May at an Alaska Homestead

May is a month of dramatic transitions, from a silent, white landscape and frozen lake to the first flowers,  birdsong, and visits by gangling moose calves. Below is a summary of our activities every May.

Early in the month, the only hint of spring is the earthy brown “doughnuts” around the base of trees.  Walking through the warming snow is challenging.  The snow paths are often hard and icy in the morning, so we wear ice cleats for traction.  By mid-day, the snow is soft and sloppy, requiring snow shoes to avoid sinking deeply with each step.  Imagine wearing long snow shoes to enter an outhouse, or food shed.  Inconvenient!!!  As a result, I often try, too soon, to do without snowshoes. Alas, I sank up to my groin at the burn barrel and had to crawl out onto the surface, like a crab.

Despite all the snow, spring officially commences, in my view,  when we tap the birch trees.  Sap flow indicates that these deciduous trees recognize  spring even if we can't see it yet.  This date has varied over the years from April 2 to May 17, but is usually around May 1.  The sapping season lasts for ten days, ending when the first leaves appear. 

Some years, we collect enough sap (at least 100 gallons) to make syrup (a 1:100 ratio).  This year, however, the snow was so deep that it buried our sap lines, so we simply positioned buckets at the base of the two closest trees and collected about 10 gallons.  With half of this nutritious spring tonic, I made coffee, rice, pancakes - anything that otherwise requires water.  With the other half, I made a batch of wine.  Birch sap is only 2% sugar and lacks the mouthfeel of fruit based wines.  I add honey and dried elder flowers for flavor.  The result is thin and dry.  Not great, but a spring tradition. 

Another spring ritual is to drag the tandem kayak out from under the cabin and paddle in the shifting open leads between ice floes for a few days until the ice disappears.  For the past few years, we have been joined by one or two otters.   We see them only in fall and spring when the lake has this brief, transitional mix of ice and water.  The morning after the lake breaks, these visitors disappear.  I love to see the first reflections of the snowy mountains in the water.  So pretty.  After that, we enjoy a happy hour kayak every afternoon, with homemade wine and beer and store bought un-shelled peanuts. 

May also welcomes the return of migrating birds.  We hear and see huge V's of nomadic geese heading north.  As soon as the ice starts to break, we are visited by pairs of swans and, depending on the species, pairs and groups of ducks.  This spring, we saw a pair of sandpipers walking along an ice floe.  What wrong turn did they take????  Maybe he (?) was colorblind and didn't ask directions?   When the snow melts in our meadows and the bog at the end of the lake, we see pairs of sandhill cranes looking for something tasty to nibble. 

One annual task that we do only in April or May when there is about a foot of snow on the ground is a bonfire of huge piles of rotted logs and twisted piles of alder branches that we pile up in the meadow the prior year.  The snow is a prudent fire protection.   I choose to vary locations each year, because the previous year's fire location becomes home to a stunning patch of pink fireweed as well as tiny birch seedlings.  Perhaps this is  our modest version of terra preta - an ancient practice of burning soil to enrich it as well as emancipating seeds that benefit from fire.

As the snow recedes, wild berry plants bounce up - cranberry, elderberry, and currants - which are the first to flower.  I prune broken branches and clear limbs that have rained down upon the plants during winter storms.  My form of “landscaping” amounts to observing which plants “want” to live here or there and encouraging those, such as currants that grow up and spill over the stumps of birch and spruce trees, fields of fireweed, woodsy paths lined with cranberry and rose bushes. 

In late May, I can finally plant the hundreds of seedlings I started indoors under grow lights.  When day time temperatures top 50,  I start transitioning them outside for increasing numbers of hours  to “harden them off” - which is getting them used to the wind, sun, and temperature variations outdoors.  The greenhouse soil warms up much faster than the outdoor gardens, of course, but since night time temperatures can still drop below 32 degrees in May, I monitor the forecast carefully to determine when it is safe to move the plants.  On that day, usually around May 20, I feel like a mom sending her children off to their first day of school.  I have coddled the seedlings indoors; now it is time to see how they do without me all the time.

Speaking of plants... what pollen do our honeybees and wild pollinators find before any flowers appear?  In mid-late May,  brown and green “dust” of pollen coats outdoor furniture, from the catkins on birch, alder, and sweet gale.  These are the first ingredients for the honey we will harvest in August (and yes, the honey does taste and look different over the course of a summer).

Toward the end of May, a cow moose always has twin calves in the woods behind our property.  It is such a treat to see those slim, leggy youngsters trotting after her, nursing whenever she stands still to chow down.  Her favorite plants are birch, ash, and cranberry.  We are particularly cautious when walking around at this time as a LARGE defensive cow can be aggressive if startled or if she perceives a threat to herself or her progeny.

