A tough winter for owls and dogs ~ April 18, 1996

David Heiller

One of the sounds of spring that has been absent so far this year is the hooting of owls.

They usually make quite a racket in our woods in March and April. I like the wild sound of owls. I like seeing them too. It’s a lucky day when you see one gliding silently through the woods like a cargo plane. Or when you come upon one sitting in a tree.

But this year the woods have been quiet. I’ve only heard a few hoots. Ron Goetzinger, who works for the DNR in Moose Lake, explained why.

“It’s been a pretty tough winter for owls,” Ron told me on April 15. “Normally they feed on mice and stuff like that under the snow, and the snow is so deep that they never could get down in there to get their feed so they just starved to death.”

The lack of food has made them bolder too. We had a barred owl at our bird feeder two weeks ago. It must have been looking for an easy meal of red squirrel or sparrow. The dogs chased it away, but not before it flew up into a maple tree next to the house to catch its breath. My son and I got a good look at it, and it was a fine sight indeed.

Larry Dagel, who lives east of Sturgeon Lake on County Road 161, had a closer encounter with a great horned owl this winter that wasn’t such a fine sight.

Here’s how Larry, who owns and operates Sturgeon Lake Feed Mill, told the story on April 15:

“I turned the dog out at 5:30 in the morning to go to the can. It was dark then. In front of the house I’ve got a sidewalk. It’s half the length of the house, 20 feet.

“Before the dog even got to the end of the sidewalk, the owl had it. It just put the grip right across the shoulder blades, shoulder and stomach, and it punched eight or 10 holes in the dog. Blood was running out to beat heck.

“The dog started squealing, and I came out the door and the owl just looked at me. And I grabbed him around the back on both wings and I rung his neck. He wouldn’t let go of the dog.

“The next day I chucked it in my woodstove. I guess a guy ain’t supposed to have them around, so I just got rid of it. Eliminate the problem.

“I’ve never seen one that close to the house. He had to be right in a tree by the house because the dog had only been out less than 10 seconds and the owl grabbed it. It was like he was wait­ing there for him.”

It’s been a tough winter for owls in more ways than one.

But things will get better. Spring is just around the corner, and when it hits, it will hit hard and fast and green, and we’ll all be happy.

The maple trees know that. Our 55 taps produced 30 gallons of sap on April 13, 56 gallons on April 14, and 66 gallons on April 15. That’s by far the most we’ve ever gathered in one day.

I think they are like the rest of us, pouring out their frustration over an endless winter, anxious and excited for warm weather to stay so they can get on with life and growth.

This winter has been like a bad dream that you know you are having but you can’t quite wake up from. When we awake, we will all breathe a big sigh of relief.

Especially Larry Dagel’s dog, which by the way, did manage to survive the winter of 1996.

It was a modern miracle ~ March 24, 1991

by David Heiller

Malika and Laura at play!

It was a modern miracle.

It happened Saturday.

I didn’t know a Saturday could start that way.

My daughter and her friend got up early to play.

And that’s what the two girls did all day.

First they played Monopoly.

They counted out the money,

And didn’t get sore like when I lose to my honey.

They sat in the living room and shook the dice,

And laughed at Chance, thought Boardwalk was nice.

Laura played Yahtzee and she beat us bad,

Me and my honey, but we didn’t get mad.

We looked at each other,

and whispered secretly,

“I can’t believe they’re not watching TV.”

Next came the Barbies.

I thought it was great.

Though I couldn’t follow much because I’m not eight.

They scolded and folded their dolls and dresses.

I could just picture the upstairs messes.

Kids and mud and water.

But I do remember what Laura said to me:

“Hey, we haven’t watched any TV

Today,” she said, and her grin was wide.

And her voice held a bit of child-sized pride.

I just nodded, but I was proud too.

No TV is not easy to do.

No cartoons to hypnotize them,

No commercials. (I despise them!)

No lying on the couch all morning

Till they get the boot with an angry warning:

“You kids don’t know how to play!”

Or some dumb thing like that I’ll say.

Old fogies seem to think that’s true

Sometimes I worry about it too.

But take two friends, and with a little luck

And a mid-March day and mud and muck

And dolls and dresses and before you’re through

You’ll see a modern miracle too.

