, I was crunching through the rocks of the dry stream bed, just as I have many times. But then I came upon pools of water farther upstream, and soon flowing water even farther upstream. Yet just downstream, the bed was dry. What happens is that the water goes underground at some point betwixt the upper stream and the lake. This is not unheard of, and it’s called stream piracy. It’s only when there is a deluge that the volume of water coming down from the hills can exceed the piracy capacity and continue on to the lake. Obviously, with a full lake, this had happened a lot recently. (And I wonder where the pirated water goes. Into the water table? Into a cavern under my woods? Some neighbor’s bubbling spring?)

We followed the stream to the west to the point where it crosses my property line and then we turned north. We were close to the entrance to our property, and I’ve found that since we built the cabin, we tend to visit the “farther” reaches of the 80+ acres less frequently than we used to. So I wanted to knock around there for a while just to see what there was to see. Because nothing much has come out in leaf yet (except for the red buckeye plants beside the cabin!), I was able to pass through these acres without much concern about ticks and chiggers, but give it another month and such a hike will be more perilous.

I visited some familiar places and tried but failed to find some others. And then Flike seemed to think that he was done with the woods and took himself to our road (where the going is easier, but why?). I could see his black and white shape through the trees, but he refused to come to me when I called him. I considered going to him, but I wanted to visit our pond, which was not far ahead. The road he was on would pass close to the pond, so I figured we would connect. And if not, he knew the way back to the cabin (though I was not comfortable with this idea). As it happened, he joined me at the pond, which was very full. I know there are some fish in this small pond, so seeing it recharged warmed my black and shriveled heart. But the light was just beginning to fade then, and I didn’t want to try building a fire in the dark, so I followed Flike’s plan and hiked down the road the rest of the way back to the cabin.

My packing for this trip was more spontaneous than comprehensive and it turned out that I had not brought sufficient water (we had enuf to drink but nothing more for washing dishes), nor had I brought anything to supplement the turkey sausages I bought to serve as our shared dinner. I slowly discovered this as the evening progressed.

I did create a one-match fire, as you see above, but I kept it a small affair since I didn’t want to be up all night tending it as it burned its way to ashes. And I don’t like putting out fires only to leave large-ish unburnt wood in the fire ring. So a small fire that I could nurture with modest feeding for a few hours was my plan. And that pretty much was what we did. I burnt the turkey sausage sufficiently enuf to shove down our gullets, and I washed it down with a few adult beverages, and I waited, as I always do this time of year, to hear a whippoorwill. Alas, I was disappointed this evening. Though I heard a barred owl a number of times, and the frogs at the very full lake were making merry as well, I guess the whippoorwill hadn’t returned to my woods yet this season.

Bedtime coincided with a cloudless black sky full of stars. Since it was a new moon, they were especially bright, and as I happened to arise several times in the night, I took a quick look at the stars and listened to the frogs that were going about their “business” nonstop through the night. I slept until I woke, which was four hours later than my normal time! (I’m pretty sure I don’t get enuf sleep.) Then it was time for breakfast.

Two things coincided then to make me especially stupid, I guess. One was that I had not packed any iced tea to drink in the morning. (See paragraph above about insufficient packing.) The second was that my phone’s battery was at one percent. I have no electricity (or plumbing) at the cabin, so the only way to recharge my phone was to plug it into the truck. And since I didn’t have any iced tea, I thought the best solution was to drive to the nearest town with a McDonald’s (their tea is acceptable), recharging my phone on the way. And that’s what Flike and I did, which was really pretty dumb since the nearest McDonald’s was something like 25 miles away! I didn’t want to go through the morning without a useable phone (in case of an accident, though I get no signal at the cabin), but I had a propane stove as well as some water and plenty of loose tea leaves; I could have provided for myself.

But I didn’t. About halfway to the McDonald’s (in the next county!) I realized how foolish I was being, but then I was already halfway there, so I just kept on. The tea I got was glorious, and Flike had no objection to the Egg McMuffin we shared as we drove back to the cabin. So with that out of my system, it was time to consider what chore to devote my morning to.

I had the chainsaw with me, and there are a few small trees around the cabin I’ve wanted to take down for a while, but I’m always leery about using the chainsaw deep in the woods when I am alone (Flike doesn’t count in cases like this). Instead, I decided to sling some gravel.

There is a pile of gravel near the cabin (supplemented twice) that is as old as the cabin, and I’ve been slowing spreading it around the area, both to keep the area passable and to maintain a firebreak. This was a less hazardous chore, so I decided that was what I was going to do. And I did.

I think I moved five wheelbarrow loads of gravel to places around the cabin. When I am done (!) I intend to scatter colored glass and marbles on the gravel. I had seen this done at a Christmas Tree Farm in Seattle several years ago and really liked the look. (They used red and green shards of glass there. And since only a fool would walk across gravel barefoot, there is no concern about getting sliced up. Also, the interaction with the gravel will removed the sharp edges from the glass shards.) When anyone asks me what I want for a birthday or Christmas gift, I tell them I want a bag of marbles. (I’ve even used this in one of my stories.)

