Summerdale Smallholding

Recently, while searching for information about raising pigs, I discovered a British term that I really appreciate. Admittedly, I get a bit romantic about the Continent, the Isles included, and, even though I’ve never visited (except on Google Earth) and have no real knowledge on which to base such an opinion, I just sort of assume everything is more idyllic there. Pastoral images of English cottage gardens, Italian vineyards, and rural French countryside definitely resonate with me. A subtle formality can be found in the European rustic form that I feel is missing in most American landscapes. It makes me think ‘that’s the way things ought to look.’ So I’m not at all surprised by my reaction to the term smallholding.

Loosely defined, a smallholding is a small, single family farm designed to provide for and sustain its inhabitants, which is exactly what we are looking to accomplish with our new property. Not agriculture, per se, just us husbanding our little corner of the earth and maybe taking a few links out of our food chain. A process more so than a product, perhaps, but hopefully one that also generates some tangible benefits for the effort.


In keeping with the fine tradition of our good friend Thoreau, I feel inclined to document the entire enterprise, and since this be the medium of our times it seems as good a place as any to do so. Expect to see many more discussions, plans, solicitations of assistance, pictures, updates, trials and errors of this nature in posts to come. Sanctimonious non sequitur will continue to be a mainstay, alongside a running narrative on our smallholding activity.

Obviously, it is quite unlikely that we will ever see any real return on our investment, other than those abstruse benefits reaped from living a pastoral existence. Not even considering capital assets such as land, tractor and existent infrastructure, I doubt the operation could ever break even. But since the validity of that skepticism is something I am interested in substantiating, I will maintain a financial record using Google Docs and will share an other-than-quarterly report from time to time. Seeing as they are our only live stock at the moment, I’m split over whether I ought to include expenses related to the dogs. I tend to think not, though I may throw them in just because.

So far, the only cost has been $13.01 in diesel fuel. Bertha and I spent a day getting reacquainted while we peeled six inches of composted straw and manure from the area where the dog yard is going to be. Bertha has two left feet when I’m at the controls and she nearly foundered herself once when I led her into a particularly greasy patch of gumbo. She was definitely a little overaggressive moving the burn barrel, which she squashed beneath her bucket like an elephant might flatten a cockroach with its trunk. In the end, however, the trapezoid of ground laid out as the dog yard was scraped mostly clean and heaps of rotted straw and manure covered a majority of the proposed garden plot.

I’m not sure what to do about the garden. It needs to be plowed or tilled or all of the above. As with most of my opinions on the matter, I’m inclined toward an animal powered solution, especially since the area in question isn’t really big enough to warrant the acquisition of tractor implements. Currently, I am partial to the idea of getting a couple of pigs next spring and just letting them root up the place. It would mean we’d be forced to wait a season before we could plant, but on the other hand we’d have our own pork and we wouldn’t have to buy a plow or tiller. I haven’t a clue really but I’m banking on the assumption that pigs would break things down to a point that they would be hand-tillable afterwards, which may or may not be the case.

In that same vein, I’m divided as to whether a permanent chicken coop or an ark is a better bet. I’d rather avoid store-bought feed; the most organic, fundamental solution is what I’m after. And I don’t mean ad campaign organic either. I’m referring to the unadulterated interpretation of the word: of developing in a manner analogous to the natural growth and evolution characteristic of living organisms; arising as a natural outgrowth. Basically I’d like to see all the farm animals on the Summerdale smallholding subsisted strictly from the fodder at hand, and even though I realize that is highly unrealistic, I still think it a worthwhile goal.

As well, there is the question of weed control. We have a proliferation of thistle in our little pasture out front and the corral around the barn is thick with some kind of insidious invader. I immediately thought of sheep or goats, but research and nagging fear of the inevitable Siberian on sheep encounter makes me wary. In the end we’ll probably get some anyway, if not for any useful purpose then just for the fun of having them around, for a little while at least.

Betty's Isis of Bydog

In the meantime, I have been plenty occupied with our, or as Brandi puts it, MY new puppy. A lot of the motivation to buy a house out of town was born from our desire to greatly expand our kennel, and we wasted no time getting started along that path. I have been searching far and wide for a female Siberian pup with features similar to Kona and Blue, and I finally gave into temptation and bought a dog from a breeder in North Carolina that appeared, at least in pictures, to exhibit many of the same attributes.



Blue and Kona



Tensaw in repose

Now that she has arrived, I can see that Isis tends to be a bit more characteristic of Tensaw and is missing some esoteric quality that the other girls possess. It seems her coat is smoother, like Tenny's.  If nothing else, she certainly shares his gift for song, a fact she is quite willing to demonstrate.

