My green onions looked pretty respectable. Why doesn't he climb to a breeze or take a swim? These should be called squirrel frustrators. On the contrary, I have found them to be clean and fresh. . I have just the tool for the job. Even if the saw is sharp, even if you get clean draws each time, it's still a load of effort.
Quite a pile for eleven day's work. But don't be a jackass. I smoothed the split side with a draw knife. After several hours of thrashing and destroying a patch of willow bushes, the bull was free from the blood covered, velvet-like material. A flower pan, and storage cans. I looked forward to freeze-up.
Always message the mods instead of attacking users in public. After beaching the canoe, I walked through the timber, crossing and recrossing the creek that had its beginnings in the far off snows. The crops to grow at Twin Lakes are potatoes, rhubarb, lettuce, onions and radishes. Everything looks as though it had a bath last night. He brought a burlap sack half full of beans, 50 pounds of sugar, and a big box of dried apples. Much easier to pack without the handles already fitted to them. You can tell people how much work it is, you can explain and define it until you're blue in the face.
There is a rhythm to the saw as its teeth eat back and forth into the deepening cut. Give those characters an entrance end they can ruin a cabin. This new day is clear, calm and 28 degrees. It took one hour to the gravel bank of the connecting stream. Clear, calm and a frosty 20 degrees.
Dry standing timber makes the best firewood. Close at hand, the mosses and grasses were full of tiny flowers. The pelt must have weighed a hundred pounds when I dragged it from the water. Sheep liver and onions for supper. Hope Creek had cut a big opening into the lake ice. It's the ultimate soothing nostalgic feeling. The logs were a deal now than they were then, and be easy enough.
A good morning to haul some sand. It's June 7, and I believe the growing season is at hand. The cabin is starting to look as though it belongs. I made the hinges from a gas-can, and they looked almost store-bought. Soon I would be ready to saw the ends and fill the slots between the pole butts.
The grayling were feeding greedily. The documentary covers his first year in-country, showing his day-to-day activities and the passing of the seasons as he sought to scratch out a living alone in the wilderness. I had dug down a foot into the moss just yesterday, and found frost, and lined the hole with a gas-can box. With a few leftover poles, I built myself a chair and a bench. Hard work, but I enjoyed it. Fried potatoes, onions and fish. And the john was done.
I could see him browning in the pan as I dressed him out, and I left his entrails for the birds. The sun was warm and the eave dripped. Would I love the isolation then, with its bone-stabbing cold, its ghostly silence? It's the end of September now, and if I was gonna stay the winter I would need more meat. Was it too early to catch a fish? I sat down and leaned against them and while I chewed on a chunk of smoked salmon my eyes wandered over the peeled logs. And the new cache will keep bears and other critters out of my food supplies. Today I would cut up wood to build up my supplies. And was I equal to everything this wild land could throw at me? The tools he brought in with him were mostly just the hardware pieces, the handles and mallets he made himself.
I was making good progress today when I heard a plane. Not just hooks like a barn door. Respect the community, and do not consign their comments to the memory hole. And while he may not make the trip physically again--- ---his spirit will always linger in the perfect notches of his logs. A big wind would have cleared the thin ice out yesterday.