When temperatures warm up at the end of the month, we witness a rather weird three day visit by tiny gnats.  In the lee of the wind - often right next to our back door, they form an undulating, six foot column that is some sort of whirling mating ritual.  They also coat every white surface, like the propane tanks and window sills.  Suddenly, after those three days, they disappear.

May in Alaska is certainly not the lovely month of flowers that southerly climates enjoy.  But it is one of dramatic changes for us:  from white to brown to green, from silence to songs of birds, insects, and lapping water, and a shift from the fragrance of wood fires to the sweet scents of grass and flowers.

The Necessity of Spring Cleaning a Wood Heated Home

I never thought I would say this, but I LOVE spring cleaning.   I actually look FORWARD to it!  Besides the deep cleaning, which is sorely needed,  I wonder if my zeal reflects a celebration of the end of winter, too.  

Heating a cabin by wood all day, every day over a LONG winter is such a dusty business.  I can easily understand why, in the “olden days”, wealthier people traded out seasonal rugs, draperies, and furniture covers. 

When the days warm up enough in May to throw windows open and thaw the drain line of the washing machine, we engage in spring cleaning, which, in our small, two room cabin, takes about three days.

WOODSTOVE:  On the first of every winter month, Bryan clears the external chimney shaft of creosote accretions.  He pushes, shoves, and rotates a long, extendable fiberglass wand attached to a stiff, round, metal brush (a chimney sweep) through an access “door” at the bottom of the outside chimney.  This process is the mechanical equivalent of reducing plaque on teeth or cholesterol in arteries.  Otherwise, the build up reduces the draft and increases fire hazard - not a desirable combination in a remote, log cabin.

We wait until spring to tackle the top of the chimney and the stove and chimney inside.  For the former, Bryan climbs a steep, two story ladder with a gizmo he created out of a paint roller rod that he uses to chip away the hard, black creosote buildup that clings to the wire mesh “throat” beneath the “cap” at the top of the chimney.  This project is a bother.  Friends have told us that they have torn out the mesh.  Bryan has clipped, with tin snips, what he can reach from the back - about 1/3 of the circumference, so at least on that side, there is nothing for the creosote to cling to.  Meanwhile, I brace the bottom of the ladder while wearing a hard hat against a hail like storm of small, hard, sharp creosote that rains down on the back deck, and me.  This noise scares the chickens nearby!

After that rather daunting task is completed, we move indoors.  First, we remove the 23 gallon aluminum tank above the wood stove that heats water all winter long.  Then, we shovel out as much ash as we can from the firebox.  (Cold ash is mixed with the chickens' hay as a desiccant that reduces odor and kills mites, and, in spring/fall, I ladle some into garden soil.)  Next, we use our shop vacuum to clear out the nooks and crannies in the brick fuel box and the seams of the stone “surround” beneath the stove.  After that, Bryan unscrews the 4 foot metal chimney pipe that rises from the woodstove to a 90 degree joint that pierces the back wall. He hauls his piece outside to shake and scrape out the creosote.  Meanwhile, inside, I use a large, long handled spoon to scoop out what I can from the 90 degree “elbow” and then deploy shop vac attachments, as far as I can reach.  Between the two of us, we remove about 5 gallons of winter build up that would otherwise clog the chimney. 

Once he re-installs the interior chimney pipe, I vacuum the floor and clean the stove.  The stove's grimy window clears easily with a vinegar soaked rag.  The stone “surround” is tougher.  Soap and baking soda are clearly not up to the job of removing a winter's accumulation of sticky ashy/sooty coating.  TSP is my “go-to” product. On hands and knees, I scrub, rinse, scrub, rinse the stones and then burn a lot of very dirty rags.  Every few years, I re-blacken the stove with a product designed for that purpose.  This is probably the easiest spring cleaning endeavor.  I simply wash the stove with soapy water, let it dry, and then buff in the blackening agent, which coats any rust and stains.  Later,  I fire up the stove to “cure” it.  It looks as good as new.

CLEANING THE HOUSE:
The wood stove  is step 1.  Step 2 finds me cleaning EVERY SURFACE in the cabin that the stove has dirtied every time we opened the door to add logs to the fire, which is frequent in winter!  Once the drain line thaws for the washing machine, I wash every small rug that will fit.  I beat and hose clean the biggest one.  Some years I wash every drapery.  This year I tried vacuuming all but the dirtiest. Then I leave all cushions and rugs outside overnight (which I do occasionally, anyway, to pick up the clean scent of fresh air, grass, and flowers).  Ummm, I inhale deeply as I write that. 

