tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50590325230919855212024-02-19T10:12:53.768-05:00In TransitionMatt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-49248888001691434702018-06-29T13:22:00.000-04:002018-06-29T13:22:38.812-04:00Exactly Where I Should Be<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sun, rain, wind, tent, squirrels, possums, raccoons, 5 incredible landmates, chiggers, fish, ducks, scratches, cuts, bruises, aches, welts, wood, fire, smoke, bark, knives, axes, chainsaws, bows, arrows, hides, skinning, tanning, butchering, clay, flies and their larva, ticks, mirrors to check for ticks, fresh air, trees, birds and their beautiful sounds, soil, poop and pee outside, wigwam build, planting, grafting, harvesting, picking greens immediately before a meal, once-a-week dumpsters, new friends of all species and connecting with old ones, farmer’s market, deep sleep, waking up early with excitement for the day, day’s activities determined by the weather, time for reflection, self-care, growth, peace, and clarity.
These have been just some of the many parts of my life for the past few months, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I am positively thriving, and I feel better than I ever have before. I am truly healing and connecting to the sources of my life. I am living out what my mind, body, and soul have known for several years but that I didn’t know how to do. Though I miss my friends and family in faraway places, I have no questions that I am exactly where I should be. I am grateful to everyone who has helped me to grow and get to where I am, and I wish that those who want to live similarly were here with me.
You see, I left Washington DC at the end of March after leaving the ol’ EPA in early March. Leaving the Environmental Protection Agency was simple (and was made all the simpler when I was instructed to literally walk throughout several buildings to have people sign a piece of paper that I didn’t have library fines, etc., like a third grader), but leaving DC was quite challenging, choking back tears while saying goodbye to close friends. I certainly do not miss the city itself or what it stands for, but the earth-minded community that I was a part of there was nothing short of incredible. Where was I going? Well, I was going to go on a wigwam build, and then to visit family in New Jersey, and then...to my current location in Western North Carolina.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful pond.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It all happened seamlessly fast. When I had some downtime after eye surgery, I was listening to podcasts and heard a fellow speaking about his and his partner’s homestead. He was talking about healing traumatized land, ecology, rewilding, the virtues of going feral. I commented on the podcast, as I try to connect with people who are trying to un-domesticate themselves, and we ended up connecting over the ether. He posted an opportunity to come live, work, and be with him, his partner, and their newborn on their homestead, and I knew immediately that this was what I should do. I wrote them a letter, we talked on the phone, and they invited me to come. I'm now a firm believer that life can work out in amazing ways if I expand my comfort zone and find people that support me in doing so.</span><br />
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I've been on the land here for almost 3 months, but it feels like an eternity, in the best of possible ways. My old way of life melted away very quickly when I got here. I feel as if I've connected directly with my ancestors, who lived in a more village-like setting, close to the land. I believe that this connection is why everything feels so right: I am finally doing what I'm supposed to be doing after 31 years. I am forever grateful. Sometimes I have to remind myself, especially when something about living this way feels hard, that I have been welcomed with open arms to an absolutely magical place by amazing people.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I live primarily outside. I have access to electricity and modern appliances and have a car, but I sleep in a tent, I cook with wood, I'm building a wigwam to live in, and I work to directly support myself and my landmates. There is no boss, no schedule, no TPS reports, no bullshit. There are the complex human relationships that exist anywhere, but we are open in our communication and all love where we live and want to see the ecology of the place thrive. Our common goal guides decision making and makes living here so wonderful. A common goal certainly does not make life easy, but, in a real way, makes it clear and simple. Every action affects the land. There is no “away” and no hiding ecologically irresponsible behavior.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wigwam inner frame - a big kid jungle gym!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve had some friends ask me what a typical day is like. There is no typical day, and that is part of the joy of this life. I might plug mushroom logs, take part in stripping the bark off of a huge tulip poplar tree for building a wigwam, weed garden beds, plant, collect firewood, fish in the pond, skin and eat a squirrel, write, read, learn about plants, let my curiosity drive me when necessity does not. One day, I sat and meditated and watched asparagus grow. I saw a change in the length of the asparagus spear in 45 minutes. I checked back 8 hours later, and it had grown over an inch! I felt calm, peaceful, connected. I understand that this could be viewed by a certain culture as a waste of time and some hippie bullshit. Well, I don’t really know about that, but it felt right. Sitting still in that spot made sense that day, just like somehow, sometimes it seems to make sense to stare at a screen, work for a paycheck, call a friend, dance, or watch sports.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My stove.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It has been difficult for me to write a post on this blog because I have simply been enjoying living far too much. I’ve been “busy.” Not the hustle-and-bustle type, just in that I see and notice so many things and I want to know more and connect. Life is full. My list of want-to-do’s is unending and I just have to prioritize and take opportunities as they come. <span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">I’ve had several realizations, which I hope to continue to share over time.</span>