Our other objective with the kennel was to acquire a command leader from a proven bloodline that could guide our green dogs and get us started toward building a real sled team. In particular, I was interested in Anadyr dogs, as I had helped handle the purebred Siberian team of J.P. Norris at the Tok Race of Champions and I knew the quality of his line. After months of detective work, Brandi sleuthed out a sled dog operation in Pray, Montana, called Absaroka Dogsled Treks who, as luck would have it, had a command leader and an Anadyr brood bitch they were willing to offer us. Our plan is to travel east early next month to check out these dogs and hopefully acquire what would be an exceptional foundation to our kennel.

aerial view with planned improvements

Before we can do that, however, there is the little matter of fencing the dog yard. I called Ken at Bitterroot Fence and made tentative arrangements for his crew to set posts some time early next week, but with four inches of fresh snow and the truck thermometer reading 6 degrees when I left the house this morning I would not be surprised to hear that they were running somewhat behind schedule. Ah, the glory that is winter in Montana!

the Homestead

Funny how things come back around.  You see it in fashion all the time.  Children grow up, become consumers, and their collective buying power forces the revival of whatever stylistic elements were in vogue when they were young.  I saw a kid at the post office and couldn't help wondering if he knew he had raided the wardrobe of a John Hughes film.  I’m sure the girls will start pegging the legs of their jeans any day now.  I’ve even heard that mullets and cheesy mustaches are on their way back.

When I first arrived in the Bitterroot Valley, my brother Jeb sent me an email informing me that our Great-grandfather Spencer (my mother’s mother’s father) once had a ranch here.  The story is he also had a hunting cabin up the Rattlesnake north of Missoula.  Later the family moved to Southern California because they thought the climate there would be better for the children's asthma. Jeb suggested I go hunt up the old homestead in the Ravalli county records.  I figured I could do one better.

Skip ahead three generations, and history repeats itself.

You can’t really call it a ranch, since it is much too small and has no livestock.  Yet.

But there will be.  My hope is for a Holstein heifer, a few sheep, a handful of chickens, and possibly a pig.  Brandi is leaning toward goats and a wee donkey.

Regardless of what shape the hoofed residents take, there will definitely be more of these.  The latest addition, our new puppy Isis, arrives today.

The thistle crop in the front pasture isn't very pretty but we enjoy the rest of the view.

Bertha likes hers too.

 

                Reverse angle.

Now pull back

It's not the old Spencer place, but it will do.

We're gonna put the dog kennel here.  Bertha and I will be plenty busy this weekend peeling back that layer of compost and moving it to the garden.

Looking east toward the Big Ditch.  Gravity flow sprinklers irrigate the pasture on Kona's side of the fence.

We know it will be tons of work but we love our little spread.

a New New Deal

Stuff has been happening at a breakneck pace. It’s already two weeks into hunting season and I’ve been out exactly once. I just bought tickets for the Banff Mountain Film Festival’s annual World Tour stop at the UM Theatre. Halloween is gone and Thanksgiving is looming. Snow is an almost permanent feature in the sweeping panorama that now greets us every time we turn our eyes west.

We have moved into our new home on Summerdale Road. Stress that had been building throughout the cumbersome process of purchasing the foreclosed home from Fannie Mae culminated in a mad dash snatch and grab mission to Lincoln County for the tractor. It was done in classic Pintok fashion. In, out, down to Corvallis, and back to Missoula in less than 24 hours. The high cost of renting a trailer meant that I had little time to spare.

Fortunate for a trailering rookie like me, all went remarkably well, meaning no major catastrophes, unlike the infinitely less dangerous undertaking of picking up our trash bin from the alley behind the old place, which cost the truck a rear bumper and quarter panel.  I did have to get a little NASCAR in the pits when a sheet metal screw flattened my front tire at the gas-n-go outside of Noxon.  No thanks to the trailer aficionado who talked me up through the entire tire change without lending a hand, I still made the cabin and had the tractor loaded by the time night fell, which was my goal. I even got the binders on her right in only two tries. Properly securing a heavy load like our old Ford tractor is paramount to trailering success, and seeing as it is something I had never done before I felt pretty good to have the job all wrapped up by the time my brother Calen arrived to visit me.

Calen lives full time in the home country, working as a surveyor. Money there is scarce and, financially speaking, he could probably do better if he took his skills elsewhere, like when he moved to Texas and went corporate. But a poor day in heaven is still better than a good day in hell, so he prefers eking out his existence in the nicest place no one can afford to live, cultivating cynicism with the rest of the valley’s economically woeful population.

Its tough being destitute in the most affluent country on earth, and living so encourages a certain mocking contempt for the Haves amongst the Have-Nots. The biggest Have of all, everyone knows, is the government, and in no place is this as evident as this place. The only people with a steady income are the teachers, road maintenance workers, postmen, Forest Service employees, and the contractors working for the Superfund operation in Libby.

Once, industry here was extraction. Resources were hacked and pulled from the land in dirty, ugly, bottom line motivated ways. Now those resources are gone, played out or no longer profitable. Only their messes remain.

The biggest offender in the area, at least the one recognized as such by the US Environmental Protection Agency, is the W.R. Grace vermiculite mine outside of Libby. Around the turn of the century, high incidences of lung-related illness and death in and around Libby gave experts cause to investigate, and lingering health concerns bequeathed the site with Superfund status. A clean up operation is on-going, to the tune of some $500 million dollars.

“They spent three hundred thousand dollars cleaning up the Rod and Gun club,” Calen tells me. “Said the whole place was full of vermiculite. Found it six feet deep in the ground.