Besides the fabrics, all vertical, horizontal, and diagonal surfaces have accumulated a tacky layer of soot, too, even though I clean lightly throughout the winter.   With a series of damp rags, I go over EVERYTHING- the log walls, furniture, lamps, windows, sills, books on bookshelves, handles on drawers - even the mason and herb jars on storage shelves. 

Finally, of course, I wash the floor, several times, with mixtures of soapy water and vinegar.

Yea!  THE HOUSE SMELLS SO CLEAN!

Chainsawing Hundreds of Dead Spruce Trees (Sad)

Sadly, the majestic spruce trees throughout the boreal forests of Southcentral Alaska have been decimated by an infestation of spruce beetles.  Beetle killed trees are easy to spot.  Their needles turn rusty brown and then drop, littering the snow.  The bark, too, turns redder than normal and sheds in shaggy patches like a mangy dog.  These dead trees are not only an eyesore but a potent fire hazard.

Low on wood at winter's end!

On our property, we have culled 30 - 40 trees each year for three years. Most of the stricken trees are mature.  (The tallest dead ones we cut down were above 80 feet).  For some reason, the young saplings seem to be spared, perhaps because they have a higher concentration of turpines to discourage insects.   As a result, our woodsy setting is changing.  The good news is that, with more space and light between trees, the woods are less damp, harboring fewer mosquitoes.  The bad news is that spruce grouse and squirrels are disappearing along with their habitat. I so miss the calm cooing of mother hens leading their little ones on a march across the yard, and the aerobatic antics of squirrels climbing spruce trees with mushroom caps too large for their mouths.   

Challenges at 29F Below Zero (-34C)

Brrrrrr!

After the record breaking warmth in Alaska during every month of 2019, including rain on New Year's Eve (!), I was astonished when the temperatures plummeted last week to teens below 0 F, and kept dropping to the low 20s and 30s below 0 F this week. These arctic conditions are predicted to remain for another week.  (Thank goodness there is no windchill factor).  Interior Alaskans might regard me as wimpy (Bettles was 60F below 0 last week), but I find this weather brutal.

For three days, I had NO interest in doing any projects outside.  My husband dressed up like an astronaut in multiple layers of quilted, lined winter wear to do any outdoor chores, such as checking on the animals and hauling load after load of wood to our cabin.   When I finally ventured out myself, I could perform only one or two brief projects before retreating inside to warm up.

As you can imagine, we are rapidly depleting the wood supply that heats our two room, 750 sq. ft. cabin and our hot tub.  On warm winter days  of +20 to 30 F, we burn, per day, about 15 small birch logs in our wood stove.  At 0 degrees F, we ignite up to 30.  Currently, we are churning through about 45 logs to maintain patchy interior temperatures of low 50s to high 60s.  That may sound cool, but it is 70-80 degrees warmer than outside. We have already burned half of the dry logs my husband cut last summer.  (Fortunately, we live in a forest and have already flagged standing dead trees for future fuel).

How Does a Remote Home Get Mail?

Almost home!

Living 42 miles from the nearest road, we receive no mail service.  A frequent question we hear is, “How do you get mail?”  The short answer is “infrequently.”

Maybe in the future people will receive deliveries by drone, but in the meantime, we maintain a P.O. box in a nearby town and check it every few months.  For several years, when we acquired frequent products on-line, a UPS type shop was convenient because it would send us a note when a package arrived and hold it for us for several months, if necessary.  But their price doubled from $150 to $300 per year and we decided to switch to a local post office that charges only $95/year, since our purchases had declined.  However, I did not realize at the time that their policy is to return any packages too big for our box after 14 days - and not notify us.  The first year, a friend called to say that her birthday gift to me had been returned!  I felt so bad.

Unfortunately, one type of bulky and time sensitive purchase can ONLY be shipped to me during the fall and spring months - a time of year when we have NO means of transportation to town.  These are the live roots, rhizomes, and bulbs of vegetables and fruit that I grow.  I missed a entire year's season when we first switched to the Post Office box because I did not know their “return without notification” policy.

Since then, I made arrangements with a dear friend and fellow gardener who will take delivery of such seasonal plants as asparagus crowns, seed potatoes, horseradish root, and garlic bulbs for me, in exchange for a few of the items.  I am grateful for her assistance.  And the purple asparagus and blue potatoes are great!