First, I’ve realized that I do not want to be a lone mountain/country/homesteading man. I’ve known this intellectually for some time now, but now I get it for real. There is so much to do, and it can be lonely when done alone: collecting firewood, killing other beings, cooking food, taking care of ailments, getting clean water, maintaining a shelter. There would be no time for anything else if I had to do these things all the time for myself. There would be no time for writing, taking up interesting projects, connecting with people, lounging for a little bit, sleeping, taking it all in, reflecting. I have no doubt we are meant to work together as a species. I learned this in a real way when one of my landmates felled a tree and we stripped the bark from it. We used a chainsaw, but it was still hard work! I tried to do some of the bark stripping myself, and just eventually gave up in exhaustion and due to an ache in my arm from a past injury. I got back together with my landmate and we finished the job. I can only imagine what the effort would have been like if the two of us tried to do the work without a chainsaw. It truly takes a village! However, in this day and age, humans can bypass the village with a lot of machines. Machines support the individualistic culture that exists: MY car, MY computer, MY cell phone, MY money. These things do connect me to the wider world, and sharing some of them is a catch-22 that I’m still sorting through.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flattening 7 foot long pieces of tulip poplar bark for the wigwam.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Second, I must take care of my body at all times. I’ve had so many bites and scrapes and cuts and I work with sharp things often. I’ve had a few infections. Luckily, I live with herbalists and they have helped me with different remedies. I’ve been really empowered by exploring what, for me, is a new avenue. When I had a swollen eyelid, I immediately thought that meant I needed to see a doctor and get antibiotics. But, I tried a compress of usnea and calendula instead. I religiously compressed that eye and the swelling and itching eventually subsided. I read an interesting passage in an herbal book about how I should support my body during the infection, because it has the tools to fight it. What a different approach than trying to knock everything out with an antibiotic all of the time (though there are some herbs that will do that too)! I look myself down from head to toe a couple times every day and check out what’s going on. If I don’t take care of my body, I cannot be what I want to be and do what I need to do. Plain and simple.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teaching fire making. Local newspaper picked it up at<br />
http://www.shelbystar.com/news/20180617/getting-back-to-mother-nature.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so I am looking forward to continuing the construction of my wigwam, which will be my primary residence, continuing to better connect and integrate with my community, and to learn and teach my ancestor’s skills as they become my own skills. I want to see ecosystems as my ancestors did. I want to develop relationships with everything around me to keep me alive. It is no easy task, but there are a determined few of us trying, even as the inertia of the dominant human culture on this planet is encouraging disconnection, order, and profit. Onward and upward, live, thrive, and be!</span></span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-6038484894960290482018-02-04T18:48:00.000-05:002018-02-04T18:48:20.004-05:00Imagination and Liberation<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-ab6dd38a-6293-4951-5fd8-a4f0793ff084" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In <i>Grandpa’s Walking Stick</i>, Chad K. Slagle sings that his Grandpa taught him to close his eyes when he really wanted to see. Two weeks ago, I had the great fortune of having (seemingly) successful laser eye surgery to correct my vision, and realized during recovery what he meant in a deeper way. I’ve known for quite some time now that a key to "modern" life, or at least to peace and joy in it, is to be intentional and consciously cultivate peace, stillness, and clarity. I encounter so many distractions on a daily basis, and it is an act of great strength to sit quietly with myself and others, perhaps with eyes closed, or to walk out in a peaceful landscape. I see most clearly in the times when I’m being intentional with my action and inaction.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was nothing like stinging, itchy, teary eyes to convince me to keep my eyes closed. My family and friends were so generous with their time and energy during my healing, and I would not have healed as well without their care. What struck me was that they came to see me even though I couldn’t really do anything, just to check on me, be with me, and take care of me. I’ve reflected on how my own focus is often on doing something with someone, rather than just being with them. Of course, both can happen simultaneously, but I could definitely place more emphasis on just being with someone, fully present.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the times when I was alone, eyes closed, my other senses came alive. I used touch to feel around for eye drops and eye shields. I unfortunately tasted the nasty eye drops that made their way through the channels of my eye down the back of my throat. I had queued a few podcasts up in anticipation of my recovery, and so I also used my hearing to an uncommon degree. I’d been meaning to listen to these particular podcasts for some time, and only then, when I absolutely could not do anything else, took the time. This is how life often goes for me; circumstances force certain situations which often yield benefits that I could be getting every day, if I only made the time. I know that I won’t always make the time, and so I cherish these reminders and times of realization, where I’m grateful for warmth and a warm bed, friends and family, the time to reflect on and assess where I am and where I want to be going.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagination, creativity</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In one particular podcast I listened to, <i>A New and Ancient Story</i>, Charles Eisenstein and Satish Kumar discuss how many of us have lost our imaginations in industrial society. This statement really hit home for me. The lack of imagination and creativity is a huge reason why I have been so dissatisfied with my societal academic and income-earning pursuits. While they have earned me praise and money, they have been almost entirely devoid of imagination. My employers tolerated just a small amount of “outside of the box” thinking, but, in the end, they called on me to produce quality-assured, uniform-grade “products” acceptable to the institutional gatekeepers. Society gives license for imagination to children and inventors of fanciful profitable technologies, and perhaps also to starving artists, though, by the name, one can tell that this is a license with a huge caveat. As a starving artist, one can gain respect in name, but that respect is not met with the rewards of society, such as the ability to afford the best or any health care, and the luxury to spend freely on things like laser eye surgery. It is the fear of not having the seeming certainty that an employer provides, once I’ve had it, that has kept me going so long down a dull and uncreative path. To be fair, it also took me many years to gain the confidence to live an unconventional life (by East Coast U.S. societal standards), and I have so many to thank for helping me on that journey. In talking with many of my friends and acquaintances, this fear of leaving behind what appears to be certainty and comfort is common and has kept many stuck in bad places.