“Hell, that place isn’t even worth three hundred thousand. They say that it’s a good thing, that it stimulates the local economy, but it doesn’t. Give me three hundred thousand dollars and I’ll clean that place up. I’d burn it to the ground, build a new one. Put a dozen people to work.

“Paying to clean up a trailer park? I mean, c’mon. I’d burn all that, build some nice apartment building that’s energy efficient with sustainable blah blah blah. Tell the people, you want some place to live? I’ll give you a place to live, hell, I’ll pay you to build it, but I’m not gonna waste a bunch of money cleaning up a trailer park. I’d just tell ‘em, you can’t clean up a trailer. There’s no more of that in this valley.

“So they’re gonna dig up all the ground out at the Rod and Gun. I’m like, what? To do what with it? Haul it someplace else? It’s six feet underground, for Pete’s sake. I mean, where do they think the stuff comes from in the first place? What, are they mining vermiculite?”

I’m paraphrasing here, but I was laughing so hard at the time that it’s difficult to quote him exactly. His scorn was sincere but so was his rationale. It echoed a theme I had been pondering earlier that day on the drive up there.

Government can’t create jobs, only private entrepreneurs can, I heard some politico say on NPR. Maybe, if we’re talking about random nonessential niceties. But massive, capital shifting changes in the paradigm? Only government has the horsepower to motivate that kind of thing.

As Calen points out, they say that they’re trying to stimulate the economy, but they’re not. A cursory survey of economic history demonstrates that America only prospers when we’re changing, when there is an ushering of a new era. If the government really wanted to encourage things, they would rouse the slumbering beast of transformation. They would lead us from the desert to the watering hole.

We need a new New Deal. We need a new Industrial Revolution. We need to begin construction on the next incarnation of transcontinental railroad or interstate highway system. We need to embrace the prospect of progress, the challenge of change. Because it is when this country is moving forward that the world is at its best.

A Future Forgotten

For some reason, I want to believe that I once heard it said that before the Japanese plant a tree, they carefully consider how its placement will affect the landscape over the course of the next one hundred years. Now this precept may be true, or it could just as easily be something I made up, a product of the same romantic Western notions of Oriental wisdom as Sobe and the Karate Kid. I'm not really sure. What I am sure of is just how much better the world would be given even a fraction of that foresight.

Towering cottonwoods crisscross the Bitterroot between Corvallis and Hamilton in neatly ordered rows. Valley lore maintains that famed Gilded Age industrialist Marcus Daly lined the avenues with these trees so that his carriage would travel in shade everywhere it went. The fact that the Anaconda Copper King passed long before the trees realized their full potential lends credence to more philanthropic motivations than that, but even if the original impetus for their planting was less than altruistic I believe that whoever put them there would be pretty disappointed by our failure to safeguard their legacy.

The trees are all dying. Whole lanes are being stripped as the giant cottonwoods become nothing more than hazards. The avenues, once so elegantly defined, a touch of cultivated formality and order in an otherwise uncivilized landscape, are being denuded. The sentinels, grown old and weary, are falling down. No juveniles stand ready to replace them. Generations have passed yet no generation rises beneath them. In the one hundred years since they were planted, no one has given them much more than cursory consideration.

I find this lack of forethought, this failure to account for the future, this inability to consider the whole rather than the part or the moment, this disavowal of any sort of planned progression indicative of America. Such manner pervades our culture, our economy, our manner and our mode. We are reactive, not proactive. We do not build upon the foundations of the past. We do not invest capital in the future. Ours is a society disposable. This is our zeitgeist.

We have been working on acquiring a foreclosed property from Fannie Mae. Unoccupied for only a short period, it is already quite literally falling to pieces. Owing to a broken hanger, a gutter that listed only slightly on our first visit has since collapsed completely. To the megalithic lien holder the value of this real estate is defined by a set of numbers on a balance sheet. For us, the home has a worth that is a bit more intrinsic.

If not simply to further our own interests, out of respect for Marcus Daly we should have preserved his legacy. We should have accounted for the inevitable demise of one generation and secured the naissance of the next. We should have planted young trees between the mature ones, so that through succession the prescience of Marcus Daly would endure, alive in perpetuity, shading future lanes and carriages for years to come.

On a bench above Corvallis, along the course of Summerdale Lane, there are planted ordered rows of cottonwood trees. How long they will remain is anyone’s guess, but let it be known that, should the Williamsons take up residence upon this path, their numbers shall surely increase.

Leave it better than you found it.

Summer Break

A friend noted the other day that it has been awhile since I’ve put pen to paper, so to speak. Of course, I fully realized this myself and had, on several occasions, attempted to identify a topic about which I was sufficiently passionate enough to write. The little one keeping you too busy, my friend asked. Or is it the Man and his job? Neither actually. I just haven’t come up with anything worth writing about.

Keegan is doing well. A good natured fellow, he takes it pretty easy on us. He hasn’t shown much interest in self-propulsion as of yet and spends most of his free time sitting upright investigating how useful hands can be. He was first in his age group at Stevensville’s Creamery Days Milk Run and has mastered a raucous belly laugh. His presence infuses my routine with a constant yet pleasant bustle, but I wouldn’t say he demands any undue amount of attention.