Do I miss mail service?  No.  Important items, like checks, taxes, and correspondence with clients, friends, and relatives are all conveniently done by email.  Most of the paper that fills my P.O. box is  a plethora of unsolicited catalogues... which I repeatedly call to cancel.
The only personal mail we receive there tends to be from older friends and relatives who send thoughtful cards for birthdays and Christmas, which we retrieve... eventually.  Plus seed catalogues, which I do love.  Any untreated paper is transported home to start fires in the woodstove or hot tub. 

 

Twelve Homesteader Live Gifts that Keep on Giving

In the spirit of the season, I offer a “Twelve Days of Christmas” list of LIVE gifts that keep on giving to us here, at a remote homestead. 

1  Gallon of red wiggler worms, divided among my food gardens.  They eat the kitchen scraps I toss there and rapidly improve the soil.   

2 Years' worth of seeds (many degrade after that: check with a float/sink test each year).

3 Rabbits (1 buck and 2 does).  They can be mated at about five months and over the year, fill our larder.

Winter Snow Challenges at a Remote Home

We had to dig out the hives so the bees
wouldn't suffocate

Many people who do not live in Alaska are leery of our long, cold, dark winters.  Others flock up here for winter sports, such as races for dog mushers, snowmachines, hikers, cross country skiiers, and even fat tired bicycles (!).

We tend to say that “There is no such thing as bad weather, just poor clothing.”  I respectfully disagree.  To “There is no such thing as bad weather” I would add that there is also poor construction, poor judgment,  and inadequate (or inaccessible) tools.

Variable Food Production Results at a Remote Alaska Home

Please click on this link to an article we published on survivalblog.com.

Summary: 
Raising (including hunting and fishing) food (meat, fruit, vegetables, herbs, and honey) yields highly variable results from one year to the next so we are not cavalier about a good harvest.

Here are some of our successes and failures, lessons, and mistakes.



Photo: Nasturtium vinegar.  So beautiful, and tasty, too, with a horseradish like bite. 

Freeze Up Thwarted

Freeze Up begins in fits and starts in mid-October.  I envision Old Man Winter playing tag with three lively grandchildren - Wind, Water, and Ice.  He lets them chase each other back and forth across the lake until he wearies of the game and declares Ice - his favorite grandson-  the winner so he can move along to other seasonal tasks.

First, ice forms in the still water below and behind our docks and then extends in the shallows on either side.  One night,  I awoke to a lovely, evasescent sight.  A full October moon was reflected in the inky water, framed by newly formed silver ice floes.  As soon as the moon moved, the image vanished.

The next day, my husband and I kayaked among the shifting ice.  Some stretches were gossamer thin, patched together with visible icy stitches.  Others were thick enough, even after only one day's formation, to withstand a paddle's prodding.  The windward side of these floes had developed a curb, higher than the shallow center, where gentle breezes blew laminar sheets of water over the surfaces, thickening them, millimeter by millimeter.

Alaska Ecosystem Changing

Pike from a few years ago

Our eco-system is changing in obvious ways.  Because we spend so much time outside, raising and foraging for food, cutting trees for firewood, and tending our bees and animals, I am certainly more attuned to it here than I ever was when living in, transporting by, and going to various air conditioned cocoons in Houston, TX. 

Perhaps the following examples at our home will be useful to people considering moving up here or anywhere new to them.  Advice:  call the Department of Natural Resources to confirm any long-distance assumptions about the location that interests you. 

Beautiful Frost

Termination Dust- first snow

Yesterday, September 25, was the end of summer.  Mid-afternoon, rain turned to wet, sloppy snow which then pelted the flower beds.  The long white streaks were stunning against the purple, candelabra-like anise hyssop, and blended into the tufts of feverfew below.  Sure enough, once the clouds parted, I could see the layer of termination dust on the mountains.

Termination refers to the end of warm weather.  Dust?  That is far too unattractive a term for the initial cap of snow.  One of my favorite sights here is the double image of snowy mountains reflected in the still lake, divided by a row of yellow birch in fall or bright green foliage in spring.

Frost on a fern leaf

Despite the undulations of the hillsides, the snow etches a razor sharp line.  As autumn warmth wanes, the snow will descend to ground level, where it will stay until next May.

Frozen cosmos

Today, I awoke to 28 degrees and the loveliness of a frost covered world.  The tops and edges of all plants are decorated in white.  I particularly love the delicate transformation of lacy ferns.  Flat leafed plants appear dipped in sugar.  Pink and purple cosmos seem frozen in time, as though the White Witch of Winter froze them for her winter garden.

Frost is especially delightful because it lasts for such a short time.  The moment the sun warms a patch of foliage, the icy molecules melt, returning the plants to their everyday garb.  Thus continues the autumnal decay.  The leaves and flowers will mulch and warm the soil below, bedding the nursery for the next generation.