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No imagination, no creativity</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">What a shame. What is the point of having our brain capability if we are not able to exercise our imaginations, express our emotions, live out our desires in a way that meets our needs? And I mean truly meets our needs in a meaningful, imaginative, way, without pre-designed boxes within which imagination must fit? Every day that I wake up, the ecological integrity of the planet continues to be ransacked, despite the efforts of many to make things less bad. This fact assures me that imagination and new relationships with all of the beings on this planet are needed. The way the dominant culture operates does not work. What excuse do I have for not participating in helping to create a different way?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the past couple of weeks, partly as a result of my limited vision and having to slow down, partly as a result of the inspiring conversations I’ve listened to, I’ve been repeating to myself that I must not allow myself to be broken. No, I must not allow myself to be broken by the societal machine, the talking heads on repeat saying that society is the way it is for good reason, that things will get better in the future (they just have to!), that “someone’s working on a solution for x,” and so on and so on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve realized how close I have come to being broken. I’ve nearly crashed on several occasions: bad relationships, questionable mentors and advice, denial, escapism, workaholism. I educated my mind for 26 years and sadly neglected my soul and mistrusted my feelings and experience. I was nearly broken into a drone repeating the tired, cliche phrases, like, “that’s just the way the world is.” I was almost broken into embodying the belief that everything can be explained scientifically and broken down into reason and logic. Though I actually have come to accept the world (read: industrial society) as it is, there is a critical, damaging message underneath “that’s just the way the world is.” The purveyors of this phrase mean that you should step in line. They are telling you to play the game, because the structure of society is the way it is for good reason, and it can be made better, and even great, with small tweaks. They are trying to make you feel powerless and complacent. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This way of thinking and being is wrong and very damaging to those who see that a new, sane way is possible, those who see clearly that the dominant system is not serving most people and is most certainly not serving the majority of beings on this Earth. I have been profoundly liberated by accepting that the world is really messed up (more specifically, that the human collective has messed it up) and that I want to participate as little as possible in the parts of society that continue messing it up. It is naive to think that those of us able to write and read on the world wide web will be able to escape the throws of global civilization completely, but there are several ways to move toward that end. There are many people doing so, and I am so excited to join their ranks in the coming months and years.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxjRsXoyguu43NXpD0ORjy9PlHefToLpeCRQSRM87CpRoz0t-you4YBMzzzPeT5fxrr49UrP8Lhw-B1H7S4pUMnapDg1EEkVKmLWrs2_NIrWlSD01-jgOlNodOiHvdMtJHnRt6f2c7Ad3/s1600/IMG_4903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxjRsXoyguu43NXpD0ORjy9PlHefToLpeCRQSRM87CpRoz0t-you4YBMzzzPeT5fxrr49UrP8Lhw-B1H7S4pUMnapDg1EEkVKmLWrs2_NIrWlSD01-jgOlNodOiHvdMtJHnRt6f2c7Ad3/s320/IMG_4903.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad imagination, no creativity, delusion</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week, after half a day spent staring at a blurry screen at my job (subjecting myself to such torture for blurry reasons altogether), I ran home from the train stop in my work costume. I was exhilarated. The world was blurry, as my eyes are still healing, but liberation felt, and still feels, so near. I’m thankful for the time in which I needed to heal, in that it allowed me to close my eyes and see at a time in my life when my eyes are constantly being taken by many distractions. In my recovery and rest, I’ve been given a taste of what life will be like when I am more free, when I have more of a say in my own daily activities. That time, in fact, is not even a month away! My needs will remain the same: shelter, water, food, nature connection, close relationships. Each day I will wake up with a mission to meet those needs in the best way possible, in a way that can go on for thousands of years. I will lose many of the societal advantages I have been given, like all the things and services I need to stay alive and (at least physically) well always at an arm's reach. However, nothing brings me more joy than using my skill and imagination, and all of my senses (not the least of which my vision!) to live justly on this Earth, and to be my best for myself and everyone I encounter. I will not allow myself to be broken, because, in the end, it is really only me standing in my own way.</span></span></div>
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Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-2814621063713288862017-11-08T18:06:00.000-05:002017-11-08T18:06:24.514-05:00In This Moment<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For over a year now, before this blog began, I’ve been thinking about making a radical break from my current way of life. I have set deadlines to leave my job and done things that I and people surrounding me, say, 5 years ago, would frown upon. I don’t mean bad things. I’m talking about eating hit-by-car animals, diving into dumpsters, spending significant time on manual labor activities like processing acorns, showering far less frequently than I used to, not using anything but water to wash my hair, and hunting with a longbow. As I ponder, “what’s next?,” I recognize how hard it is for me to live the life I ultimately want in the city. Restrictions and rules and the cost of living and the lack of access to healthy ecosystems prevent it. By the same token, I realize that my dear friends and my means of survival are here for the time being. Regardless of what happens in the future, I am profoundly satisfied with who I am in this moment and with the drastic changes I have made over the past couple of years in how I spend my time and who I spend it with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I came back to my current job from a 6-month assignment elsewhere, a kind co-worker decorated my cubicle with “Welcome Back Matt” written in vegetable font. After about a month, I was sufficiently welcomed back and thinking about what to do with the letters. My cube neighbor suggested writing “Become Matt,” and there it still sits. To me, this reminder symbolizes what’s going on: I’m becoming who I am, not who I’ve always thought I should be. I’m fairly certain that striving to be who I thought I should be has caused most of the misery throughout my life, and I’d guess the same happens for a great number of