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2024 Resolutions: Harmonicas & Misdemeanors

I am approaching my 35th birthday and Year 2024 which is the year I learn to play harmonica. For the greater part of a decade, learning the harmonica has been my New Years resolution. It has yet to be resolved, not even close.

The New Year is my favorite holiday. I love that finally and collectively, we slow down and think about the passing of time, what it means, and how we use it. I tend to consider the passing of time more often than your average jane. It slaps me in the face every week from 6:30 on Friday morning to 7pm on Sunday evening as I watch my patients and their families grapple with the loss of it or the new found appreciation of it. Then, on Monday, I come home to find my kids have gotten taller. Time is a thief they say.

To implement another common saying, I would simply describe time as the devil we know. It is better to familiarize yourself with it, hold hands with it, and understand it’s intricacies rather than shun it, run from it, or ignore it. Time can be brutal and precious and so intensely beautiful or sad or both. It will be here whether you want it to or not. We might as well love it.

“We might as well love it.” I like that sentence. It feels like a sentence that would fix a lot of little problems- cleaning the house, bad weather, irony, a bad haircut, naughty goats, or loose pigs.

I thought I would save the loose pigs story for another time, but here we are. It occurred on October 17th. I was at work for a mandatory class that I felt like I’ve taken 25 times before.

Unbeknownst to me, Michael was dealing with something much more challenging- the pigs were out.

We had the pigs in a temporary electric fence as we were utilizing their snouts for garden cleanup with the idea that their hinders would also be useful for fertilization.

Turns out, their snouts are not only useful for tillage and weed control, but they also make quick work of grounding out a fence. The old adage is true- pigs are smart.

The pigs are so smart that they much prefer me over Michael. This proved a bummer for us when they got out on Michael’s watch, and he was unable to coerce them home. Instead, Rosie and her 4 daughters- Pearl, Esther, Ruby, and Sweets darted. Poor Michael was juggling five loose pigs and two loose kids and none were cooperating. Michael rarely makes things look difficult, but this must have been a sight to see.

We live off a gravel road with farm fields to three sides of us and dense woods to the other. A decent sized creek separates our woods from a large state forest. Our pigs are of the mangalitsa breed- a robust, wooly breed that would certainly thrive through the coming winter with or without us. This piece frightened me- did we just lose our pigs to public land? Will they turn feral and cause some problems? I’ve traveled to a handful of places where feral hogs are a real land and water disturbance.

After a frantic Google, I was not reassured. In typical Google fashion, I was greeted by tales of turmoil including articles about “super pigs” that are making their way to Minnesota from Canada and bringing all sorts of destruction with them. I also found a Minnesota statute that prohibits one to “allow feral swine to run at large”; it appears to be a misdemeanor.

I drove myself home from work at an illegal rate. By the time I arrived home, Michael and my dad had scoured our property three times over by foot and wheels and soon by drone thanks to my cousin Zach. The drone told us that the pigs were not in the fields, but the big forest to the east remained a mystery.

The pigs have now been missing for five hours. Michael has given up, and I still think I’m going to get life in prison for swine at large. I tell Michael about my misdemeanor concerns and overall worry about the pigs’ potential impact on private and public spaces. Michael’s immediate reply was, “I could use a misdeamenor,” and proceeded to call the DNR to ‘fess up and get some info on what we should do if our pigs can’t be found. What a guy.

I called neighbors to let them know about our swine at large. Whomever I called only asked how they could help and shared their own stories of lost livestock. I guess the consensus was- “Welcome to farming!”

Michael and I lunched, put the kids down to nap, and when we nearly threw in the towel on our search, I told Michael, “I’m going to take one more walk by the river.”

Rosie, our mama pig, is my girl. I love her very much. As I downtroddenly sauntered along our side of the creek, I shook a little container of corn and in my sweetest voice, yelled “Rosie! Rosieee!” My hope was minimal.

I answered a phone call from my cousin but hung up on her immediately when I heard a distant grunt. It was my grunting Rosie coming toward me on the other side of the creek! Her four little ladies were strutting behind her. I was so relieved.

There is one single bridge that crosses the creek. Did Rosie and her piglets swim across or had they walked the half mile there and half mile back?

I tried to lure Rosie across the creek. She dipped her front feet in the water and immediately backed away. I would need to go get her.

Michael called my mom to watch the kids. I called my aunt Arlette to see if she would come with me to get the pigs. Rosie loves Arlette, and I needed all the influence I could get. Michael and my dad stood by at a distance with their weaponry. I guess you could say that the shotguns were Plan B.

I’m not sure Arlette knew what she was getting into when she showed up in Crocs. We would be traversing little peaks and valleys, inevitably emerging full of cockle burrs, getting muddy, and possibly choosing a water passage. The Crocs did not slow her down.

The next couple of hours were a blur. Arlette and I were in the zone, strategizing paths and constantly coaxing forward while preventing any off shoots. Esther insisted on lying down and taking many breaks while the other pigs stopped to root around when they found something of interest.

For the first half of the journey, we debated if we would try a stream crossing. We opted for the bridge route instead. I got nervous about cars that might pass onto the state land; this could spook the pigs into immediate dispersal. Michael and my dad stood by the road while trying to be out of site of Rosie who would be immediately suspicious of Michael.. and apparently for good reason.

On second thought, this whole scene looked very suspicious- Arlette and I covered in cockle burrs and mud, five pigs trailing us at varying distances, and two guys with guns and a truck and trailer 50 yards behind. At some point, my mom and the kids were also a part of the march.

We passed Arlette’s house on the way to our house. At this point, we thought we would lure the pigs into her garage. I grabbed her decorative pumpkin from the front porch and said, “Arlette, Rosie would love this!” at which point Arlette chucked the pumpkin onto her cement driveway to bust it up for pig bait. This memory lives rent free in my head as I laugh to think about the sacrifice of fall decor for this seemingly necessary intervention.

The pigs did not buy into the garage idea, and instead, we got them all the way back to our barn. The pigs were wiped and so were we.

On the next day, I replaced Arlette’s pumpkin and Michael made an appointment with the butcher. I will not be serving life in prison after all, and Michael never did get his misdemeanor. There’s always next year.