Butchering Chickens: Slow and Effortful

For five or six years, we have raised laying hens and enjoyed them immensely, for their eggs, foraging for bugs, and alerting us to predators, as well as for their entertaining antics.  We have kept 4-6 at a time, and named them.  I have never been able to kill any or eat those that died.

However, I do like to eat chicken, so I thought it time to explore raising and butchering meat chickens.   A friend  had the same idea.  So she bought 25 Cornish cross chicks, which are the ones  most commonly raised for meat in the U.S.  We agreed that she would care for them for 6-8 weeks, we would split the cost of purchase and feed, and then my husband and I would join her for the butchering work.  

Restraining cones with occupants

Here is what I learned and what I will do in the future.

When we arrived, my friend was fuming that the development of this breed is unconscionable and she will never buy them again.  The Cornish cross is bred to gain weight so rapidly that by 6-8 weeks (6 weeks for us), they are unable to live with their unnatural weight distribution.  Their hearts, lungs, and legs cannot support them.  Many had respiratory problems, three appeared to have died of heart attacks, and one had a broken leg.  None behaved like her laying hens, which are active, social, and curious roamers.  These chickens were listless and sedentary.  They also SMELLED BAD – which is apparently a known trait.   Her daughter cried at the state of them.

We set up the butchering area outside for five of us to work:

Interview by James Wesley Rawles of Survivalblog.com

Click here to read an interview of us by James Wesley Rawles of Survivalblog.com.

 It begins with summaries of key topics, followed by specific questions, such as the biggest challenges of living as remotely as we do.

 His website includes lots of articles that may be of interest to readers of this blog.

Enjoy. 

Alaska Chicken Care

My sister provides  “Four Seasons” Hotel treatment to her pets.  My animal husbandry, on the other hand, is more rudimentary.  Maybe a "Motel 6" analogy is appropriate, or, since eventually, we kill and eat our animals, perhaps, the Bates Motel.

Son with chickens

She has a dedicated LIVING ROOM for her huge puppy, and thrones in each room for both dogs so that they can survey their domain, as well as supervise the ministrations of their human minions.  The puppy attends Doggy Day care one day a week to enhance his socialization with peers.  Her dogs take allergy medication.  I think they may have health insurance, too.

For her guinea pigs, she provides freshly laundered linens EVERY SINGLE DAY, and delivers organic cilantro, no doubt picked by happy, free-trade farm workers. 

If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to return as one of my sister's pets.

Here:  not so much.

Three Recommended Winter Tie Downs for Ski Planes

Black Diamond Ice Screws

For remote flying in Alaska - which includes rural airports, private strips, and landing on frozen lakes and rivers, prudent pilots create means for tying down a plane to protect it from sudden wind gusts with quick release for departure.  We use the three methods described below: for tie downs elsewhere, we stow ice screws and rope in the plane. For the tie down on the frozen lake at home, we shove boards through holes in the lake, and for easy and fast departures, we park the plane's skis on slick covered planks.

Ice screw

ICE SCREWS:
In our plane, we keep a 75 foot length of heavy duty nylon rope and three ice screws, which are really designed for ice climbing.  Made of aluminum with a steel tip to shed weight but remain strong, they weigh less than one pound each.  Ours are about 8 inches long.  We paid about $55 each.

https://blog.weighmyrack.com/black-diamond-ultralight-ice-screws/

Once he has taxied to a stop, Bryan picks three points (under the U brackets on the wings for tie downs and near the tail), hand turns the screws (easily) into the snow and ice and then lashes the plane to these anchor points with the rope.

He has done this at transient parking spots, for example, at Willow Airport (in Alaska) that lack permanent tie downs, as well as off-airport locations.

plane plugged in and tethered with ice screws

They are a cheap, light, small, and easy tool for winter safety.

NOTE:  These screws are not appropriate for mud or soil.

We received this excellent tip from long time flyers, George and Dorothea Murphy, who used ice screws over decades of Alaska bush flying.

SUBMERGED BOARDS:
A  second tie down is one we use all winter at home.  Here, Bryan uses our 8 inch diameter ice auger to cut two holes through several feet of ice on either side of  where we plan to park the plane.  Into each of the open holes, we drop a board through which a thick nylon rope has been looped and knotted.  We poke and prod the board until it pops horizontally beneath the ice.  When the ice hole freezes solid, the rope is locked in place until spring.  We thread the above surface lines through a pair of orange traffic cones set over the holes, so they are easy to find after snow storms.  We learned this useful technique from Larry Schachle.  In May, the lake ice breaks up and the boards float to the surface.  We retrieve them by kayak.