people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know that I’m becoming myself because I'm seeing substantial change in the things I do and am capable of doing with other people and with my ecosystem. The mental, emotional, and physical preparation in various areas of my life is starting to coalesce. I feel better than I ever have. One symbol of this coalescence was my first shot on a deer in Seneca Creek State Park a couple weeks ago. Nearly 2 years of training, having previously never picked up a bow or thought about getting near wild animals, has brought me to the point where time of day, geography, wind direction, entry into a hunting area, knowledge of deer behavior, archery skill, trying and failing, mentoring from others, and personal research are all syncing up. I now feel confident that I can hunt successfully, at close range, with simple tools. Of course, I still need to do it. In this particular case, my arrow sailed an inch or so above the buck’s back, but it was exactly where it needed to be in the horizontal direction. I saw him again this weekend, along with several other deer.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAI6Dvv_O0nI7vy4Pjdro-E9COQlWCVLZpce-1NBnaNRkGWWEt48k16JmxsROu3hnjOzKYvCQTarTSlD8sAYxmH5lZnBMXKvKaWUm4YPalpQKw0_Q3Vkyqip8Cax1eKIsbMRqUvvgjZ3eh/s1600/IMG_4412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAI6Dvv_O0nI7vy4Pjdro-E9COQlWCVLZpce-1NBnaNRkGWWEt48k16JmxsROu3hnjOzKYvCQTarTSlD8sAYxmH5lZnBMXKvKaWUm4YPalpQKw0_Q3Vkyqip8Cax1eKIsbMRqUvvgjZ3eh/s320/IMG_4412.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bow, arrow, plants, lichen, shooting lane</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps the most important change I've seen is in the level of comfort and ease with which I approach myself and others. As cliche as it sounds, as I’ve let my truest self shine, new opportunities have opened up. New people have come into my life, as I have been nothing but genuine. To be sure, people have also left. On the mornings when I wake up and don’t have to go to my job, I am simply ready for the day. I’m excited to change the water in my acorn buckets, try a new recipe with some wild food I gathered, take a walk with my arrows, meet a new friend. I’ve changed the story I tell myself and others; gone are the days where I’d refer to the things I think and do as “crazy.” I used to dismiss many of the thoughts I had out of hand, and now I’m doing the things I was only then thinking about! I attribute much of this change to how I tell my story, to myself and others. I certainly could not have done this without the support of close friends and family. Just recently, I visited a couple of intentional communities in Loiusa, Virginia. They were wonderful places where people are trying to live in more grounded, authentic, sane ways. There is an ever-quieting voice in my head that says, “You did what? You’re not seriously considering joining one of those!” I’m getting pretty good at shutting that voice up. In my story, it’s perfectly reasonable and healthy to explore all ecologically responsible ways of living.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After years of learning and hesitating, wild foods are becoming a substantial portion of my diet</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Acorn, deer meat, and nettles are now featured prominently. I’m seeing berries, hickory nuts, black walnuts, and large quantities of mushroom on the horizon as important foods. I’ve moved past the realm of identification and novelty, and am now starting to develop a relationship with these beings. This is where true connection develops, when food nourishes not only my body but everything else that makes me a whole person. There are many relationships that I need to cultivate, as I’ve ignored too many for too long. A lifetime's worth of work!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHu9TUrgAPxe57LrLdr9IMjv6zgWu1JtZLgBT4gpdG2HN_vpYgTnGxraarFb7eco49tWa6y3E1Cd00Lz9QBHIcjrVs7ZIJMb01-RuDZ0OKX5qHCtmrOby2_EFC8_zq6oXJjzUCaMQ172Z/s1600/15095054_10107130099365599_873210853469871971_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHu9TUrgAPxe57LrLdr9IMjv6zgWu1JtZLgBT4gpdG2HN_vpYgTnGxraarFb7eco49tWa6y3E1Cd00Lz9QBHIcjrVs7ZIJMb01-RuDZ0OKX5qHCtmrOby2_EFC8_zq6oXJjzUCaMQ172Z/s320/15095054_10107130099365599_873210853469871971_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Acorn chili</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m confronting old dreams and patterns that no longer serve me. I’m getting rid of material things that might have some sentimental or potential future value but are weighing me down. The shedding of stuff is a wonderful and freeing process. I've had a beautiful drum set for about 12 years that has seen several stages with various bands. It is a serious load to carry around, and I’ve played maybe 4 times in the past 2 years. When I was younger, I had dreams that the drums would be a major part of my life, that I might achieve some level of fame. The decision to sell my drum set is just the manifestation of a choice that I made years ago to put my time into other things. I’ve grieved the loss of this hobby, and I acknowledge that it is sometimes just fun to play, but keeping this large set is not enriching my life right now. Once these pieces of wood and metal go, most other things will go easily and I’ll be able to live lighter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so, I am happy with who I am in this moment. To be in such a state is a beautiful thing. However, the moment will pass and I will continue to explore, learn and grow. My goal is clear: to live in a community of people integrated as much as possible within an ecosystem. Though I don’t yet know exactly what is possible, I wake up every day starting with that end in mind, and that brings me peace. I get discouraged when I feel my progress is not fast enough, when I lament the life I have spent not learning the skills to keep me alive outside of civilization. These alternating cycles of peace and unrest are essential in my life. Both have value in their time and place, contributing acceptance and action respectively.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8McvqTcsg2SHkFmkvXSYb5ukW6cbO1hHMg6yVftP2_rDkZdZr34fFstyOEUaokb5ddsl3QWWcb54Qwa9TVEd_tDOYZ7f6UJfGHvYfuII1KOgF6jmcloDzqRMNhZij6cHgA-_AG74k6zQ/s1600/IMG_4459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8McvqTcsg2SHkFmkvXSYb5ukW6cbO1hHMg6yVftP2_rDkZdZr34fFstyOEUaokb5ddsl3QWWcb54Qwa9TVEd_tDOYZ7f6UJfGHvYfuII1KOgF6jmcloDzqRMNhZij6cHgA-_AG74k6zQ/s320/IMG_4459.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sun behind the fog</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Will I make a clean break from a civilized way of life, go off and see where I end up? Maybe I will, or maybe my next move will be less drastic. I will stay open to taking risks, consider my relationships and what I might be taking for granted, and follow my intuition. My intuition has not failed me since I’ve started down this path, and my confidence in living without many of the trappings of modern civilization has greatly increased. There are many ways to get to where I want to be. The ride is likely to be anything but smooth, and I’m just restless enough to keep pushing my limits!