Happy New Year!

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Princess Blight

Gardening is weird. From what I’ve learned, there are 101 ways to do it. In some years, you might be the Queen of Tomatoes. In other years, you might be Princess Blight.
Overwatering and underwatering exhibit the same symptoms which is highly frustrating for a nurse who wants a clear and concise treatment protocol. And then there is bolting. How dare you bolt and flower and then go sour before we consume all your power (my ode to my beloved but rebellious arugula).
If we are looking for high points in and around my summer garden, you will mostly find them in the around region. My garden was planted in a former hay field abutting the forest. As I labored with love on the weeds on the in region, I took the occasional stroll around the edge to walk it off- the sore hands, the frustration, the crying Winnie in a stroller.
On my stroll, I found forest food after forest foot that had nothing to do with my strategically executed labors.
Earlier on, it was black raspberries. Shortly after, it was gooseberries. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, plums started dropping from the sky. Wild grapes followed. A rogue squash plant grew out of nowhere. You can see how this became both discouraging and enlightening.
After my nice stroll along the fruitful forest edge, I reluctantly returned to my struggling cabbage patch. I continued to pluck weeds that largely consisted of purslane and lambs quarter, two incredibly nutritious and delicious greens. It soon felt silly to throw these aside so I chose one of three options- eat them, pile them up for the pigs, or talk about them with Hutch so at least he won’t be silly enough to dispose of nature’s bounty.
The fourth option took hold around late July- retire from weeding entirely. My new motto became “what takes, takes; screw the rest,” or something like that.
My anti-weeding inspo came from our pig garden that I mentioned in the last blog post. Our pigs perfectly sprinkled their manure and food scrap remnants in last year’s pen which they had diligently tilled up to the point of no weed growth (except some of that lambs quarter).
It was a large space filled with volunteer squashes, pumpkins, gourds, and tomatoes. They were tended to by no one and grew better than anything in my labor of loathing.. I mean love.
I have to admit that some things turned out great. Those some things were okra (which I have never consumed before in my life), tomatillos (which I have never cooked with before in my life), and watermelon (which really made my summer, honestly; Winnie’s too).
Today is September 13th and I want to believe that my tomatoes are still coming. In the meantime, I’ll keep picking the red volunteers over in the pig garden. I do have to walk through burning nettle to get those, but it’s worth it.
Last winter, I read an entire encyclopedia on gardening. It was an awesome book, and as I always do, I took meticulous notes. The book was titled “Fresh from the Garden” by John Whitman. I wonder if John Whitman would read this blog and use my testimonies to promote his very informative teachings :/. John, I’ll do better next year! I promise, your book was really good.
Apparently, studying is only part of gardening. I think I just need practice, a better watering system (which is in the works thanks to Sam and Patty), less distractions, more persistence, and if possible- more predictable weather patterns. Oh, I should also do less. Instead of planting everything, I’ll skip the okra. 
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Worst Jobs Ever

I’m learning that farming or homesteading or whatever we’re doing over here in our blissful little bluff-covered corner, is often a series of “worst jobs ever”. After Michael and I relocated the pigs and newly birthed piglets, I thought, “Glad that’s done; that sucked,” after chasing down runaway piglets. It was déjà vu as I remembered saying the same thing to my sweaty self after cleaning a winter’s worth of poop and pee-laden bedding out of the goat pen. As I inhaled ammonia, broke a pitchfork, and sweat through my shirt, I thought, “This must be the worst job ever.”

Since the pig pen relocation, I have also given the goats their CDT vaccines in their neck fat, of which there is hardly any, and held piglets upside down as the vet castrated them. Michael cleaned up dead chicken parts in the aftermath of a predator invasion. In addition to all that fun, I spend nights worrying if we’re feeding the animals enough or maybe too much or probably the entirely wrong ratio of feed and pasture. Hobby farming… what joy!

While other people scroll through funny TikToks at bedtime, I’m reading forums about the best loose mineral for goats or studying what to do when kids (goat babies) are being birthed in a bad position. The answer is that you get your hands in there and fix it. As I write this on July 10th, our arguably favorite goat, Pickles, is due to have her kid(s) tomorrow. For a generally calm person, I’m quite nervous.

Since I didn’t intend for this blog post to be about my sweet preggo goats, I’ll move on from the idea that I may have to stick my hands in their vagina very soon. Instead, let’s talk about pigs.

One year ago and a couple extra months, we bought three Mangalitsa pigs. It started with an old coworker of mine posting about her cute little piglets for sale. Since we had lived on water for the previous 7 years of our lives, you could say that Michael and I were eager to put this newly acquired green space to practical use.

Pigs? Why not! Two males? Sure! Potential for pasture-raised pork from the only remaining wooly breed to exist, yes please!

With two males (Finn and Sawyer) in the works, I perused Craigslist for an unrelated female. As always, Craigslist delivered and Rosie was acquired.

I have a major soft spot for Rosie and not just because she has the same colored hair as one of my favorite human beings- Arran Davis. Rosie is both gentle and fierce, also a bit like Arran.

To make what could be a lengthy series of stories short- Sawyer died and Rosie nearly died once- thank goodness for Arlette and my mom who nursed her back to health while we were out of town.

Finn, who was initially much smaller than Rosie, attempted to breed her for 6 months straight before his size allowed for success, and on May 4th of 2023, our hog herd went from two to eleven!

Michael and I tend to jump into things eagerly with minimal preparedness. In other words, what we lack in experience or expertise, we make up for in spirit. While Michael will binge handfuls of Youtube videos for some quick knowledge, I have subscribed to upwards of a dozen homesteading/pig/goat/gardening podcasts that keep me company to and from work.

While Michael had not interacted much with oinkers before, I do have some familial background with piggies. I remember playing with Grandpa Johnson’s piglets in the hog barn here. That same barn exists today and got a new updo last summer when Michael rebuilt the fallen roof.

Unfortunately, Grandpa J did not include us in the pig chores as much as we were included in evenings of milking his Brown Swiss cows. I now understand why as I have seen our pigs bite through a pumpkin in one chomp and would not want the same kind of chomp delivered to a child’s arm or leg. We also keep our kids out of the pig pen. Retrieving a severed appendage would actually be the worst job ever.