I’ve only just started scattering the marbles and dragon’s tears because I haven’t built up the gravel bed around the cabin sufficiently yet, but here is what it looks like in one small area:

Between slinging gravel and throwing a stick for Flike, I managed to use up a few hours of the morning. I thought it was time to begin packing up for the return home. But while insufficiently preparing for this visit meant I would travel light, packing up to go home proved incongruously more involved.

I don’t like to leave a mess when I go, so I generally will sweep out some of the cabin and/or sweep the braided rug on the floor. Plus I always sweep the porch (and the return of the phoebe to her mud nest on the cabin wall meant more mud on the porch), plus I tidy up around the fire ring (someone had left empty beer cans there overnight!). But I also decided this trip that the sheets on the bed I sleep in ought to be changed, so that involved more time and effort. Then there is the putting away of whatever tools or fixtures I used (the chair I sit in beside the fire has often been found blown down the road on return visits, so I nest it with the other chairs then turn them on their side so they are less of a target for the vandal winds).

Anyway, all of this took time and I think it was after twelve o’clock when Flike and I were on the road, pointed toward home. We stopped at the McDonald’s again for more tea (unsweetened, of course) and ate up the miles under gathering clouds until we reached my driveway.


*So we left the truck and walked through the torrents and hiked in the half mile or so to our property. Then we walked through them again on the way out and later threw away our leather boots that were literally growing things. See below:

a dash to Roundrock

March 20, 2019

I made an abbreviated trip to my woods last Saturday. My wife was out of town (in NYC, seeing the grands and catching every virus they had, apparently), and I had obligations in town that morning. But when those were discharged, I threw some things in my truck, including the two dogs, and turned it toward my cabin.

The plan had been to have a fire in the evening as the sun went down, burn some hot dogs and maybe enjoy a few adult beverages, then crawl into bed in the cabin and sleep till I woke on Sunday.

It didn’t happen that way. I felt oddly anxious the whole time, like I should have stayed at home, and that seemed to put a pall on the visit. The lake, I’m happy to report, was at full pool (and the partly repaired spillway wasn’t washed away). The spring peepers were enjoying all of the water leaking under the dam in the acre below it. The temps were moderate — into 50+ degrees under a blue, blue sky. I had groceries to carry me through the weekend and enuf chores that did not involve starting the chainsaw (something I don’t like to do when I’m out there alone) to keep me busy the whole time.

But it wasn’t pulling together for me. All I could think about was that I should have stayed home. That I had forgotten something important to do there. That I needed to get back. It didn’t help that our small dog, Queequeg, was being willful and wouldn’t stay inside the cabin. I look at him as coyote bait when he’s out there, so he needs constant watching. When he could escape — the clever beast would wait inside the door and slip out as I stepped in — he would dash for my truck and sit under it, presumably where a bird of prey could not reach him, but also where I could not reach him. I fooled him once with a treat and managed to get him back in the cabin. But he didn’t fall for it the second time.

I had collected the makings for a one-match fire, but with the recent time change, the sun wasn’t going to set for hours, and like dogs that are coyote bait, fires in a forest need constant watching. So I didn’t want to start the fire hours before dinner or darkness and then have to be tied to it for those hours. (I was already tied to a dog.)

Somehow I managed to get both dogs in the cabin at the same time and threw myself on my bed, thinking I could luxuriate with an actual nap. But sleep wouldn’t come. As I lay (?) there I realized that I didn’t really want to spend the night, only to wake to just-above-freezing temps that would linger all morning. And that made building a fire superfluous since it would take me well into the night before I could leave it, and who wants to drive home at highway speeds through deer country in the dark? So in a moment of uncharacteristic behavior, I decided just to give in to whatever demon was deviling me and go back home. (Never mind that I spent less time at my cabin than it took me to drive to and from it.) The dogs, as they always are, were fully in favor of this idea when I proposed it to them. So I put them in the truck and then packed up what little I had brought down (that I didn’t intend to leave, including several hundred marbles, but that’s for a different post). Then I turned my truck toward home.

I did make a few observations while I was in my woods though. You may remember this mineral block I had put near the cabin:

My goal at the time was to see if it would be favored by the gnawing critters rather than the cabin’s doorjamb that they’ve been chewing to bits. The doorjamb showed plenty of fresh chew marks, but the mineral block looked like this:

You can see that the corners have been nibbled a little, but I’ve seen these reduced to slivers, and it had sat there for more than a month (since my last visit) with little attention. So this doesn’t seem to be my solution to the gnawing of the doorjamb.

I had also hung this bird feeder — one big mass of seed — on a tree in front of the cabin on my prior visit:

Note how the lake looked pretty full then.

Here is what I found when I returned last weekend:

So I think it was a big hit, though I don’t suppose it did anything to prevent the gnawing of the doorjamb either. It’s not easy to tell, but the lake in the second photo is actually much fuller. If I can figure out how to post an actual video here, you’ll get to see what I saw over the weekend.

I’m not sure when I’ll be back down again. Winter seems to have gotten the message and has retreated — at least in this part of the Midwest and for right now — so that should mean more opportunities to visit.