</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-37392424969030121482017-10-18T18:03:00.000-04:002017-10-18T18:03:23.149-04:00Living with the Seasons<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I continue to un-domesticate myself, I’ve been embracing living with the seasons. They are especially in my mind as the dropping temperatures signal the arrival of Fall here in Washington DC. The seasons have much to offer: the growth of Spring, the heat and freedom of Summer, the rest, quiet and chill of Winter, the colors and harvest of the Fall. As I spend more time outside, I notice the changing seasons more; I gain a different conception of time, and tap into what our ancestors may have felt, before alarm clocks, before a day was a unit of time over which there was some prefabricated expectation about what should be done.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The past two nights I’ve been sleeping with the windows open as the temperatures dropped to the low 40’s Fahrenheit. I have a comfortable bed with plenty of blankets and I like to feel the outside, rather than try to keep it out. This Fall, I am dreaming about what’s falling. Little rain has come from the skies, but the trees are dropping food all around.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFx5t3cbXdRjqSikT5Rtk8SpW4pnVbZpncEj2ybBmvFhWBM-4uvAIxinOf5Xq4XNJzzxB5BBxyDnVT-7K3x_8G77JvHI93HhelBW797MMKTOlaHBKP-s-4M3dsovllnAOsAfCJVDtGKqM/s1600/IMG_4346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFx5t3cbXdRjqSikT5Rtk8SpW4pnVbZpncEj2ybBmvFhWBM-4uvAIxinOf5Xq4XNJzzxB5BBxyDnVT-7K3x_8G77JvHI93HhelBW797MMKTOlaHBKP-s-4M3dsovllnAOsAfCJVDtGKqM/s320/IMG_4346.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chestnut Oak acorns</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the past couple of years, I’ve been very into acorns: they are abundant and very easy to find. If you know me as more than an acquaintance, you know that I engage in balanophagy (acorn eating). I am extremely grateful for a group of friends that is also into acorns: without them I may have never started. The idea of using acorns as a real food source became more real for me when I met Lincoln Smith at Forested in Bowie, Maryland, United States, who was processing acorns and making baked goods with them. It was at this point that I dove in, with my primary goal to make acorns into something that resembled a meal. I wanted them to be the main event.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhC-iPTxA6TTY3SBTfRgK8JzidaZDKcWvFr_sree9XNi3cEVGB91nxtncbzraVIECEWrGTPXWwPI8eux0DgysySJZvnKbENnB9o2tn3j19iWhq4bGRrvU7Mvz8N7EihlSZHB1Q9xJMmVB/s1600/process.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="660" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhC-iPTxA6TTY3SBTfRgK8JzidaZDKcWvFr_sree9XNi3cEVGB91nxtncbzraVIECEWrGTPXWwPI8eux0DgysySJZvnKbENnB9o2tn3j19iWhq4bGRrvU7Mvz8N7EihlSZHB1Q9xJMmVB/s320/process.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drying the processed acorn meal</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Processing acorns is simple: get the shell off, get any skin off, throw the acorns into water and boil in several changes of water until the bitter taste is gone. Or, get the shell off, get any skin off, grind the acorns finely, add cool water, and change the water a couple times a day until the bitterness is gone. There are tips here and there to speed up the process, but these are the basics. In an instant gratification society, most dismiss this all as a poor use of time. I take pleasure in and respect things that take time, knowing that by choosing to take the long route I am working with nature instead of against it. It is the speeding up of everything that allows humans to increase their destructive power.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I echo the sentiments of Sam Thayer in his book, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Nature’s Garden</i>: t</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">hat acorns make him see a beautiful view of the forest not just as a beautiful view, but as a comfortable place with millions of pounds of food there for the eating. I’ve made acorn patties, acorn chili, acorn flatbread pizza, acorn grits, and acorn brown bread. Most have been well received, and none have been perfected! I have even started to delve into pressing acorns for oil. I’ll give it all another shot this year and try out some new experiments.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJs9FuC2LLvJTGQGc9OxOJmNhCsVxYXFQNJ3A0_LNZ3XL3ds3cYCDPFOmeMPQPADROCoDUNIecFQY5ShuIDjzUoM90Bhf0JD_LngxsJuCpRnuMhUVkAV5JKzF6uOQ2bGlRPL5ZUVajvZYA/s1600/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="660" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJs9FuC2LLvJTGQGc9OxOJmNhCsVxYXFQNJ3A0_LNZ3XL3ds3cYCDPFOmeMPQPADROCoDUNIecFQY5ShuIDjzUoM90Bhf0JD_LngxsJuCpRnuMhUVkAV5JKzF6uOQ2bGlRPL5ZUVajvZYA/s320/pizza.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's an acorn crust pizza pie!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eating acorns is not only a great conversation starter, but a way of bringing people together. I’ve sat in my backyard and shelled acorns with friends and family and taught a class on acorn processing. I proudly tell people that I eat acorns. I’m mostly met with laughter and disbelief, but sometimes with genuine interest and acceptance. Sometimes people think it’s cool, and even if they wouldn’t do it themselves, they get why I do it. More are willing to try it when the acorns are made into, say, a pizza. I was recently at a dinner where a renowned chef made acorn falafel, so the acorn is getting at least some air time in the mainstream.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are other nuts out there this fall, as in nuts like me and nuts like the acorns. In the late summer, I started to notice some very green hickory nuts on the ground with husks still tightly bound. I cracked a few open to find that most had a collection of seeds where I expected to see nutmeat. The seeds tasted pretty good, but not nearly as sustaining as the ripe nuts that are rolling in now. They taste great, and, surprise, no soaking in water! They can be enjoyed straight after shelling. I’m excited to tap into this food source that seems to be largely ignored (at least by people I know/meet and people who write on the internet).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Along with the hickories, I’ve developed a strong affinity for black walnuts. They are bigger than hickories and have a unique taste that I quite enjoy. I've warily sat under a black walnut tree while it was windy - watch out! They land with a thud rather than the gentle dismount of an acorn. Two small challenges with shoveling hickories and walnuts into my mouth: first, the husks of black walnuts die one’s hands brown, so, I usually like to have gloves on hand. Second, the meat of both nuts is difficult to extract using the blow of a stone. This is especially the case with the smaller hickory nuts. Anyone know of any do-it-yourself approaches with simple tools?