Sometime in early spring, with no background as to when consummation occurred, we decided that Rosie was definitely pregnant. As rural folk say so eloquently, she was “bagging up”. We had the hunch we should separate Rosie and Finn prior to the birth but had zero clue as to when the birth should occur.

On May 1st, after a weekend of Rosie showing increased aggression towards Finn (not so casually ramming him into the side of their shelter) and being incredibly “bagged up”, we separated mama and papa.

On the morning of May 4th, I went out to do the chores and came across a site that nearly brought me to tears. Mama Rosie had just finished birthing her 9th piglet. She was still laying down and panting, but she appeared calm and comfortable. The last two piglets were trying to maneuver their way to any available teat. They were tiny, squeaky and incredibly adorable.

I watched the scene from afar as I had made the goal to steer clear of the natural birthing process. Mangalitsa pigs are known for being able to handle their births independently. We did not use a farrowing crate. Instead, we provided plenty of hay for Rosie to make her own nesting area. We didn’t touch the piglets for a full week. When we did, we picked them up only out of necessity and to get one good picture.

Rosie did great. She was a first time mom, and she bonded quickly and equally with all of her babies. I loved watching this and easily related to her as she grunted at them to go back in their shelter at night and as she layed down to feed them whenever they squealed at her feet.

One of the sweetest things to see was when the piglets were done nursing, they would go up to Rosie’s face and rub their noses on hers as if to say “thank you mama”.

Our first farrowing experience was a success. Rosie had nine piglets and still has nine. We got four males and five females and a nice mix of ones that look like Finn and others even redder than Rosie.

We did have one injured piglet, cause unknown. It was one of our largest males who showed back leg weakness that was worse in the evenings. He also demonstrated balance issues. It looked like an incomplete spinal cord injury. He ate and drank well; time was all he needed. After a month, he appeared fully healed.

The next looming “worst job ever” was castration. Should we or shouldn’t we? If we did, should we do it ourselves, include a vet, or recruit someone wiser than us? My mom and aunt were able to recount what Grandpa J and Uncle Ray did. Michael’s dad had another rendition. It seemed that the holding of the pig was the biggest variable with the rest of it being consistently dreadful- cut a hole, grab the testicle, yank, repeat. The holding part varied from draping over a fence, cradling on the farmer’s lap, or positioned in a five gallon pail.

As a nurse who’s grossed out by nothing, I knew I could handle the gory details of the job. But, as a nurse who appreciates evidence-based practice and proper training, I called the veterinarian.

The animal doctors were great. Shout out to Karen and Aliyyah. We were happy to have them here. We were hoping to establish ourselves as patients should we need an emergency visit during off hours or prescribed medications. As of June 11, there was also a change by the FDA that all animal antibiotics will need to be prescribed rather than available over the counter. I’m sure this is controversial in some spheres as it creates another step for farmers who are already doing so much, but it makes sense to me. Overuse and misuse of antibiotics have been prevalent in the human medical field as well and this has led to antibiotic resistance and hard or impossible to treat bacterial illness. I’m sure the same problem is happening in veterinary medicine.

Back to the testicle tugging. It was almost as displeasing as the stories told. Michael and I did the holding while the docs did the cutting. We held them upside down, sanitized their region, and used a razor to cut a slit. The testicle was found and pulled.

If you came to this blog for tips and tricks on castration, look no further (or if you’re wise, you might want to). We learned not castrate on a very hot day. The additional stress could be detrimental.

It is definitely a two or three person job. One person holds the pig upside down by the legs. Another person can hold the head and front legs more comfortably. The lucky third person cuts and pulls. If you have a friend who agrees to help you with this event, keep them forever; that person is a treasure because once again, it is a “worst job ever” kind of thing.

Another tidbit, castrate early. It’s easier, and they heal faster. With hot spells and scheduling conflicts delaying our appointment, we did not castrate until the piglets were 7 weeks old. Within 8 weeks is okay, within two weeks is best.

Lastly, it wasn’t quite as intense as I had expected. The piglets were immediately moving around like normal, and they healed quickly. The long-lasting benefit is that they can now live together in harmony for the remainder of their lives.

I finally understand the cliché of eating like pigs. Pigs really do eat. We feed ours grass clippings, weeds, garden waste, food scraps, and finally- dealer’s choice of a corn, oats, and sunflower seeds. This year, thanks to my dad’s help, we planted a field of oats that we plan to turn to hay for winter feed.

While pigs are generally raised for pork, we have found a few bonus benefits. After throwing them scraps of squash, pumpkins, and gourds last fall, we now have a magnificent surprise garden of the aforementioned produce.

I’m not sure if the seeds made a trip through the pig and out their rear ends or if they settled in directly from the produce, but they have certainly established themselves! I’m sure the soil was very fertile from all the excrement.

I would like to utilize the pigs as tillers this fall by putting them in the space that we use for a garden next spring. Not only would this enrich the soil with some good old manure fertilizer, but pigs are experts at rooting up all the weeds. We have seen how quickly they can create a blank space of rich soil.

Another unexpected benefit of our pigs was predator prevention. Before moving the pigs early this summer, we had them next to the goats and chickens. The chickens free-ranged without consequence; the goats too.

This summer, after moving the pigs to their own area, we went from 15 chickens to just three.

I can’t help but believe our big wooly grunting beasts were a reliable deterrent to the raccoons and minks of our world. In their absence, our live trap has been busy. Deciding what to do with a returning predator… another worst job ever.

I’m being dramatic with the “worst job ever” complaints. The worst jobs ever are always done in balance with all the beautiful/wonderful/pinch me parts. It’s a little like everything else- eating a salad with a brownie for dessert or giving birth to then holding the little person of your dreams.

My job as a nurse knows this well- some days really break your heart and others are all the more life-giving because of those worst days. When it’s all thrown into the big bucket of life, it might be filled with a lot of shit, but it’s going to be growing the best damn surprise squash garden you never expected.

