August 10 2024: Memories, goodtimes, and plans

Now it is August, and I am full of angst of how quickly summer is already disappearing into fall. The meadow is turning brown, the sunflowers are in full bloom and there is still so much to do before welcoming cold weather. The ripening of the garden vegetables was the first clue: after waiting for 6 weeks, suddenly there’s so much food to harvest, eat, and freeze for winter, but I also noticed the seemingly instant changes in the landscape: greens shifting to gold, the sun now peeking through the south-facing windows, where they had been blocked by the eaves for 2 months during the hottest days. This summer has been very hot, although not as terrible as in many other places. I think our hottest day so far was 94. We often worked in the mornings and hid from the heat in the afternoons and this became such a routine that we felt it would last forever.

We’ve had intermittent rains all summer, fortunately, and are currently in another monsoon period, those days that start with brilliant blue skies, morphing to afternoon thunderstorms and downpours that occur when the moist air from the Gulf of California crashes into the dry, hot air in the higher altitudes of the Southwest. When the clouds roll in, they offer a wonderful relief from the heat, and I can watch the wilted squash plants soak the raindrops up and spring back to life. I cannot keep enough water on these plants, two gallons each morning and 2 more in the afternoon still isn’t enough to stop the squash leaves from drooping with heat exhaustion. Rather like me. We splurged on a new weather station, and now can watch how the heat index, humidity level, and barometer work together to bring the much-needed cool air and moisture.

This summer we have celebrated growing a garden small enough to feed Alan and I, but big enough to put plenty in the freezer for winter. Not too big to require hours of weeding. Small enough to protect from critters, using row cover to deter grasshoppers. (See the sheets of row cover hanging about the garden, above.) Already, I’ve filled 2 dozen vacuum-packed freezer bags of zucchinis, peas, and spinach to enjoy in smoothies and stews in January. Broccoli, beans, and celery follow. We’ve got enough root crops to store all winter. We’re eating all the usual summer veggies every day, grilling them outside to keep the house cool. While mostly still green, there are hundreds of tomatoes ready to ripen, and, of course, there’s plenty of winter squashes. Nothing is more satisfying than knowing you have food for the future. I believe it is one of the greatest pleasures of living this lifestyle and well worth the effort we put into it.

But, as summer lumbers on inexorably toward its end, not all the projects we were so excited to start in May are finished, and now fall, with freezing temps and shorter days, is right in front of us. How did it happen so quickly? Can we get everything done? Is it time to shift to stacking firewood and think about frost protection in the garden? I’m 70 years old and still feel ambushed by every change of season: that first blush of green in March welcoming spring, the dry winds of June telling me that summer is right on their heels, and now, the golden haze of August in the meadows, hinting of autumn. Finally, the cold, gray skies promising a dusting of snow in late October will warn me to get the warm clothes out and find my snowshoes, buried in a shed since March.

Inevitably, our thoughts turn to firewood. For many years when I was a young back-to-the-land hippie in Idaho, starting in August, we got permits and logged our own firewood from Kaniksu National Forest. The kid’s dad and I had multiple chainsaws, peaveys, rope and pulleys, wedges, axes and a big 1967 International Harvester 1-ton beast of a truck able to haul 2 cords home. I loved the crisp early fall days, wearing flannel shirts and leather gloves, climbing high on the old logging roads to search for dead, standing, Tamarack and Spruce trees on the uphill slopes. The kids played in a safe spot and had a picnic. We took turns taking the tree down: putting in the notch and back cuts and using felling wedges to fine tune the drop, carefully watching it fall from a safe distance, then limbing and bucking it into 16” rounds. The lovely spiral shape of the Tamarack and the smell of the Spruce were intoxicating. Rolling the rounds down the slope to the roadbed near the truck was dicey work. One of us stood on the road with the peavey bar to stop the rounds from escaping us and go bouncing and charging down the hill, crashing through the underbrush. Not for the faint of heart, but one of my favorite chores.
Today, the chainsaws stay in the shed, and the peaveys are long gone. Alan and I tamely buy our 4 cords of pinon, cedar and pine already split and delivered to the woodshed. Our only chore is to stack it up and burn it. I admire and am a bit jealous of those who still get their firewood from the source and remember those times with great fondness.

Recently, a bull elk has discovered our yard and is visiting every night and early morning.  He’s nearly tall enough to step over the 4’ fence. The dogs growl from their beds, but don’t bark at him.  Those huge antlers make them very cautious.  He drinks from my bird bath (knocking it over every night) and munches on our apple tree (until Alan got it surrounded with a wire cage), but mostly just grazes and looks longingly at the (fenced) garden.  I’m sure he could jump in and demolish it all, so I have put blinking fairy lights around the top, and that seems to work as a deterrent.  Of course, there’s another month to go and he might change his mind as the meadow grasses thin and the veggies ripen.  Interestingly, he avoids the bee-garden, not liking those plants, lavender, bee bright, bee balm and lilacs, at all. 

Other projects we have completed: a drinking water faucet at the kitchen sink, a slightly improved drain line (although we might still need to rebuild the whole thing next spring), improved debris catchers for the cisterns, more Zydyck dams, and painting the house. We are doing this by hand, with brushes, so it will take a while, but the non-toxic Milk Paint is awesome, goes on well over the rough stucco finish, and we should have it done by winter.

We recently had a marvelous backpack trip into the South San Juan Wilderness with a friend. I was glad to know I could still hoist a pack and hike uphill all day without trouble, and we had a great time, although all three (!) of our water filters quit on the first day, forcing us to boil all our water. As a result, we ran out of fuel on the third day and had to hike out. Needless to say, Alan and I have bought several new filter systems along with some new lightweight gear and a pack for Zane. We’ve decided to head out on another trip next week, hopefully covering a section of the Continental Divide Trail, if weather permits.

After all, this is why we live here: to enjoy everything the Southwest has to offer!