Old Ida will live on ~ March 30, 2000

David Heiller

The painting [below] of our dog, Ida, always makes me smile, because it really captures her personality. Shy, friendly, humble. Very lovable. All those human qualities that we throw on our pets.

I smile as I write this on March 26, three days after Ida died. Just thinking of her brings a smile.

She lived to be 12 years old, until some idiot ran over her with a car.

We got her as a puppy from Harold and Gladys Overland in August of 1988, on the same day that we were going to see Queen Ida in concert. So the puppy got the name of Queen Ida. It was quickly shortened to Ida.

Ida and her first friend and doggie-mentor, Binti.

The reason we got Ida was that our other dog, Binti was getting old. We thought it would be good for Binti to have a companion.
Ida was a good choice. She was half Collie and half mutt. It was a good mix. She never took advantage of the older dog. When Binti started losing her sight and hearing, Ida would tell her important things, like when we got home from work, or when we were going for a walk. It’s funny how dogs can communicate without words. Ida could do that with barking and moaning and tail wagging. Ida used her tail to talk a lot. When she wanted to come in the house, she would stand outside our window and thump her big collie tail against the wall. Boom, boom, boom. It was hard to ignore. The same in the morning. She would come in the bedroom and the tail would hit the dresser. Boom, boom, boom. Time to get up. We wouldn’t yell at Ida to stop, to go away. She was too gentle for that. She didn’t ask for much, so when her tail talked, we listened.

I don’t have many amusing anecdotes about Ida. She was too shy to do anything goofy. She didn’t take chances. She wasn’t the life of any parties. In fact she was a bit of a wallflower

It was that very meekness that made her endearing. She was a Rock of Ages. If you needed a companion, she was there. If you needed someone to talk to, she seemed to listen. She was old reli­able Ida. Always ready Ida. Always faithful Ida.

Ida just wanted to be where you were.
 Close, really close.

Even people who didn’t like dogs would pet and talk to Ida. They could tell she wasn’t a threat, wouldn’t bite or jump or drool or be obnoxious in any way.

We got another dog about five years ago, an Australian shepherd named MacKenzie. It took about five minutes for Mack to assert herself over Ida.
 One fight. Then Ida accepted her place. She was a submissive dog. Mack was the alpha. They were total opposites. But that made Ida all the more lovable, because just when you had had enough of the live-wire, the smart, pretty, happy MacKenzie, there stood Old Ida, tail wagging, ready and waiting for your affection.

David with Ida and MacKenzie.
Poor Kenzie went into a long depression
 when her old friend died.

MacKenzie liked to pester Ida, nip at her heels, gnaw on her neck. Ida seemed to enjoy that. Her tail never quit wagging.

I never saw Ida bite or snap until last Thursday night. I drove home from work and pulled into the driveway. She and MacKenzie came bounding out to meet me. I ignored them as usual. My thoughts were on supper and seeing Cindy and the kids.

I turned the car around and was pulling forward to park it when I felt the car go over something. I opened the door and there lay Ida, right beneath me, half under the car. I hadn’t even seen it happen.

I reached down to her and she snapped at me. That’s when I fully realized what I had done, how bad it was.

I called our veterinarian, but there was nothing we could do.

Cindy and Ι stayed by her and talked to her. She gave a few groans, as if she finally had the courage to tell me I should have been more careful. She of all dogs didn’t deserve to die this way, and it was my fault all the way. Her mouth worked over a few more wordless thoughts, then the light went out of her friendly, timid eyes.

Ida demonstrates her very best (and only) trick.

I dug a grave for Ida in the north field, not far from her old friend Binti. I had to make a fire two times to thaw the ground enough for digging. The shoveling sent pains up my back, another grim reminder of what I had done.

Ida’s body lay in the pole barn for a day. MacKenzie lay outside the door for a while, as if she expected her old playmate to come out so Mack could pester her.

We buried Ida on Saturday morning. Binti has daffodils on her grave. They bloom every spring. Ida will receive a flowery headstone too. She’ll stay in our hearts even longer.

Storm provides a step back in time ~ March 28, 1991

David Heiller

The ice storm of 1991 could just as well have been the ice storm of 1891 for a lot of people including our family.

It happened last Friday night and Saturday morning, March 22-23. First rain fell, then sleet, then snow. They combined to break trees and power lines with a thick mass of icy gunk. Α lot of people were not only stranded, but they were stranded without electricity and telephones for quite a spell.