* pictures (in order from top to bottom) 1, 2, 17, 23, 24, 29, 35, 38, and the cover photo were taken by Brooke Rihn Photography, you can find her on IG or Facebook by the same name 🙂

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Raspberry Parade

If I were a physician, a medicine woman, a psychiatrist, a marriage counselor, or any person that’s expected to provide prescriptions for problems, I would grab my prescription pad and scribble “take a hike” for a good chunk of today’s troubles.

Michael, Hutch, and I are fresh off of eight days of hiking the Superior Hiking Trail (SHT).

We had guest appearances by our easygoing, adventurous friends Pete and Tracey (plus Kip the dog). We got to have them at The Northern Post as well. This was a true highlight. 

On another day, Neighbor Sam joined us for a full 13.5 mile day that ended at the dynamic Temperance River.

While near Grand Marais, we got to have my highschool pal Arran, who usually resides in Switzerland, along for probably the most beautiful and certainly the most dramatic section- Pincushion Mountain Trailhead to County Road 14.

We also got to stay with Arran’s mom and dad for a couple of nights. This is always a joy. Our time included good food, soccer, feeding goats, wonderful chats, and for us- necessary showers.

We made it a goal to jump in Lake Superior or any other body of water after each hiking day- a form of bathing I suppose, certainly the most enjoyable kind. 

With Pete and Tracey, we got a mid-day swim in Bear Lake. A loon was living here. His noises reverberated in the valley of this special lake that remained untouched by any road.

With Sam, we reached the mouth of the Temperance River at the end of the day and swam there. Being with Sam near the water always feels right. We met him five years ago as our neighbor in the the marina when we lived on the houseboat in St. Paul. Our memories with Sam always include water… or that damn tower (see tower tale blog post for details).

With Arran, we found ourselves very sweaty and in the right place for a cure- Devil Track River.

Our other swimming holes included Illgen Falls (a slightly hidden gem) and the classic Lake Superior dips at Split Rock River Wayside.

Outside of swimming, our eight wonderful days (in this third trip anyway; 20 days in total this summer) on the SHT included 102 miles of berry picking, song singing, joke making, discussion diving, and tidbits of silence… but not much of that.

Most of my quiet, tranquil moments were abrubtly interrupted by a sweet little voice yelling “Mama! Ra-berry!… Mama! Ra-berry!”

Raspberries, juneberries, thimbleberries, serviceberries, gooseberries, and the beginnings of blueberries lined our trails and filled our bellies. It’s no wonder all the bear scat is dark with berry juice and sprinkled with their seeds- the berries are everywhere.

We referenced our guide book Wild Berries & Fruits by Teresa Marrone to learn more about what was what. We sampled chokecherries (astringent AF) and rose hips (mostly seeds with a potato-like skin). Sam tried the bunchberries with an unimpressed reaction. We avoided the baneberries (toxic, both red and white ones) as well as the sarsparilla and the blue-beaded lilies (both inedible).

Michael proofread this blog and didn’t want me to forget the scootberries. Our guidebook stated that they are inedible because they cause problems like diarrhea. In Michael’s words: “That sounds less like a problem and more of a solution.” And that’s all you need to know about scootberries.

The raspberries were the most abundant. We would spend 10 minutes picking at one patch and still leave hundreds for the next hiker.

Like a true Minnesotan, Michael began to sing this well known Prince song whilst among the berries: Raspberry parade, the kind you find in a second hand store. Raspberry parade, if it was warm she wouldn’t wear much more.

Like me, you are probably thinking, “whaaaattt Michael?..”

I paused for a moment and said, “Michael, did you just say raspberry parade?”

Michael, “yes.”

Me, “Michael, it’s raspberry beret… the kind she finds at a second hand store.”

Michael, “….”

We both eat a handful of berries now and have a moment of silence.

Michael, “I don’t think so.”

Me, “… are you serious?”

Now, in the middle of the woods, I must dig my phone out of my backpack, turn it off airplane mode, hope and pray for cell service, and Google this very obvious win I’m about to experience.

With pride, I show him the true lyrics of the very popular song titled RASPBERRY BERET.

My ego is large now. My belly is full of raspberries. Michael is humbled. Life is good, and we sing his version of Raspberry Parade the rest of the trip.

When you hike for 8 plus hours per day, you and your hiking partners cover a lot of conversational ground. Hutch’s content revolved around the word “ra-berry” 90% of the time. This is now the longest word in his vocabulary, but he learns it out of necessity so he can direct his mama from his borrowed (Thanks Tannica & Sam!) Kelty carrier throne atop his father’s back.

“Mama, ra-berry!… Mama! Ra-berry!” Sometimes, I oblige and hand-pick the juiciest berry for our little forest prince. Other times, I’m simply too sore or exhausted or blistered to perform one more bend in the hot sun mid-ascension to the rocky ridgeline. During those times, we’ll pass the alluring berries quickly and ignorantly and say, “let’s keep looking,” and in 0.2 seconds, Hutch has scouted out another patch.

This is our third hiking trip on the SHT this summer. We have completed 221.5 miles with the goal to complete a total of 249.5 miles from Martin Road in Duluth to the northern terminus by the end of this year. We only have 28 miles left now.

This trail is one that we’ve wanted to acquaint ourselves with since buying land here in Two Harbors in 2015. These northern woods are both wild and comforting, two adjectives I also use to describe my husband; perhaps that’s why I love them both so much.

These north woods are different than the Hutchinson prairies that Michael grew up on or the deciduous driftless region that raised me.

These woods have an abundance of northern white pines (Michael’s favorite tree) that draw your eyes straight to the sky and cedar trees (my favorite) that grow erratically yet purposefully from any boulder or bog.

The trail has both robust and trickling streams, beaver ponds that come alive at night with a delightful cacophony of creature noises, waterfalls that feel other-worldly, backcountry lakes untouched by any sense of civilization, ridgelines that bring you close to heaven, and valleys that make you feel small again.

We scare up grouse a couple times a day, and on once occasion, we were attacked by what I assume to be a mother grouse.

The bears remained elusive while we saw their berry-ridden poop everywhere. I now fear the grouse more than the bear.