Work has been infinitely less of imposition. Weather nationwide has conspired to produce what could arguably be the quietest fire season on record, counterpoint to the Great Fire of 1910 centennial. A rogue thunderstorm did kick off a flurry of activity in the Bitterroot recently, including a fire on the hillside above Hamilton, which gave me an excuse to spend a couple days in the hometown helping out at the dispatch center there. But beyond that and a few other minor examples, fire season has been a snore. So I can’t attribute the long recess to my gainful employment either.

And it isn’t that I haven’t had plenty of time to ponder relevant themes. The lengthy drive into work allows me ample opportunity to pine for an alternative to our current transportation scheme, namely an investment by the United States in high speed rail. Scant produce from our garden reinforces the knowledge that we need to focus time and energy on increasing our personal yield. The pile of disposable diapers stacked neatly on the shelves of Keegan’s changing table constantly reminds me of just how “high-impact” our prototypical American lifestyle truly is.

Recreationally, the focus this summer has been on preparing Brandi for the marathon she is running this September in Salmon, Idaho. Saturday is our day off together, and typically consists of Keegan and me crewing for Mom on her long run, plying her with Brawndo and swapping out huskies when they reach their thermal thresholds. We missed the heart of the huckleberry harvest. The only thing on our plate has been finding and buying a house.

About this, I could probably speak volumes, but they would be more economic in nature than ecologic, though I don’t really believe you can separate the two. The process gave me a chance to get out and really examine the human imprint upon the Valley, a sensory roller coaster operating between the limits of “now that’s a nice spread” and “what an absolute waste.” I looked for irrigated acres, fenced pastures, and outbuildings; Brandi kept me honest and ensured our house would be inhabitable. We sought to split the distance between Hamilton and Missoula, concentrating our search between Florence on the north end and Victor on the south.

What we achieved is a beautiful synergy, if you forgive us our abject failure in shortening my daily commute. The property, on which we hope to close next month, lies east of Corvallis, close enough to our dear friends the Pintoks' place to elicit the comment “guess I better finish siding that eyesore” from Jake. A modest house on two and a half acres, it has mature trees and a barn for the tractor. Gravity fed irrigation from the Big Ditch. A healthy crop of Canadian Thistle. All in all, this American’s Dream.

Before the dream can become a payment, however, we must first negotiate mounds of paperwork, rounds of inspections, and a significant outlay of cash. Signing the buy-sell agreement last night took the better part of an hour, and when I reached the end and affirmed that I had “read and understood” it with one final signature, I just had to laugh. Like a co-worker advised, trying to make sense of it all would be a frustrating exercise in futility. Just keep signing until they hand you the keys.

Why did the Skunk cross the road?

I was fortunate enough to get out of the office the other day and accompany my boss on a field trip. Much as the land administered by the US Forest Service is broken into National Forests and Ranger Districts, state and private ground overseen by the Montana Department of Natural Resources and Conservation is organized into Land Offices and Units. Southwestern Land Office, for whom I now work, is headquartered in Missoula, Montana and consists of Hamilton, Clearwater, Anaconda, and Missoula Units. Since I had come on board in May, Mike and I had already made visits to the other three. Anaconda Unit was last on our list.

At Drummond we turned south off I-90 onto MT Highway 1, otherwise known as the Anaconda-Pintler Scenic Route, and passed quickly through a section of pastoral looking ranchlands before beginning the climb to Philipsburg. Around a bend in the road, we happened upon an SUV parked haphazardly along the guardrail. Heads and cameras protruded from its open windows, focused on the highway ahead.

“Little black bear,” Mike said.

As we closed the gap, I too caught sight of the bruin's shuffling form. It was a young male, probably three years old and just now finding his way on his own. He darted one direction and then another, uncertain as to which was the safer path.

We continued past the parked SUV, closing to within twenty yards before the bear vaulted the guard rail and rumbled down the slope, effectively spoiling the tourists' photo op. I turned to Mike and gave him as much grief as one can safely give their boss before settling back to appreciate the fact that I live in a place where such titillating sights are a regular occurrence.

By contrast, the appearance of wildlife during my daily commute has a much more somber tone. Instead of a thrill, it is rather a constant reminder of the price the local fauna pays for our 60 mile per hour lifestyle. My count so far is 3 foxes, 2 raccoons, one magpie, numerous house cats and ground squirrels, an elk, and countless deer. That in only six weeks of driving 47 miles each way. I fully accept that it is only a matter of time before I add my contribution to those statistics, but so far I’ve been lucky.

Passing through 88 feet each second, I wonder how many of my fellow commuters even notice these unfortunate figures. Are they as affected as I am by this wanton bloodshed? The skunks must certainly arouse some attention but what about the rest? I can only assume that since these motorists live in Montana they have an appreciation for wildlife, but such constant carnage makes me skeptical. Too many of us are obviously unwilling or unable to make the sacrifices necessary to bring down the body count. What, I wonder, will it take before we realize the value of protecting the quadrapedestrian's right to cross the road?

Sitting in my car, watching the gas needle plummet and the corpses pile up, this predicament becomes a source of gnawing frustration. How did we come to this, I ask?