Usually power outages last only an hour or two, which is a fine commentary on our electric utilities, both the co-ops and Minnesota Power. But this storm left both the telephone and electricity out at our house for 14-plus hours, from 11 p.m. to 2 p.m. the next afternoon.

In an ice cave

Us “young” people (say age 50 or less) don’t realize how much our lives revolve around electricity until it is suddenly not there. Sud­denly there is no light, no radio (and of course no batteries for the AC-DC radio), no refrigeration, and worst of all for a Saturday morning, no television.

I’d like to brag and say somewhat haughtily, “Our kids don’t watch television on Saturday morning. They read ‘Cinderella’ and play Yahtze and put together jigsaw puzzles.” Actually, they do all those things, but not on Saturday morning. Not when they can watch Dink the Dinosaur, Gummee Bears, Bugs Bunny, and (the Mighty Mouse of the 1990s) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

So in our house last Saturday, we took a step back in time. We tuned in a scratchy radio station on the transistor radio that is otherwise, used exclusively for Minnesota Twins broadcasts. We read books. Because we had no phone, Noah, Mollie and I hiked down the line to our three closest neighbors, to see how they were faring. A tree had blown across the road, and icy needles stung our face from the strong northeast wind. Mother Nature had flexed her muscles.

Snowman work.

We put the milk and ice cream in a cooler packed with snow on the porch. The house stayed warm, thanks to the trusty woodstove. It also worked for frying us a lunch of eggs and toast, and melted down a pan of snow into water; since the pump wasn’t working, we were in danger of running out of water.

As the morning warmed and the sleet ended, we found that the snow was perfect for making snowmen. So we made not one, not two, but SEVEN snow men, snow women, and snow children. (As the day progressed, I became a Michelangelo of snow people, and the one of Cindy was anatomically correct, at least partially.)

Two neighbor kids came over and pitched then we had hot chocolate and cookies.

When the power finally came back on, we were doing quite nicely without it, thank you. No, we didn’t go shut off the main switch and remain in our 1891 wrinkle in time. The lights, and fridge and pump and television were a welcome return. But it was interesting and even fun to do without them for a night and half a day.

And through it all our old mantle clock kept us company. It used to belong to Cindy’s great grandparents. The date “1899” is written on its back. It chimes every hour, and once on the half hour, and still keeps perfect time if we remember to wind it once a week.

During the Friday night darkness, Mollie woke up crying. Her leg hurt, and the icy fingers of the maple tree were scratching to get into her bedroom so much that even I got the shivers. So I brought her down to the living room couch. While I tucked her in, that old clock chimed times with its lovely sound, soft and reassuring.

In the darkness next to my daughter, I wondered how many ice storms that strong old clock had been through. Α lot, I thought. It didn’t worry about no electricity, and neither did the people who heard it chime, because they had no electricity. In so many ways, they were more self-reliant than we are today. This storm wouldn’t mean a thing to them.

Times sure change. I’m grateful for electricity, but after last weekend, I’m glad we had a chance to step briefly back in time.

Some pleasure and pain and serious fishing ~ March 1, 2001

David Heiller

Tom declared war on the trout at about 11:30 Sunday morning, February 18. We were camped on an island on Thomas Lake, 12 miles into the boundary waters. We had caught only two trout since pulling in the day before, and that just wasn’t cutting it for Tom.

“It’s time to get serious about fishing, I’ll tell you that,” he said as he toasted a bagel with jam over the campfire. Tom was always toasting something good.

Tom doing some serious ice chopping.

“I thought we were serious,” I said. We had four lines in the water at various depths, in a tried and true spot—one that Tom picked out, I might add. We checked the flags on the tip-ups every few minutes. We chopped open the frozen holes every half hour or so. That’s not serious?

“That’s not serious,” Tom replied, as if he could read my mind. “I mean serious. We’re going to go after them. Drill new holes. Move around. Start jigging.”

I felt like doing 20 push-ups on the spot.

Tom stalked onto the ice to check the tip-ups. I stayed by the fire. There is nothing as cheerful as a fire on a winter camping trip. The wind on the lake was downright raw. Back home the radio was probably talking about “dangerous wind-chills.” We didn’t need a radio announcer to tell us that.