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HF1HF2oqQaL3KPnGBUGGasBO-NkmuuYsvR7OUDi9ERP5dO9zQTOeoSB7hWmd-_VwskYRBuTea85MgOJuJIub6elV67_A4YE1SYvbAFA_pp7hWGERimwpXInWsQHMq1CNZP-P99cQlgHs/s1600/IMG_4329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9HF1HF2oqQaL3KPnGBUGGasBO-NkmuuYsvR7OUDi9ERP5dO9zQTOeoSB7hWmd-_VwskYRBuTea85MgOJuJIub6elV67_A4YE1SYvbAFA_pp7hWGERimwpXInWsQHMq1CNZP-P99cQlgHs/s320/IMG_4329.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black walnuts in various stages of cracking</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m starting to see Fall as a time of abundance. If I had to “survive” this Fall, I could probably make a pretty good living on nuts. Maybe some mushrooms, greens, berries, and meat mixed in there if I’m lucky. It wouldn’t be easy with my level of skill or knowledge, but I think it would be possible. I hope to be reflecting on this post in a couple of years with a greater understanding of how to live with the seasons. It will be a lifelong process for a guy that has lived indoors for his whole life, treating the outside as a look-but-don’t-touch museum until very recently. I’m becoming more of myself as I’ve started to interact with and participate in the outside. It feels good.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-37145894606104280312017-09-19T19:37:00.000-04:002017-09-19T19:45:44.671-04:00Three Plants for Tea<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over a year ago, I was in Peru, struck by the beauty of many parts of the country and the closeness of non-city dwellers to the land. As my traveling companion and I hiked deep into Colca Canyon, we walked through small villages that were inaccessible by automobile. By necessity, the people there had know-how; there was no pizza delivery-like instant gratification available. The most memorable part of the trip for me was an all-too-short stay with the Quispe family on the Capachica Peninsula, in the small village of Paramis.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Traveling is always an experience in vulnerability. I don’t always acknowledge it, but I’m completely at the mercy of others. There is no home to retreat to. I know no one and sometimes do not speak the language. I often don't know how the "justice system" works, if there is one. In exchange for some money (usually), I am whisked away here and there, and in the case of Paramis, out to a remote place indeed. A remote place, of course, is exactly where I wanted to be, and where my soul often yearns to be. It’s a good thing that people are generally good and honest! I’ve been humbled by the incredible hospitality I’ve received on every one of my trips abroad.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRpISL5QmzjT-73bPllzRuDWsVR69eHuuIqiy_VW2vgV3wOeUbxY8Fm-oSWvaLb_fqJac1CxC8zaqKiE8PKbBet_cDpREe93lQiNfRIobzKD_juobDs5_GegIdlS_pRKPS6tEpVpaJnSH/s1600/DSC_0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRpISL5QmzjT-73bPllzRuDWsVR69eHuuIqiy_VW2vgV3wOeUbxY8Fm-oSWvaLb_fqJac1CxC8zaqKiE8PKbBet_cDpREe93lQiNfRIobzKD_juobDs5_GegIdlS_pRKPS6tEpVpaJnSH/s320/DSC_0224.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paramis and beyond from partway up the hill</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After taking a rough ride down a rocky, dusty road, we were met with an absolutely stunning view. The setting was bucolic, the mountains of Bolivia were across the massive Lake Titicaca, and a sense of peace was in the atmosphere. I’ll never forget the full moon over the lake, casting a bright shimmering beam across the water. Our hosts showed us to our room - a small hut with a straw-dirt floor and no electricity. No electricity, despite the power lines that ran to the 25 or so homes in the village. The families typically purchased electricity from the power company as a cooperative, with each family paying a share. One family was not willing or able to pay, so the electricity had been out for a couple of weeks. Our host told us that it did not bother him in the slightest, gave us a candle for our room, and urged us to use caution given the abundant dry tinder that was our floor.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I instantly admired his nonchalant attitude of being totally fine without electricity in his home. It’s a comfort zone that I hope to get to eventually. Electricity makes life easier, and I've developed certain associations with it, but it is not necessary. Humans lived for all but the smallest sliver of their existence without it. Here, in Paramis, I saw living proof that people can be happy and go about their daily lives without it!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wasn’t sure whether the two brothers and sister lived their lives as they did out of necessity or by choice. I know that they did live in the city for a time and that they eventually came back to the land where they grew up. Regardless of how they came to be where they were, they were very humble and incredibly proud of their lives. They shared stories of how they lived and of their heritage. Dinner and lunch were full of fresh, home grown/cooked ingredients and stories. We also walked and talked. As we trekked up the hill behind the house, we were treated to wonderful views, and, to my delight, a description of the uses of many plants on the land. We picked the three plants that had been at the table for tea with every meal. I can’t remember all of them, but one of the plants had an anise-like flavor. I thought this tea blend was so cool, as I had only previously made tea from a packet with a string already attached to it. This was quite a different experience, bringing the plants from the "back yard" to the table.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJWKL2tNjCRUaOGVDp_EToG9O1TkXzQPpgoumUU_0FbKWc_58QVfwNxc5nyH0Y82cHjMevABMtFrxfm8kn8-WDgWsqEl3I7X3GbZkTb2mLYGMZe_tV4lLdUp-RRYMldlNw1DNs4MhfBlz/s1600/DSC_0240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJWKL2tNjCRUaOGVDp_EToG9O1TkXzQPpgoumUU_0FbKWc_58QVfwNxc5nyH0Y82cHjMevABMtFrxfm8kn8-WDgWsqEl3I7X3GbZkTb2mLYGMZe_tV4lLdUp-RRYMldlNw1DNs4MhfBlz/s320/DSC_0240.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our host showing us plants and talking about their uses</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we continued to walk, we stopped at an aloe-like plant. Our host used this plant as a detergent to clean clothes. In Spanish, he said, “In the city, people use chemical detergent and it causes pollution. Here, we use this plant and we return it to the earth. We can pour the used water anywhere because it came from here.” I noticed the ease with which he walked up the rocks, in sandals, his footsteps soft and deliberate, while we made lots of noise with our heavy steps and hiking shoes. Every once in awhile, we would pass a structure that reverberated with the sound of rushing water. Our host described that their water came from the top of the hill, down the aqueduct. Very cool. Water from the land, without high tech treatment. Like it should be.