Moose prints were seen a couple of times- an animal we dream about catching a glimpse of. Unfortunately, we are much too chatty to allow for this fortuity.

Human sightings were only occasional- a surprise to us as this trail is incredibly accessible with trailheads every 1.7 to 11.8 miles. Some days, we saw nobody.

One day, we met a 73 year old woman named Jean. She was hiking 11 miles by herself. Her husband would pick her up at the end of the day. He did this every day for her- drop her off at the start and pick her up at the end.

Jean ran into a bear before she ran into us. We had our lunch break with her as she regaled us with her decades of hiking stories. I loved her.

Near a trailhead, we met a family with a little girl who greeted me by saying, “I like your purple everything,” as they skidaddled past us. It strangely made my day, and I thought: should I start using a version of this compliment? Perhaps, I will tell others, “I like your everything,” or “Your everything is wonderful.” I don’t know.. maybe this statement is most endearing from a five year old.

Another observation about the Superior Hiking Trail humans: most hikers (and especially the solo thru-hikers) were female. This was a pleasant surprise.

I have been hiking in a variety of ways and in many places for over a decade, and my gender is usually outnumbered. I find the same trend in boating- males everywhere.

Perhaps I share certain pieces of me most online- the forest activities and the river living- because I want other women to know that these places are for them. Of course, women have always been here, but it is harder to find the representation- the books about them, the public figures, etc. I have read my fair share of Mark Twain, Sigurd Olson, and Henry David Thoreau, but it is harder to find a book written by a woman like Jean.

(Side note: After intentionally seeking these out, I have found two books about women in the outdoors and am reading them both right now. I highly recommend these books pictured below. Rivers Running Free is now on my list of favorites. Thank you Gina for the book borrow.)

Back to the SHT shiz. I have talked about the incredible beauty of the trail, but there are hard parts too. I feel obligated to include the good, the bad, and the ugly.

My feet blister every time. My combination of moleskin, tape, and nylons under wool socks only ease the discomfort. By day four, the blisters finally pass the stage of pain with every step.

Camping with a one year old can be amazing or terrible. We changed course to day hiking after a night in which Hutch acquired a face full of bug bites nearly swelling his right eye shut. In that same night, Hutch woke at 4am crying to leave the tent and go into the darkness to play with the bears and the bugs. I should include that the camping sites are all group sites which is wonderful but not at 4am with a crying baby.

We decided to complete our third trip by day hiking only. This eliminated some of the aforementioned problems and allowed us to carry lighter.

We needed a “shuttle” to park or get back to our vehicle each day, so we utilized our electric bike.

The bike was a perfect shuttle service and even allowed us time on the Gitchi Gami bike trail. We are able to triple up on the bike, so it’s as good as a car for these short distances. It is also Hutch’s very favorite thing. If you see his front perch view here, you can understand why.

We only had one biking hiccup- a flat tire. It was being used for shuttle in the morning when Michael drove it alone back to us after leaving our car at the endpoint. He went flat with 4 miles to go and got a text through to me in a place with minimal cell service. In 10 minutes, I recruited a stranger named Maddy who had driven to our trailhead from his direction. I asked, “Did you see a hitchhiker a few miles away?” She said, “Yup, I thought about getting him but knew my mom would kill me.”

Maddy offered to pick him up now. She was smart though and asked me a few personal questions that she then made him answer before letting him in her car. He got the questions right, whew.

He hid the bike there in the woods until we could pick it up after our hike. Maddy wouldn’t take the payment we offered her. She said, “Someone did the same for me a few weeks ago.” People are good. Thank you Maddy.

Unfortunately, this year was much drier than normal leaving some trail water sources unavailable. We use the Sawyer filter (highly recommended) to filter water from any stream or pond.

The lack of water is usually a non-issue on the SHT. This year was different, so while we used our filter frequently, we also carried more water to assure hydration.

The wildfire haze was another new feature. Our weather report provided air quality alerts telling us to avoid extensive activity in the outdoors…hmmm, and our views of Lake Superior had a smoke-stained filter.

Campfires were banned completely. None of this is normal.

I write in this blog for fun, for a place to keep memories, for a place to share lightness in a sometimes heavy world, and to show a life that we work to keep simple, clarified, and reduced down to only what feels real- free of excess and free of societal expectations.

In time, I find that I cannot both enjoy the simple life that the woods and the waters offer us and omit the important discussions of stewardship as well as the environmental detriments being caused by human greed, gluttony, and the generational conditioning that has led us to create such harmful habits to each other and to the earth.

I have a lot of thoughts on these things. They are stored somewhere important in my brain, probably right next to all the Prince lyrics. I will share more of this in future writings, potentially more Prince as well.

I will keep my writings balanced like I believe life should be. Living lightly and living purposefully is not mutually exclusive.

I hope you stay along for the ride. Like forest prince Hutch in his Kelty carrier throne, I will feed you many sweet and sun-kissed raspberries and a few sour ones. They will both be worth a taste. Thanks for joining our raspberry parade.

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Well, SHT

And within a matter of ten minutes, we came across a police officer. She seemed to be taking inventory of the miscellaneous items astrewn across the Superior Hiking Trail: a broken folding chair, a torn shirt, garbage, and plastic bags stating “Patient Belongings” pouring out items like puke bags, kleenex, and gauze. As she talked to us, these statements stuck hard and fast to the deep place where my mom anxieties live: “we’re looking for this guy”, “he’s well known to police”, “we think he’s camping in the area”. I muttered, “Do you think it’s safe to be camping with our baby?” She replied, “Well, yeah, just get out of this general area” as she waved in every direction. And with that, I was ready to complete our 47 miles in that single day.


I never watch crime shows. I always say that I spend far too much time in the woods to infiltrate my brain with that. The scenario above would have been the perfect set for such a show- sunny day, unsuspecting couple with baby, friendly cop, bizarre items placed perfectly in disarray. Even without crime TV influences, my mom brain spent the next two hours considering every scenario. I thought, “shoot, I should’ve asked for his name or what he looks like… now, we’ll meet a guy on the trail and have no idea if it’s him.” At some point, I decided I would befriend him. If we met him, I wouldn’t want him to feel threatened. If things really escalated, I had bear spray- something I insist to bring and Michael believes is unnecessary. To be honest, he’s probably more correct.