Ten minutes later Tom was back. Nothing. He slumped down by the fire—he was toasting banana bread by this time. I decided I’d better get serious too, so I took a look at the flags through my binoculars. No need to venture too far from the fire.

Then I got to say the words that every ice fisherman longs to hear: “You’ve got a flag up.” Tom sprinted past me before my words were blown away on that howling wind. I grabbed my camera and followed.

By the time I caught up, he had chopped his hole free and was pulling up line. At first there was nothing.

Then Tom gave a yank. “He’s got it!” he said, pulling in more in line.

Tom stopped and said, “He’s gone.” He pulled up more line, hand over hand.

David and the pretty trout.

“He’s on again!” Tom said. He pulled and pulled, 70 feet of line and more. Then he reached into the hole and lifted out a trout. It was a beauty, 27 inches long. Very dark, almost black, with red at the tips of its fins. A good eight pounds.

That trout was the exclamation point of our winter camping trip last week. It was a pleasure to see, and there is a lot of pleasure in winter camping. There’s a lot of pain too.

The pain is as obvious as numb fingers and frozen toes. Or try getting out of your sleeping bag in the middle of the night to go to the bath-room when the temperature is pushing 30 below zero. Need I say more?

It’s a lot of work, skiing 12 miles, drilling holes for fishing, gathering and cutting firewood, and trying to stay warm when your hands are dipped in ice water.

The pleasure is more subtle. It is partly tied to the beauty of the wilderness. Like when we hit Thomas Lake on Saturday afternoon. We came across a torn up piece of ground that was littered with the bones of a moose. A pack of wolves had devoured it there. We found the skull and spine and hooves and other bones. Patches of melted snow on the grass marked spots where the wolves had slept. The ground was covered with their tracks and scat, and with the tracks of ravens that had cleaned up after them. It wasn’t a disturbing sight. It made me think that things were in balance there. Darwin’s theory lay right before our eyes.

The beauty really shined when we skied out on Monday morning. The temperature had risen about 40 degrees, to about 20 above zero. Our trail followed a creek that meandered through beaver ponds and hidden lakes for many miles. In the summer this area would have been impassable, a bug-infested swamp. But last week it was a crown jewel.

We had to work hard to see it, pulling a heavy sled through sub-zero temperatures. But seeing that land unfold like a field of diamonds made it worthwhile. It lifted my spirits and made me thankful to be a part of this land.

I was proud of it, and proud of myself for being able to do what I did. Some people look at me like I’m crazy when I go winter camping. And there are times when I feel a bit crazy while I’m doing it. It would be a lot easier to stay home.

But the rewards are there, especially with a good friend like Tom Deering, who is as smart and tough as they come. Besides being a serious fisherman.

Banjo lessons a reminder of the big picture ~ January 14, 1999

David Heiller

Learning new things isn’t easy, but it sure can be fun.

I bet watching students learn is one of the greatest reward for teachers. Watching your children learn is great too.

Our son is picking people’s brains these days about rifles. He’s learning a lot. He’s reading about motorcycles. He’s excited about them, and expanding his knowledge.

David in Morocco: A 1978 version of a selfie

Our daughter is practicing her one act play parts, and getting better day by day. Her singing is getting better too because she is practicing her songs for voice lessons. She’s learning a lot, improving too, and it’s fun for her. The key word is fun.

These days, playing the banjo is my favorite learning activity, although when I call it a learning activity it doesn’t sound very fun. But it is.

Malika and David playing at the Askov Fair.

My wife, Cindy, bought me two banjo instructional videos for Christmas. When Ι have a spare hour, I put a video tape in, and learn a song, or try to.

The teacher, plays it through slowly, and breaks it down into parts. She’s a good teacher, very patient. And if you don’t get it, you can rewind the tape until you get it again. It’s a perfect way to learn something like the banjo, better than a face-to-face lesson in many ways.

I feel like I’m making progress on the banjo thanks to the tape. It’s hard. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does for some people.

But I’m learning new things. It’s exciting and fun. I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t fun.

I've been playing the banjo for about 22 years. I’m not “all that good,” although some people would disagree.

For example, last summer I was playing the banjo at my mother’s house, and some kids who were riding by on their bicycles stopped and listened. Nothing will stop a kid in his or her tracks like live music. They thought I was pretty good. As they were leaving, one of them said, “You’re the best banjo player I ever heard.”