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I often think of the Quispes. They are role models, even heroes to me. They are the truest "environmentalists" I have met, without the title, walking the walk without the slightest air of trying to be cool. I thought of them in particular a couple weekends ago. I’ve started a small group in and around Washington, D.C. that meets to share and expand our knowledge of the land. We are focusing on our own surrounding ecosystem, establishing a relationship with the other beings here. During our walk last weekend, the thought of three plants for tea came to mind: spicebush (Lindera benzoin), creeping charlie (Glechoma hederacea), and Japanese barberry (</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Berberis thunbergii).</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm30gSKQ6kRY9Z8TpURaIMEkTySF8OCuu9GrUejtwORlfQmuAzpBFDuxsedNpaV93kiWxwGQUe7XsE2RipA14Z0lrB5YwLo9gq_ch9-KWnz8VkkQOKzMCQunH6PN0GdgnSlOPefLDW_OFq/s1600/IMG_4269.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm30gSKQ6kRY9Z8TpURaIMEkTySF8OCuu9GrUejtwORlfQmuAzpBFDuxsedNpaV93kiWxwGQUe7XsE2RipA14Z0lrB5YwLo9gq_ch9-KWnz8VkkQOKzMCQunH6PN0GdgnSlOPefLDW_OFq/s320/IMG_4269.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barberry (left), creeping charlie (upper right), spicebush (lower right)</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I nearly left the park without them, but I felt determined to try to make something, even though I wasn’t aware of what the right ratios would be and what the method of preparation was. I do say, I was pleased with the flavor. A bit overpowered by mint, perhaps, so I can tweak the ratios a bit next time. All three plants are available in abundance, so there is tea around any time I want to make it! In these moments, I feel the most connected and centered, that life is good and that the path to making it better is clear. When I connect to my ecosystem, rather than walk through it as one does through a museum, I create a better life for myself and do less harm to others. I have a lot to learn, and I look forward to sharing with others who are interested as I learn!</span>Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-26346636531641463902017-08-16T19:15:00.000-04:002017-08-21T09:11:18.380-04:00A Second Chance for Chanterelles<div class="MsoNormal">
A severe drought in DC raised hell with the wild edibles this
summer. For example, the wineberries near me- which typically arrive on
cue around July 4<sup>th </sup>- failed to fruit. They started to flower,
produced a handful of unripe berries, and then just quit. Flowers, fruit, and
leaves shriveled up and fell to the ground. In my almost five years in DC, I
have never known so many consecutive weeks without rain. I’m sure the tourists
didn’t mind the drought, as it was sunny, cloudless, and warm for almost two
straight months. But I’m no tourist. I’m not interested in looking at marble
statues of long-dead, strange-looking, over-privileged white men. </div>
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In previous years, the ripening wineberries also signaled
that it was time to start looking for chanterelle mushrooms. I figured it was
pointless to check out my chanterelle patches given the drought. However, if I
didn’t check, I knew I would regret it. So I set out in the forest, which
generally reminded me of how my mouth feels when I wake up in the morning after a night of heavy mouth breathing. As
expected, I didn’t find a single chanterelle. I would have to wait until next
year. I was gutted.</div>
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I love all wild edibles (philosophically if not for taste).
However, mushrooms will always hold a special place in my heart. They were my
first deep dive into the world of wild foods and taxonomic classification. They
taught me that with careful observation, patience, hours logged, and rigorous
study, I could make sense of a universe that initially seemed too massive and
complex to comprehend (Scientists estimate 5-10 million species of fungus!) Mushrooms
challenged me, and frankly scared me. I don’t mind indigestion. I shrug off
nausea. I find vomiting more annoying than concerning. However, it’s hard to
shake off renal and hepatic failure- the most severe symptoms of mushroom
poisoning. Yet, the more I learned, the more confident I became, which
ultimately led to something that can only be classified as obsession.</div>
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There are those times of the year when a particular mushroom
is all I can think about. I’ve considered taking vacation the entire month of
May to look for morels. In autumn, I think so much about hen of the woods that
I probably appear distracted and withdrawn to close friends. Around Independence Day, it’s chanterelles. Normally I like to root for the underdog, but not
in the case of chanterelles. They are one of the top dogs in the mushroom world
and their position at the front of the pack is justified in every respect.
Their flavor blows me away- a perfectly composed and executed symphony of
sweetness, earthiness, nuttiness, and apricotiness (if that’s a word). I
sometimes consider putting dried chanterelles under my pillow so their aroma can
permeate my dreams. So you can imagine my disappointment when that bastard
drought took them away from me.</div>
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About three weeks ago, the rain started to fall again. It
fell hard and often. It fell to the point where I was getting flash flood
alerts on my cell phone. While others were complaining, I was thankful. Rain is
life, and the best friend of mushroom hunters. </div>
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Katya and I went camping last weekend in West Virginia. It
was supposed to be a standard trip- hiking and relaxation by the river. We had
chosen our destination for two reasons. First, in the Spring, we had
accidentally left some critical tent components at our campsite there, and we
hoped to retrieve them. Second, timber rattlesnakes are purported to be
abundant in the area, and despite my general preferences for longevity, a
maladapted, counter-evolution-oriented slice of my brain makes me terribly
intrigued by venomous snakes.</div>
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We arrived at the trailhead around 3:30 pm, packed our bags,
and headed down the trail. The early stretches of the trail meandered through
spruce and white pine forest. We made it about five feet before realizing that
the forest floor was absolutely carpeted in mushrooms. There were russulas,
suillus, and boletes in every direction. I was examining what I thought to be a
Red Capped Scaber Stalk when Katya yelled “I think these might be King Boletes!” Indeed, they were boletes- two beautiful specimens with elegant brown
caps and perfect white gills. However, King Boletes (<i>Boletus edulis</i>), or porcini, have white reticulation, or webbing,
that runs down the length of the stalk. These boletes had white webbing,
however it only covered the uppermost third of the stalk. We ultimately decided
the specimens were Noble Boletes (<i>Boletus
nobilis</i>), an interesting edible variety which I have never personally
found. We dashed around the woods looking for more. We saw hundreds of Bitter
Boletes (<i>Tylopilus felleus</i>), which as
the name implies are wholly unpalatable, though not toxic.</div>
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Katya and I knew it was going to be a different kind of weekend.