I start with this whole story to show you that fear is alive and well when trying something new. This would be the first multi-day hiking and camping trip that we’ve done since Hutch was born. We would be backpacking 47 miles of the Superior Hiking Trail (SHT) on this trip with plans to complete the remaining 250ish miles in separate trips later this summer and fall. This flatter first section (from Duluth to Two Harbors) would be our trial run. We slept in a tent with him the night before the trip to see how he would do. It was a total disaster.


Hiking and camping without our one year old child would be business as usual. Backpacking with a baby was new territory.

Would he tolerate being carried for most waking hours? Would he nap in the carrier or would we have to stop and put up the tent? Would he even sleep at night next to us and not in his crib? Would he cry all night and wake up every other camper? How would the bugs be? Will it rain? Will it get cold at night? Will he get eaten by a bear? My dad warned about bears and reminded me that Hutch would be “a tasty little morsel”. I don’t worry much but I found my mom mind exacerbating every little idea.


Backpacking with a baby also comes with extra weight. We do cloth diapers which are not light, especially when wet. He still breastfeeds but needs extra milk in addition to that; dried milk formula would have to be brought. I insisted that we not only filter the water we give Hutch but that we boil it too. We used a thick sleep sack for his sleeping bag, and I brought him snow pants to wear on the cold mornings when he wanted to play in the mud. Our packs were not light.


After two hours of hiking away from “this general area”, every single worry dissipated. We got in our groove with good conversation, plenty of play breaks where we strapped Hutch’s shoes on and let him run around, snack breaks of Nutella slathered on tortillas (highly recommended), perfect weather, and a basic joy of just being together in one of our favorite places- the woods.


Hutch was incredibly adaptable. He fell asleep easy and was able to sleep straight through the night by the 3rd night. He tolerated being in the carrier for 8ish hours per day and napped there too. While Michael and I got at least three ticks on us per day, Hutch had none. We were very dedicated to twice-a-day tick checks. The mosquitoes were not out yet- a true luxury.

We learned that we could dry the wet cloth diapers on the back of our packs; they would then be lighter and reusable. I got nearly a dozen painful foot blisters (waterproof shoes might not have been the best idea). A friendly hiker borrowed me moleskin, and I soaked my feet in the rivers. They no longer hurt by the third day. We were faster than we expected completing 11 to 15 miles per day and averaging two miles per hour. We finished two days earlier than we expected. The section completed was Martin Rd. to Reeves Rd. We will continue northbound as time allows.

The uninterrupted time together outdoors is truly as good as life gets. It’s incredibly refreshing to be removed from society with phones off and our eyes on what surrounds us. Being a little unnerved about something felt good for my system; I think everyone should try it- let fear happen and embrace some healthy discomfort. Also, I will continue to avoid crime shows at all costs.

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“Do You Know What You’re Doing?” (the tower tale)

So, Michael just bought a fire tower today…
That’s correct. For a whopping five dollars paid to the Wisconsin DNR, Michael purchased a 116 foot lookout fire tower- the kind that looms above the tree line to see as far as the birds. I woke up this morning to Michael shaking me awake and saying, “five minutes left (in the online auction) and the tower is ours!” I try to process this insane project with my mind still halfway in dreamland… I cannot. We watch as the minutes tick away (Michael excitedly, I with a sense of impending doom), and then suddenly we own a humongous fire tower somewhere in Wisconsin. Michael shares his thrill in a text thread where he starts recruiting his buddies for all weekends over the next 90 days (the time allowed to remove the tower before we get fined). Sam immediately responds, “Nope”; this is definitely a logical response. Calli volunteers Chris to which Chris readily agrees with the clause “just don’t kill me Mike!”. Neighbor Sam has been encouraging this idea all along and told me yesterday “if Michael buys that tower, I’m in”. The answers are varied, and I don’t know what to think.

I think back to cutting down the looming tree limb at the boathouse spot. The neighbor downstream asked Michael, “do you know what you’re doing?”. I know Michael well enough to know he said, “oh yeah, this will be no problem” or something that similarly instills a maybe false but certainly reassuring confidence. I hope I’m not revealing too many of my husband’s secrets here. I haven’t figured out if he truly believes he can do anything, or if he just wants us to buy in to what’s happening here. Either way, the b.s. he’s putting out has yet to fail us. I wouldn’t have half of these adventures without him.

You may be wondering what one does with a 116 foot lookout tower. From my understanding, one looks out from it and that’s pretty much the gist. I’m sure there will be stories to come on how this massive structure makes it’s way from Eau Claire, Wisconsin to Two Harbors, Minnesota. I can’t quite wrap my head around the process but Michael claims he’s got it all figured out… typical.

As Michael’s off to the bank to get that five dollars where it needs to be, I’m here writing and reminiscing. I think about the question “do you know what you’re doing?” as so logically asked by our neighbor. I wonder now, do any of us really know what we’re doing? If we truly know what we’re doing each step of the way, are we doing it right? If there’s no challenge or uncertainty, are we doing enough? I can imagine that the ones who’ve made waves before us- ambitious souls like Thomas Edison, Martin Luther King Jr., and Amelia Earhart- did not make waves without failure, uncertainty, and fear. One of my favorite quotes is this by Thomas Edison: “I have not failed, I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” I’m certain that Amelia Earhart got asked over and over again, “what are you doing?”; she certainly stepped outside of the box she was put in, and controversy and fear were no match for MLK’s tenacity. Now I know that I’m comparing MK (Michael Kahl) to greats like MLK here but just go with it. Apparently, I put my husband on a pretty high pedastal. Don’t worry, I kick him in the ego once in awhile too; I believe in a balanced life.
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I scribbled out the above on the day that Michael bought the tower: August 20, 2018. Since that date, the hourglass was flipped- the tower must be down in 90 days or we will be fined ten dollars per day; that is two large extra shot lattes per day or one week’s worth of laundry at the laundromat- both washed and dried. I began to wonder- will I have to budget out coffee or clean clothes if this thing doesn’t get down in time? I wouldn’t know which to choose. I still had no idea how Michael planned to remove this looming steel structure. It was tall, heavy, and seemingly permanent in it’s place. While the tower did cost $5, I soon realized that the extras would add right on up. First, gas money. It would be a 170 mile round trip at least once per week. Also, we were finding that on more days than not, one of our two trucks wasn’t running right for one reason or the next. The removal required an insurance policy (understandably so), so Michael called our buddy Paul who also happens to be an insurance guy; he was crazy or kind or both of those enough to insure it. The work also required multiple Menards trips and a trailer that would exist in Eau Claire for three months (thanks Neighbor Sam). A storage shed rental near the removal site was also necessary, oh and time.. lots of time.