Stringing the banjo and the baby...

That prompted another of the kids to wax eloquent and say, “Yeah, you’re the best banjo player Ι ever heard.”

The kids were about eight years old, and I doubt very much if they ever heard anyone play the banjo before. It was pretty funny.

Sometimes my playing ability bothers me, because after 22 years, I should be really good on the old five-string, and I’m not. The insecure, competitive side of me thinks that.

On the other hand, a banjo teacher I had in college told me that if Ι practiced six hours a day for a year straight, I would be a good player. That’s what it will take, he said.

I didn’t have that kind of time in college, and that was before I was married with two kids and a job and commitments galore. I sure don’t have that kind of time now. Most of my practicing gets done late at night, when the kids are in bed and the house has settled down, and my brain is shutting down.

Cindy is patient with me. She shuts the bedroom door to get her sleep. Quite often Noah will call down for his bedroom to say that he can’t sleep with me playing. I respect that, and I quit playing then. I’ve heard it more than once in my life.

Not having enough time to pursue the finer things in life can be frustrating. But I usually keep in it perspective.

Here’s a quote I read recently that I like from a banjo player, Ian Perry; in a magazine called Banjo Newsletter.

“Playing music should be an expression of your feelings and the person you are inside. It’s too easy to be tempted by flashy licks a the opportunity to impress people with what you see as your incredible talent and ability. But the banjo isn’t a competitive sport (or at least it shouldn't be!) And you may find that if you think too much about technique or trying be a better banjo player than someone else, you will be missing the best of what playing music has to offer.”

That sums up my feeling about learning it doesn’t apply just to the banjo. I bet it applies to your job or hobby too.

Have fun, and keep learning. That’s the key to the big picture in whatever you do.

A thing of beauty and life ~ March 16, 2000

David Heiller

My wife, Cindy brought the idea to words, although it had been rattling around my head before then.

She asked Pat Ring if he would make us a stained glass window. She wanted it done in honor of her mother, who died in October of 1998.

I quickly agreed with the idea. I like honoring loved ones with something of lasting beauty. When my Grandma Schnick died, we had a friend make a hutch as a tribute to her. That was 11 years ago, and I still think of Grandma every so often when I look at the hutch. It’s a beautiful piece of furniture, and very well used, which Grandma would appreciate. Plus it was made by a good friend. That makes it even more special.

Therese and Rosemary are visiting in front Pat's work of art in in our Brownsville home. 
It now resides in Malika's lovely home.

 If you look carefully, you can see Pat's honeybees.

Now hanging in the window next to the hutch is another beautiful thing, a stained glass window by another good friend.

Pat Ring is not boastful. He’ll try to deflect any compliments that come his way. He wouldn’t expect me to brag him up, although hopefully he won’t get mad, because that’s just what I’m going to do.

I wrote about Pat for a Home and Garden Edition a few years ago. He has an incredible flower garden at his home in Windemere township east of Sturgeon Lake. But his stained glass work is just as impressive. It must grow from the same wonderful source within him.

Cindy and I wanted Pat to make a garden scene featuring hollyhocks and delphiniums. Her mom liked gardens, and gardens are a big part of our lives. We told Pat this, told him the size we wanted. He gave us a price, and we said OK.

He made a sketch and showed it to us over a cup of tea at his home. The sketch in itself was beautiful, just like a DaVinci sketch of Mona Lisa is almost as good as the painting. It was a mosaic of shapes that flowed across the paper.

I asked Pat if he could add a couple of honey bees to the scene, to reflect my hobby of beekeeping. He said he could do that.

Pat E-mailed us last week to say he had finished the window. It contained about 750 pieces of stained glass, all cut perfectly and soldered meticulously. His brother, Dan, made a fine oak frame for it.

When we saw our new window, we were almost dumbfounded. The photo of it here doesn’t do it justice. No way. Words don’t either.

The hollyhocks are two different colors, pink and dark red. I’ve always liked that burgundy color. It reminds me of my childhood.

The delphiniums are many shades of blue, with the darker shades on the right side, as if the sun is shining on them from the left. The leaves of the delphiniums are a lighter green than the hollyhocks.