Without much planning, is the answer that comes to mind. And in way too big a hurry.

I am sure, as the miles rack up and I surrender more irretrievable minutes of my life to this enterprise, I will too often return to this theme. Our current model for living is seriously flawed. It places value on things that have none and cheapens that which is most precious on Earth. All creatures, great and small.

My mind wandered a mere moment, but that was all it took. I saw a flash of color in the headlights and exclaimed “oh, damn it!” in the instant before the little scurrying creature disappeared beneath the Honda’s tires with an ugly thump.

“What?!” cried Brandi.

Her voice was tinged with panic, more than I expected. A bit further down the road she revealed that for some reason she'd conjured up the thought that I'd hit a person. I hadn’t, but as bad as I felt, I might as well have.

“Skunk,” I replied.

It's called Independence Day

During my hour long commute yesterday I saw a sticker on the bumper of a jet black Toyota pickup. The massive globe and anchor decal on its canopy rear window had caught my attention from several hundred yards out, and from this information I already had a made a host of prejudiced assumptions about the driver, all the more so given my recent viewing of the film Jarhead. Still, the bumper sticker astounded me, even despite my lay understanding of Leatherneck mentality, in large part due to the fact that my mind had at that very moment been contemplating exactly the sentiment it disparaged.

“In the face of terror and murder, the call for peace is not patriotic, it’s cowardice.”

Now I never intended this blog to be a forum for this sort of discussion and I don’t plan to let it become one. But since it is Independence Day weekend and I’m still thinking about the subject, I thought I’d indulge myself.

I realize there are few true followers of Christ left in the world, so I understand that the argument that a braver man offers his other cheek falls on deaf ears here. And, really, that isn’t what amazes me about this bumper sticker. No, what truly dumbfounds me is how antithetical its premise is to the notion of America.

First, I have to say that, as a real American, I fully grant this individual the right to their opinion, even if it absolutely vexed and infuriated me. To each their own. The freedom of expression is exactly what America is all about. But I must also add that I honestly believe any logical analysis of this statement proves it to be wholly Un-American.

Patriotism is the defense of the ideals upon which America was founded. America was founded on the premise that each individual has the right and obligation to self-determination. The call for peace is an exercise of this right. To exercise this right is patriotic. Therefore, it is the patriot who calls for peace in the face of terror.

Et in terra pax hominibus, bonae voluntatis

Between a Rock and a Long Drive

No sooner had I finished penning my last post when my cell phone rang with a job offer from Mike Kopitzke, Fire Program Manager for the Southwest Land Office of the State of Montana’s Department of Natural Resources and Conservation. I had interviewed for the position of Assistant Center Manager at Missoula Interagency Dispatch Center on Wednesday, and, although I felt I had a better than average shot at getting it, I wasn’t completely certain how I felt about taking the job.

Ever since I began working in dispatch, my goal has been an assistant manager position at one of the zone dispatch centers in Montana. I had basically circumvented that goal in 2008 by taking the position of dispatch coordinator in Tok, working for the Alaska Division of Forestry, and had personal considerations been different (i.e. Brandi had gone with me), I would have been perfectly content with that. However, given that Brandi’s career path had led her to Rocky Mountain Laboratory and that a series of fortunate events had determined that we would live in Hamilton, I was back to square one. A job at the U.S. Forest Service’s Bitterroot center would be ideal, but any opportunity there wouldn’t manifest itself until sometime in the future. That left Missoula.

Taking a job in Missoula meant partaking of two activities in which I would rather not participate: commuting and daycare. Door to door, it is 46.59 miles from our house in Hamilton to the dispatch center in Missoula. So not only does that mean devoting two extra hours a day to work, but, depending on which vehicle I drive, it also entails burning between 15 and 30 gallons of gas a week. That is definitely not my idea of living simply.

After interviewing several of the local day care providers recommended by our friends, we were fortunate enough to secure a spot for Keegan at the one we liked the most. Even so, the whole concept still bothered me. What did we gain, and at what cost? On balance, I wasn’t sold on the premise that taking a full-time job put us in the black.

I have always had difficulty with the fact that, at least in America, what is ideal and what is practicable usually end up being at odds. In the modern era, simple is not easy. Obviously, the beauty of this country is that you can do whatever you choose. But it doesn’t always leave you standing on high ground.

Brandi’s research position at the lab is a term appointment, which for those unfamiliar with federal employment means it has a finite duration, in this case, three years. With that in mind, there was no way I could pass up a permanent position with the State of Montana, even if it meant missing out on ten hours a week of family time or personally assuring scenarios like the Horizon oil well disaster. Most likely, Brandi will get on permanently at the lab. But should she not, we now have a safety net that will keep us living in Western Montana.

Everything comes at a sacrifice. What I have oft wondered is, does it have to? Certainly, we could stick with the status quo and take our chances. Keegan benefits from being with his parents and Brandi can see our house from her office window. No one knows what the future holds, and it might work out beautifully. That is the paradox of human existence; each decision opens some doors while closing others. But here I am not really referring to such abstractions. I am talking about more concrete matters.