Have I said how much I love my husband? I really would do anything for the guy but this whole tower thing… it stretched my limits. One night, with the 90 day cutoff date looming and half the tower still remaining, we sat in Happy Hollow Tavern guzzling a beer and a hamburger after a cold and long day picking at the tower piece by piece. I was exhausted and thoughtlessly spilled out the sentence, “Michael, you bit off more than you can chew on this one.” He was quiet and thoughtful and said “If I could go back in time, I would have never bought it.” This sentence broke my heart. He said this in response to a fatigue and frustration that he knew I was feeling and that was inevitably rubbing off on him. He said this after a very long weekend in abnormally cold fall weather. He said this with a very hungry stomach. Michael had talked about deconstructing and reconstructing a fire tower for YEARS, multiple years. While I’m aware that this is a very odd and specific goal, it was one that never went away. Michael kept showing me towers on Craigslist, admiring towers on road trips, and dreaming about the day he would work on one. Believe it or not, I vetoed a handful of towers for sale before this one fell in our shopping cart. So when this one came along, one that was accessible by road and cost thousands of dollars less than the others, I decided to keep my mouth shut and let him live this one out, for better or worse. That is what I promised, right? “For better or worse, richer or poorer, fire tower debacle or not.” Now, here we were at Happy Hollow Tavern and Michael was confessing to the notion that this project might be over his head. I immediately wanted to backpedal, reverse my negativity, swallow that phrase “you bit off more than you can chew”, and encourage him, cheer him on, slap him on the butt and say “you got it slugger”.. or something like that.

After that brief exchange of guilt or regret or whatever, we did what all the great drunks of past and present do, we left those tortured emotions on the barstool and never looked back. Well, actually, a drunk would probably go back. Also, we’re not drunks… bad analogy. Anyway, we moved forward and moved forward fast- 90 days to remove a tower with no heavy equipment. The tower came down the old fashioned way- bolt by bolt, piece by piece, in both good and foul weather. It had too, or I was going to have to give up extra-shot lattes and clean laundry.

Our 90 day cutoff date was on the horizon when Michael got a phone call. A woman from the DNR office called to say, “We checked the site and it looks like you’re making a real honest effort”… she extended the deadline. Magically, we had three more months. With a ton of help from Neighbor Sam, I am happy to report that the tower did come down in it’s entirety. With climbing harnesses strapped on, ladders rigged with ropes, tool belts tied tight, a grounds crewman or crewwoman to detach and load up the beams, and Kwik Trip pizza for lunch always, the tower removal was a complete surprise.. I mean success. With the extended deadline by the grace of the Wisconsin DNR, the fire tower was removed in time and somehow, someway, without injury. I think back to the night when Michael said “I would have never bought it”… he had never said anything like that before that or after that. I know he never meant that for himself; he meant it only for my sake. He knew I wasn’t utterly jazzed up about the tower idea and the takedown took longer than planned. But Michael, he was never intimidated, never scared, never uninspired. Michael dug in to this project like he does everything else- tenaciously and without regret. While I outwardly hated (not to sugarcoat it or anything) this tower from the beginning, Michael loved everything about it- the challenge, the planning and forethought it required, the heights, the often inclement weather, and the physicality and guts required to reach, unbolt, tie, and maneuver while strung up high in the sky. I have to admit something here: the tower project was a lot of things but the most unavoidable of those things- it was a lot of fun.

At the time Michael purchased his, the Wisconsin DNR attempted to sell eight fire towers. They only sold one. That’s right. Only one human in Wisconsin and the surrounding states decided they would buy a fire tower; that human is my husband. So what do you say when someone asks, “do you know what you’re doing”? I think it’s less about what you say and more about what you do; you do it anyway- tenaciously and without pause, without regret, without internalizing the doubt that the world, and even your wife, might eagerly offer. You might only know what you’re doing when you find 10,000 ways to do it wrong, or you might get lucky- your big humongous looming steel tower might just come down without a hitch.

After I read this blog to Michael, he informed me that, “I don’t really like Thomas Edison though.” When I asked him why, he let me know that Edison didn’t actually invent the lightbulb… I’ll have to fact check that later. Michael went on to share a favorite quote of his that he finds more applicable to his experience, and I have to agree- it’s better than Edison’s. His preferred quote is this: “Good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgement” as stated by writer and activist Rita Mae Brown. So, allow me to revise my ending: You might only know what you’re doing when you find 10,000 ways to do it wrong, or you might get lucky- your big humongous looming steel tower might just come down with a bit of bad judgement, a lot of experience, and seemingly… without a hitch.

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From Tree To Table

Maple Syrup. Nature’s sweet, sweet nectar. While looking to buy land, Michael and I looked for two things – water and woods (are you seeing a theme here?). Fortunately, we found both in The Northern Post, our 40 acre slice of heaven in Two Harbors, MN. In the spirit of syrup, let’s talk woods. Minnesota’s most northern woods is unique in that it is primarily coniferous (cone-bearing). The spruces, pines, and cedars maintain their green and hold mounds of snow through the winter; a welcome contrast to the deciduous (sheds it’s leaves annually) North American woods to the south of us. Nestled at the south stoop of the Superior National Forest, our Northern Post grows a blend of coniferous and deciduous trees leaving us wanting for nothing. While we honor the green conifers through the long winter, it is the maples that rule the spring. With sweet sap coursing through her veins as the frozen days thaw, Mother Maple is gracious in sharing her yield.