The glass in the background is a light gold. And the honey bees are the color of honey bees. They tie it all together somehow.

We took the window home—very carefully—and hung it over one of our dining room windows. It instantly belonged there. How did our house ever do without it?

The scene in the stained glass window seems to change throughout the day. It’s on the south side, so the good old sun is always playing with the leaves and blossoms and bees. Early morning light gives it softness. Sunshine makes it sparkle. In the evening it is subdued. At night the window goes dark, as if it is sleeping.

As the seasons change, and the pitch of the sun rises and falls in the sky, the window will change too.

It seems to have a life of its own. It’s already growing on us, just like a real garden.

Thanks, Pat, for this thing of beauty.

Our tradition was to have a thing
of beauty made to honor our loved ones.
I had this painting done for David.
It is a favorite spot on the Reno Spillway.
Our dear friend Sara Lubinski painted it.
It also resides in Malika's home.

A couple of snakes ~ April 3, 2003

David Heiller

We were heading off the lake on Saturday afternoon, but Tom had one more stop to make.

There was a spot of blood next to one of the holes in the ice. Tom scraped some clean snow over it with his boot and tamped it down. The blood was gone, and so was the evidence of the fish he had caught.

This was vintage Tom Deering. The location of Osama Bin Laden is better known than Tom’s fishing holes.

Never mind that we had hiked six miles over four lakes and four portages—unmarked ones at that—or that we were on a lake the size of Denmark.

Better not leave any evidence next to a fishing hole.

We had started for the lake early that morning, laden with packs and sleds and ice fishing gear, Tom, his friend Ken Hupila, Ken’s two dogs, and me.

Tom and a couple of snakes.

It felt so good, after this strange winter of no snow, to actually head into the wilderness. We made it to Tom’s Bay in two hours.

Tom’s Bay is not its real name. I can’t say the real name without entering the Witness Protection program. I named it after him because he discovered it about six years ago.

We’ve been back several times since. The reason why became clear about 15 minutes after our holes were drilled, when Tom pulled out a five-pound northern. Then Ken’s tip-up flag went up, and out came a 14-pound northern.

We didn’t even have time to stash our gear by shore before Ken had another flag. He kept a poker face as he casually pulled in some line, then let some line go, and repeated this for about five minutes.

“Got a nice one?” Tom asked. We knew the answer.

“Well, his head won’t fit in the hole,” Ken answered nonchalantly. He guided the fish slowly upward, then Tom reached in with his gaff and pulled out a lunker. It measured 42 inches, and weighed exactly 20 pounds.

It was an awesome northern, big and dark, and with a stomach that hung out like a drunk’s on a barstool.

“That’s it, I’m done fishing for the day,” Ken said.

That was partially true. “You’ve got a flag again,” I yelled to him a little later. Ken didn’t move from his perch next to the fire. “Yοu take it.”

When the top of the spool quit spinning, I raised the line and gave a slight jerk to set the hook. The other end of the line pulled back like a tow truck. We played tug-of-war for several minutes, then the northern came out of the hole like a missile. I carefully grabbed it under the gill plate and laid it on the ice.

David with a sled full of wood and snakes.

It was exactly the same size and weight as Ken’s giant. We admired it for a half a minute, then I let it slide back home. That felt almost as good as catching it.

That’s the way the day went. Fish after fish. A couple 10-pounders. More five-pounders than we could keep track of. It got to the point that when a flag would go up, the owner of that tip-up would grumble good-naturedly. But deep down we all knew this was just what the doctor had ordered.

What could be finer? Sitting on a lake in the Upper Midwest. Late March. Warm sun shining. Roasting venison sausages over a fire. Talking about important things like frozen septic systems. And catching fish.

We headed home at 4:30. Α long walk lay ahead, but it didn’t seem daunting. The sun was setting, its soft light hinting of spring. I felt good that at midlife, I could still make this beautiful outing. Tom and Ken said they felt the same way.

Tom stopped at the last hole, one that had produced about 40 pounds of fish, and did the old soft shoe to cover up the blood on the ice.

We met a couple of people at the first portage. They had been fishing further out, and said they had been skunked. “How about you?” the man asked. “Catch anything?”

“Couple of snakes,” Tom replied, and we headed home.