There isn’t any reason why we couldn’t have the best of both worlds. Why aren’t there day care centers at every workplace, so parents can be with their children during lunchtime and at breaks? Why haven’t we invested in an infrastructure that cultivates harmony and cooperation instead of one that promotes isolation and discord? If America had sunk half as much capital into developing a rail-based transportation system as it has squandered building cars and roads, I would be able to hop aboard a high-speed commuter train and be in Missoula in half the time I will spend driving there. A reasonable amount of time, not a ridiculous one.

Taming the natural world in such a manner as we have has created a geography that leaves us in the exact same predicament as before. A massive amount of resources, in particular fossil fuels whose true value and benefit we little understand and will never again realize, have been wasted, and we are no more in command of our circumstances now than when we started. In the past our lives were dictated by forces of nature such as weather and topography. Today we are beholden to obligations necessitated by an environment we ourselves have created.

For better or worse, we have arrived at the ends of the Earth. Its entire extent has been inventoried, mapped, and catalogued. There is no hidden wealth waiting to be discovered, no New World left to exploit. What we have is all we’ve got. Yet we continue on blindly, indiscriminately allocating capital as if we did not know this. It seems we could do better.

The world has grown so small that we no longer have the luxury of boundless expansion. The huge herds, the great forests are all gone. It is time we came to grips with the finite nature of the Earth’s resources and began operating accordingly. How we do this while maintaining our identity as the Land of Opportunity is a question that doesn’t have a ready answer. But one thing is certain. To continue on the path of the locust, consuming everything in our path, without consideration for the consequences of such action, is neither ideal nor practical.

But for now, that is exactly where I am.

An Ever Changing Perspective

For those that didn’t know, I’ve been staying home with my son Keegan. Brandi’s maternity leave ended about six weeks ago, and since then it has just been us boys. It took a little getting used to, not so much for Keegan as for me, and that first week saw me begging Brandi to let me fly the coop as soon as she got home. But all and all it has been a truly enjoyable experience.

There really isn’t anything better than being able to stay home with your child. As summer approaches and the likelihood of picking up some fire-related employment increases, I actually find myself more and more reluctant about trundling him off to day care and rejoining the workforce. Miss that first word, first wobbly step? Nothing seems worth that.

Of course, if you had caught me earlier today, when my adorable little boy was screaming himself red in the face, I probably would have told a different story. There are those moments, when nothing that I do seems to placate him, where I really start to question my fitness for this duty. Maybe I just don’t have what it takes to nurture a four-month old. If his screaming was any indication, Keegan certainly didn’t think so.

For awhile things were all peaches and cream. Keegan and I had a great little system worked out. After mom fed him and left for work, he would play contentedly in his gym while I would drink coffee and write. When it was time for a diaper change, he let me know. Then back into the gym until the next bout with the Grumpies, which was the signal that he was ready for a nap. By the time the nap was over, Mom was home for lunch, and then the cycle started over, minus the coffee.

Enter the bottle. Instead of a trip to Mom’s All-You-Can-Eat Buffet, lunch is now ala carte. This not only produces discontent at lunchtime, but it also shortens the afternoon play and nap sessions. About an hour prior to mealtime, Keegan starts to think he is pretty darn hungry. That last thirty minutes before Brandi gets home can sometimes be a real bear.

Then young Keegan decided that he would begin sleeping through the night. Oh joy, we thought. Unbeknownst to him, that also meant one less feeding, something I don’t think he fully considered. Surely they’ll make it up to me, is what he probably assumed. No such luck buddy. Doc says you’re way too fat as it is. Ratchet up the discontent a little more.

In truth, I think the correlation between his displeasure and these changes to his routine are coincidental. Though he is obviously going through a period of adjustment, what I really believe is that Keegan has reached a new stage in development and the milieu I’ve been providing simply no longer offers the level of stimulation he requires. Couple that with my failure to interact with him adequately and we have one unhappy little man.

One thing about raising children: if you do it wrong, they’ll let you know.

Perpetuating Optimism

Being a dyed in the wool cynic comes with a cost. It is a condition characterized by an excessive pessimism, bordering on negativism, and it can sometimes bring me down. I try hard to resist the temptation to view the glass as half full and maintain my acrimony, but occasionally I am overcome by the sudden and pervasive need to feel stoked. Fortunately for me, since everything in the human experience is relative to the observer, I always have the option of changing my perspective.

Such is the notion behind Positive Blatherings, a treatise that examines the social, spiritual, and philosophical implications of a practical experiment with positivity. Why choose negative over positive, its authors ask, when each is equally valid? One of them certainly includes a lot more smiles. It is an inquiry worthy of exploration, a daringly humanistic enterprise in a world mired in a morass of misanthropy, and I'm excited to be along for the ride.

Give This Man a Pole and He'll Tangle His Line

Buried amid the mass of random ramblings, tedious humdrum, and other exquisitely mundane revelations found on the typical Facebook newsfeed, one can sometimes unearth a real gem. I discovered one such pearl of wisdom just the other day, when my dear friend Josh Tallmadge posted a comment that really struck me. He said, “Thank god for fishing. If we have fishing, we have hope.”