In late January, we began the tapping. With 30 inches of snow accumulated and no leaves on the trees to assist with identification, Michael and his younger brothers battled the elements to find what they believed to be 70 qualified maples. With the taps in, we looked forward to the spring thaw and really had no idea what to expect.

The thaw comes fast and unexpectedly and while I am home on the boat waiting for my sister to birth our first nephew, Michael was left to the land to conquer the sap of 70 trees all by his lonesome. At this point, since Michael, along with the help of his brothers, Christian and Cameron, did 96% of the work (my 4 percent comes from moral support and hauling in the over 70 pails that week before), I will transcribe his tale of tapping and sapping…

Preparation

First, Michael purchased 75 stainless steel taps online. Next, we needed a maple syrup evaporator. I’m sure these things are for sale somewhere but in true Michael fashion, he found his own way. He started where all dreamers start: Craigslist. This is where he came across a four drawer filing cabinet for $5. The next step in following a dream: find a friend that’s crazy enough to go there with you. In this venture, Michael found Sam. To begin the transformation, the drawers were removed from the cabinet and the cabinet was laid on its back. Catering pans were needed to fit the openings that once held the drawers. Sam and Michael took a road trip around the city to find these. They found that no place would sell them to you unless you owned a restaurant. No problem, they’ll just play the part of restaurant owners… they thought this seemed easy enough and to the restaurant supply store they went. After getting stopped at the front for a “restaurant ID”, they were caught in a pickle. They were booted out the door without the desired catering pans. While this would deter most, Sam and Michael quickly found an unlocked back door. Michael reports that this worked out great until he got to the cash register and was again asked for this “restaurant ID”. With the catering pans in tow, it was not the time to give up and go home. Michael explained to them that he was new to the restaurant business and did not yet have an ID; he added that he did not want to disappoint his boss and asked that they please let him make this purchase. They let him through on a guest account, and they escaped with the prize! At Home Depot, they uneventfully purchased the hinges for a door on one end and a chimney for the other end. After two hours of labor and a cup of sheet metal screws, they had created the Frankenstein evaporator.

Tapping

With the taps purchased and the Frankenstein evaporator ready for its debut, it was time to tap the trees. Michael reports that it is a simple process provided you have identified your trees whilst the leaves are on. This is something that slipped through the cracks of his early fall to do list. After a couple hours of hiking through waist deep snow with a “Trees of Minnesota” book and a pdf download of “making maple syrup”, Michael felt he had done enough research. He ditched the books and got out the drill. To tap the tree, he drilled a two inch hole at an upward angle to allow the sap to flow down and out and gently tapped in the “spile” (another name for the tap if you really want to sound cool). You then fit a tube around the spile and put down a bucket with a secure cover that has a hole drilled in it for the tube to run through. We used five gallon buckets; another Craigslist purchase for 80 cents a bucket.

Waiting

Now, we wait for Mother Nature to do her thing. The sap starts to flow when day temperatures are above freezing but night temps stay below. While we initially knew nothing about what trees to tap, we found out that you can tap any maple (although it is the sugar maple that has the highest sugar content) that is at least 10 inches in diameter three feet above the ground.

Collection

While everything we read about sap collection advised to collect sap daily or as frequently as possible, we could only collect weekly at times and found no change in taste with this timeframe. With 70 trees to gather from, the best advice we can give is to bring a friend.

Evaporate     

Something you may not know is that the sap to syrup ratio is 40:1; for 40 gallons of sap, we get one gallon of syrup. This translates to the ultimate test of patience, and evaporating is where it all goes down (or up if I’m being literal). The evaporation phase is when Frankenstein gets to really show his stuff. Make sure you have stacks of dry wood; you’re going to need it.

The ceremonial evaporation begins with the lighting… maybe a cup of lighter fluid on some small branches; whatever feels right. It’s nice to have a long evaporator like ours because we spent little time cutting our wood to length.

Once the fire gets rolling, on go those pans that Michael and Sam almost became criminal over. Fill the pans with about 4 inches of sap to start and monitor closely to prevent a boil over. You can control the temp by adding cold sap or by opening and closing the end door to control the oxygen flow.

On average, we were able to boil down three gallons of sap per hour. Our longest evaporation of 110 gallons took just over 30 hours. And yes, this means taking shifts through the night to go out and stoke the fire. Unless you saw a very scary looking wolf on your trail cam the night before, then it’s logical to insist on “maybe we should just do it together”… that was Michael as much as me by the way.

When the sap gets close to that 40:1 ratio and appears brown in color, it has been over a full of day of feeding the Frankenstein. At this point, we combine the pans and finish the cook on our propane camp stove; it’s a bit more controlled this way. As it cooks on the proprane, we keep checking it to see how much it has thickened until the desired viscosity is reached. I’m sure the real deal syrup makers would tell you to check its sugar content, or “Brix” (unit for measuring sugar density). They say that a Brix of 66° is ideal. With my Norwegian heritage carrying down a strong gene for sweets, I like to think my taste test for Brix is on point. So as soon as it looks delicious, I take the liberties and consume a spoonful. If it makes me want to whip up some pancakes now, then 66° Brix it must be. I hold off on making pancakes because I know we must pour the steaming sap through a fine weave strainer and this takes optimal concentration. Our fine weave strainer of choice is a clean t-shirt.

After the strain, we want to cool the syrup as quickly as possible. Michael’s preferred cooling method is placing the hot pan in a shallow part of our 30 degree stream as the thermal conductivity of water is 30 times than that of air. I’m on edge the whole time as I imagine the hard earned, finished syrup getting washed away with the waters and finding its way to Gooseberry Falls by late afternoon. Michael assures me that it’s secure and I don’t have to sit at the shore and stare for 30 minutes.

After the syrup is cool and safely out of the stream, it’s time to hit the bottle.

Enjoy

This is the best part. Enjoy! Some of my favorite uses so far: slathered over homemade buckwheat pancakes, used to caramelize cashews, and added to plain yogurt or kefir. We have ambitions to make a batch of kombucha with it, so stay tuned. But the most enjoyable part is spreading the love! Everything is sweetest when shared… ain’t that the truth.

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