The best taste of all ~ March 19, 1992

David Heiller

The smell in the air last Wednesday, March 11 took me back 15 years, to Tamarack, Minnesota, to Cecil Booker, to a grove of maple trees and a big pan boiling with maple sap.

The smell is sweet like maple syrup, but not as strong. It’s a smell that you want to cling to your clothes, so you can carry it with you all day. Like smoke from a campfire in an old shirt that reminds you, in the dead of winter, of a warm canoe trip. A nice smell.

Cecil Booker lived down the road that spring of 1977. I would help him with chores. He saw that I had a broad enough back to help him make maple syrup. He provided the taps and pan and buckets and brains. I provided the back

We tapped about 80 trees. My job was to empty the buckets each morning, fill the big flat pan that rested on cement blocks nearby, build a rip-snorting fire, and boil sap all day.

As it boiled, I would add more and more sap and wood, then watch the liquid turn brown and bubbly and foamy and thick. That’s when the smell of sap boiling into syrup would fill the woods and make me smile.

It was a pleasant, honest job, working in the woods, sometimes alone with my thoughts, sometimes with Cecil, who was a kind and good man. We ended up with 27 gallons of syrup. Cecil took two thirds, but that was fine with me. Nine gallons was more than enough for me. Besides, brains are always worth more than backs in this world of ours.

I had pretty much forgotten all that until last Wednesday, when the sap started boiling again, this time in a big flat pan on a stove in our driveway. Earlier this year I answered a want ad and bought a bunch of taps and a homemade pan for $20.

Malika helping to haul the sap out of the woods.

I tapped 41 trees in our woods on Sunday, March 1. That’s early. But the weatherman had said we were in for a week of warm temperatures, days in the 40s, nights a little below freezing. That’s perfect weather for sap to run.

(Deciding when to tap is a cause for much debate in maple syruping circles, I’m told. Farmers often face that same decision making process in deciding when to plant, when to hay, when to harvest.)

Cindy and I collected the sap twice in the next 10 days, getting 50 gallons total. We stored it in a garbage can and pails in the woods, a quarter mile from our house. It froze partially, which makes for a more concentrated sap. We ended up with 36 gallons of sap.

We used a toboggan and three 10-gallon milk cans to bring it in. The weather cooperated with that too, because the cold weather had formed a crust on the snow. The toboggan pulled easily.

(We might not be so lucky next time, but we’ll take good fortune any day.)

This column describes our first year of 
sugaring. This photo of David pouring sap
 into the boiler came later, when we built 
our sugar shack. Our method was still pretty 
much the same, but the shack saved a 
lot of headaches from precipitation.

I started boiling it at 8:30 a.m. on a barrel stove which two Willow River High School students had converted into a sap boiling wonder for a welding class project. Troy Magdziarz and Mark Asleson cut the top off the stove, so that the pan fit snugly inside, reinforced it, moved the stovepipe to the end of the barrel, and added a few other nice touches. It worked perfectly.

All day long, Cindy and I fed wood to the stove and sap to the pan. By 10:30 that night, it had boiled to an inch of the bottom of the two-foot-by-three-foot pan. I brought the sweet, thin liquid into the house, then finished it off on the kitchen stove, to make sure it didn’t burn.

It didn’t burn in the house, but it did boil over twice. What a mess. But I didn’t care: We ended up with 35 quarts of the best maple syrup ever made. (The ratio of sap to syrup is about 50-1.)

It’s hard to describe that taste, like it’s hard to describe the smell. It’s richer than store-bought syrup. I think it has a smoky flavor, but Cindy doesn’t taste that. Maybe we’re tasting a few extra ingredients too.

It has the chill of our wet bodies, from when we first emptied the buckets on a rainy morning. It has the cold of our fingers from the second time. It has the peace and silence of a Sunday afternoon as I bored 41 holes with a 7/16-inch bit and auger.

It has the help of neighbors like George Brabec, who lent me three milk cans, and Deane Hillbrand, who gave me the old toboggan, and Sue Thue, who found the perfect book on the subject, and Jim Sales, who gave me tips from his sugaring days at Northwoods Audubon Center, and Troy and Mark and about 10 other folks who offered tips large and small. And don’t forget Cecil Booker.

It has the taste of spring in it too. When the sap is running, spring is just around the next bend. After this long, long winter, maybe that’s the best taste of all.