This notion intrigued me. Josh’s observation seemed to be one of those that go a little deeper. It had a broader connotation, implications that went beyond the surface. It set my boat adrift upon the waters of philosophy. Might as well cast around a bit, I reckoned, and wet a little line.

The first thought I hauled up was that by its very nature fishing is an act of faith, at least for a hack like me. An accomplished angler will certainly argue that any real proficiency depends on a whole lot of skill, but I would venture that even they hold out a little bit of hope while they're waiting for a fish to take the bait. For those less consummate, fishing is the definition of optimism. We cast our net into the dark unknown and hope for the best, never truly certain of what, if anything, we might find.

The next thing I hit upon was the absolute imperative contained within Josh’s comment. Logically, if we accept his assertion as true, then its converse must hold as well. So it follows that, without fishing, we are without hope.

Problem there is, fishing is quickly becoming a delicate proposition. Fisheries worldwide are being depleted at ever increasing rates, overfishing threatens marine biodiversity, and human activity such as resource extraction, waste disposal, and power generation destroys habitat. One in five people relies on fish as their primary source of protein. Josh’s statement may have been made in regards to more personal considerations, but it was equally applicable on a global scale. Loss of fishing might dash the hopes of billions.

There is a wonderful old proverb that goes something like, “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat forever.” I have long grasped this metaphor, but in the context of Josh’s comment I have come to see it in a new light. Nowadays, a person can go to market and buy a fish without ever having any idea of where it came from or how it got here. He has been given his fish, and today he will eat. But at what cost? The man doesn’t know. Perhaps there is something to be gained from “teaching the man to fish”, from creating a connection between him and what sustains him, something that offers hope for the future rather than just for the moment.

Lastly I landed at the realization that I need go fishing. Fishing for me is frustrating, since I typically meet with little or no success, mostly due to the fact that I have no idea what it is I’m doing. On one trip up the Blackfoot, after casting with my new Ugly Stik for half an hour to no avail, I handed my rod off to my buddy Tyler Hanley, who promptly caught three fish. Fishing is a learned skill, usually passed down from generation to generation. Tyler learned it from his grandfather, and Josh is teaching it to his boys. Since I want my son Keegan to learn it, my only hope is that there is some patient soul out there who is willing to teach me.

There is a reason why fishing so often appears in literature. Its connotations run deep, inhabiting the very depths of human condition. Fishing gives me faith, even if all I’m really doing is just throwing my line around. Josh is right. If we have fishing, we have hope. Thank god for fishing.

A less than able fly fisherman practices his dubious casting technique on the North Fork Coeur d'Alene river during an annual camping trip to Kit Price

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Fraternal Order of the White Elephant

My brother Jeb has always impressed me with his penchant for saying no to things. Once, when we were kids, our pops took us to a hobby store in Spokane called White Elephant and directed Jeb to pick out “anything he wanted under twenty bucks” as his birthday gift. In about five minutes I had spent that money ten times over, but Jeb was basically overwhelmed by the concept and left the store with nothing more than a few tears to show for his trouble. At the time I thought my brother was a fool, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it is the wiser man who will go without rather than burden himself with something that he isn’t absolutely certain is exactly what he wanted.

Obviously, there is no going without when it comes to diapers. They are one of those things that fall into the category of necessity. But if human beings are anything then they are creatures of habit, so when his wife Sharie told us that Jeb liked Fuzzi Bunz reusable diapers the best, well, I was certain they must surely be the Cadillac of the diaper scene.

There was never any question in my mind that we would be using durable diapers, if for no other reason than I just couldn’t stomach the thought of that huge mound of crap I would be contributing to the landfill. Whether or not durable diapers are more ecologic than disposables is anyone’s guess; both exact a sizeable toll, especially when one considers the modern materials with which many durable diapers are constructed these days. Laundering alone consumes a significant amount of energy, not to mention water. Still, the idea of demanding the production of something for the explicit purpose of throwing it away really wasn’t a concept I could readily align myself with.

Flash forward a few months and those disposable diapers have begun looking like the last doughnut on the break room table. I know I shouldn’t, but boy do I want to. Especially when our son Keegan hasn’t had a movement in awhile and I know one is looming on the horizon. Its times like that when I most desire to just slap some Huggies on him, wait for the poopin’ face, and then pitch that thing out like yesterday’s newspaper. Trouble is, my conscience doesn’t seem to discard them quite as easily.

Not that we haven’t used disposables; we definitely have. There was a period where we used them at night to help us get a handle on a pretty bad case of diaper rash. On a recent whirlwind trip to Troy and Brandi’s parents’ home in Kennewick, we used them exclusively for about a week. After a taste of that, however, I couldn’t wait to get back to using cloth, no matter what kind of pain in the butt they might occasionally cause.

So far we have been, if not diligent, at least fortunate in our attempt at a three R approach to baby paraphernalia. Not only have we gotten mounds of gently used baby stuff from friends and Craigslist, but Brandi’s mom invested a huge amount of time and energy into making us a gigantic pile of cloth diapers. And while they aren’t as high-tech as some of the reusable diapers on the market, after some field testing and a little retrofitting, Cindy’s cloth diapers are still pretty darn slick.

If, when you think of cloth diapers, you imagine a cotton rectangle and a pair of clothes pins; forget it. They may get filled with the same thing, but that is where the similarity between modern diapers and those relics ends. Today’s diapers are all about convenience. True, it’s not as effortless as throwing them in the trash and forgetting them, but after seeing how well they work and how easy they are to use, you wouldn’t want to anyway.

Because this is America and durable diapers is a niche market serviced by numerous small producers rather than a couple big businesses, there are quite a few styles to choose from, each with their own set of strengths and weaknesses. Having had the “which diaper to use” conundrum solved for us by Brandi’s mom, we never had to decipher which of the myriad durables would work best for our purposes; we just used what we were given. But after Brandi related our initial cloth diaper woes (which have since been remedied … thanks Cindy) to our sister in law Sharie, an avid durable diaper proponent, a package containing several examples from the modern era promptly appeared on our doorstep. And just as I figured, the Fuzzi Bunz that Sharie had included were as technically advanced as a jet fighter. I couldn’t imagine Jeb appreciating them more lest they be made of recycled pop bottles and sporting a Patagonia label.

In the end, as with everything, it really comes down to personal choice. Is the use of cloth diapers likely to save the world? No. Does it make you a better person than someone who doesn’t? Not even close. But it may change the way in which you view yourself, your environment, and your relationship with it, which could lead to lifestyle changes that, through cumulative effect, may ultimately have a positive impact somewhere down the line. Perhaps you feel durability is a virtue worth embracing, that eschewing disposable society is worth a little inconvenience. Or maybe you figure cloth will still be there when the Pampers run out, so damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Either way, it’s for each to decide. What’s important, I believe, is that the matter is one well worth considering, and that there is a lot to be said for leaving the store empty handed.

So Long Little Steve, Hello Keegan

Keegan was delivered by cesarean section at eleven forty nine. Brandi was on the table, swathed in blue and green. Before they led me into the operating room they warned me not to touch anything. Her hand was sticking out from beneath the drape and I held on to it for dear life. She said she was sleepy and her eyes kept closing but I wouldn’t let her fall asleep because I didn’t know what I would do if she didn’t wake up.

It’s hard to say he was born. When a baby is delivered cesarean, it isn’t quite the same. The classic elements of story, rising action, climax, resolution, don’t present themselves in a neat tidy manner. Blissful denouement doesn’t immediately follow the baby’s arrival. I was staring at Brandi, splitting my attention between a deliberately vague recognition of the doctors at work upon her and the objective truth of the blood pressure monitor, when I heard them say ‘Baby at eleven forty nine’. A blue green huddle spirited Keegan away from her. Brandi was asking me when she would see him. I was praying as hard as I could and fighting back tears with all my might. They came on like Spartan warriors, fierce as any I have ever known.

They brought Keegan to us and showed him to Brandi and then took him to the nursery and me with him. I had to leave her lying there. I felt no thrill, not even thankful relief. The doctors were still hard at work. I left her life literally in their hands and did as I was told.

He wasn’t as lively as they would have liked and they poked and prodded and monitored him for awhile before finally they were satisfied and left the two of us more or less alone. When he cried I stroked his chest or forehead and he seemed to like that. I asked them where Brandi was and when I could see her and they said that she would be in the recovery room soon but that was all they seemed willing to offer. It was several hours before I saw her and they had told me nothing so when her mom called to ask how things were going I could only respond with fearful uncertainty. All I knew was that there was just Keegan and me, so I focused on that. His hands were tiny but when he wrapped one of them around my finger I was impressed by how tightly he held on.

After what seemed like eternity they brought Brandi out and we were reunited. She had lost a great deal of blood but even pale and weak her appearance was to me like that of an angel. When they arrived late that night, the McCoy’s description was perhaps a bit more apt, and certainly more accurate. I looked like a zombie, they said, and Brandi a ghost. Admittedly, I felt utterly spent and exhausted. Keegan had been released from the nursery and was with us then and we all visited awhile before Cindy took over the watch. I went home and slept so hard that I awoke having hardly moved a muscle.

Keegan’s arrival was a miracle, and Brandi’s performance nothing short amazing. When she was lying on the operating table she told me, “I want two things … first, I want to hold him, and, second, I want some food … I’m starving.” Of course, it was awhile before she was allowed either, but when she finally came out of surgery, she smiled at me like she meant it. The only time she seemed down was when they told her she would be on a clear diet. “Does that mean no food?” she asked.

Common lore holds that childbirth is a magical experience, and in many respects it is, but it is also a frighteningly visceral face to face encounter with mortality. I would like to say it was beautiful, and maybe it was, like a mushroom cloud can appear to be, but I’m not going to. I could make some cynical comment about the massive amount of hospital waste our visit generated, but I won’t. I’ve already filled an entire trash bag with disposable diapers, and I don’t really even feel bad about it. At this point, I haven't the energy for such sarcasm. Right now, I can only be relieved that the color in my loved ones’ faces has returned to an appropriate shade. I’m just happy to be home, listening while Brandi and Keegan get acquainted in the next room. I'm content in the knowledge that my best friend has strength enough to laugh once again. In this, I’ll take product over process. For me, that is where the beauty lies.