The forest was alive in a way I rarely see. Despite being August in West
Virginia, the temperature was cool, holding in the high 60s. The soil was visibly
moist, and droplets of water hung from every tree and shrub. It was exactly
what two mushroom-starved people hope to encounter. We walked further down the
trail, though our progress was slow. Every five seconds, we stopped to examine
and photograph another specimen that we had never seen, such as the Scaly Vase
Chanterelle (<i>Turbinellus floccosus</i>) and American Caesar mushroom (<i>Amanita Jacksonii</i>). </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hail Caesar. Purported to be edible though I'm years away from eating an Amanita.</td></tr>
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We meandered through the coniferous forest before skirting
the edge of a massive wetland area. After walking a half mile or so, we spotted
a lonely, beautiful Golden Chanterelle (<i>Cantharellus
cibarius</i>) right next to the trail. I was somewhat stunned, as I have never
found chanterelles this late into August in the mid-Atlantic. That lonely
chanterelle would be anything but lonely by the end of our trip. </div>
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As we continued down the trail, we started to see more and
more chanterelles. There were stretches on the trail where we spotted clusters every
few yards. We spotted more yet when we moved out of the spruce-wetland area and
entered the mixed hardwood-rhododendron forest that lined the river’s edge.
Katya and I would sometimes go off trail to look around. However, the vast majority of chanterelles
were either smack-dab in the middle of the overgrown foot trial, or speckling
the steep hillsides abutting it. There were so many mushrooms that we had to be
careful when moving through taller grasses so not to step on hidden chanterelles.
Remember, we were both carrying large, heavy packs, with an original goal to
camp and relax, not spend hours harvesting mushrooms. It was getting later in the
day and we wanted to get to camp before nightfall. However, we certainly
weren’t going to leave any chanterelles behind. So we bent down time and time
again, under the weight of our heavy loads, using our knives to liberate every
good-sized, golden flavor bomb we spied. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what we saw every two feet or so.</td></tr>
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After a few hours of bending down, standing up, traversing rough
terrain, and fording the river, we finally arrived at our campsite just before
dark. We immediately found the missing pieces to our tent- right where we left
them all those months ago. After setting up the tent, we gathered wood and
started a campfire. We cooked instant mashed potatoes before taking an evening
dip in the river and calling it a night. </div>
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The next morning, we lounged around the campsite, cooked
some oatmeal, and took another swim. We wanted to head out relatively early, as
we had to hike out about eight miles, and we knew it would be slow going if we
found as many chanterelles on the way out as we had on the way in. We took down
our camp and headed down the trail around 10 am. We walked just a few feet
before spotting a chanterelle. It was an absolute bonanza for the next few
miles. Unlike our experience on the hike into camp, on the hike out, it proved
very fruitful to get off-trail and explore the hardwoods at the base of the
steep hills framing the valley. There were chanterelles everywhere- not in
small, diffuse patches, but literally everywhere. The entire forest was a
chanterelle patch! </div>
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We were starting to feel more like agricultural field hands
than weekend foragers. Katya and I darted around in a frenzy, climbing hills,
weaving our way through trees and brushes, gathering giant chanterelles in a
methodical, job-like fashion. Our sacks were starting to overflow with
mushrooms- extra weight on top of our already heavy loads. When you really want
to find a mushroom and can’t, it’s heartbreaking. You would give anything to
find just one. We on the other hand, were having a once-in-a-lifetime day for
mushroom foragers, a day when you find such great numbers of choice edibles
that awe and excitement are replaced with “Oh shit, another one. Now I have to
bend down and pick it up”. This went on for hours, during which time we barely
covered a few miles. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just look at that golden flavor bomb. Katya's loving it.</td></tr>
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As we moved uphill away from the river, things quieted down
some. We moved through a rocky stretch of maple-dominated forest where we encountered
few mushrooms. It was a nice break. It was getting later in the day, we still
had hours of hiking ahead of us, and it would be a 3.5-hour drive back to the
District. We took advantage of the lack of fungus, hastening our pace to cover
four miles quickly. My shoulders and legs were on fire from the weight and constant
bending down. We just had a few more miles to go. Despite our love for
chanterelles, a part of us hoped we would make it to the car without spotting
another mushroom. That proved not be the case. One particular forest road
doubling as a foot trail was completely littered with chanterelles. The steep
hillsides below and above the road were littered as well. Katya and I looked at
each other, quietly accepted our duty, and gathered every last one of them. There
were times on those hills when I was deeply envious of hooved mammals that walk
on all four. </div>
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It was 6:30 pm by the time we finally reached the car. We
immediately dropped our packs and reveled in the sensation of no longer feeling
like beasts of burden. Our burden had been chanterelles – 10 lbs. when all was
said and done. Despite my previous levity about not wanting to find any more, too
many chanterelles are really no burden at all. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those bags looked much better on the car than slung over our shoulders.</td></tr>
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The following evening, we invited our dear friend Matt over
and made a completely over-the-top meal made with our bounty- bucatini with
chanterelle cream sauce. We used an absurd amount of chanterelles, which would
have cost $100 had we bought them in a store. Our only costs were time, effort, and taxonomic nerd-out sessions that allow us to recognize and safely enjoy
Nature’s gifts. We dried the remainder of the mushrooms, ultimately giving away
or bartering most of what we found. We set aside a large bag for Katya’s
mother. I traded some with coworkers- chanterelles for a hand-me-down rain
jacket and recently caught Alaskan seafood (halibut and shrimp). </div>
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When I share
Nature’s gifts with others, I experience far more joy than I ever could from
hoarding. Every time I am able to share what I have gathered, I am reminded
that despite propaganda and institutions that aim to convince people it’s a
dog-eat-dog world, human beings are social creatures who grow stronger in their
cooperation with and dependency on others. I cannot possibly find or produce all that I
need and want by myself, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to live in such a
lonely world. Like so many mushrooming experiences, this one connected me more
deeply to the Earth and my fellow humans. Those chanterelles may not have showed up on Independence Day like I was used to, but like all hip, cool organisms, they are cooler still for showing up fashionably late. Now I just need to figure out how to take the entire month of August off from work.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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This article was written in loving memory of all the wineberries
that never got the rain they needed.</div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-17166597102472151012017-08-10T18:47:00.000-04:002017-08-10T18:50:50.681-04:00More Than I Imagined<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My journey to develop a close relationship with the beings that surround me is pleasantly never-ending. The barrier between me and them has only started to come down in the past couple of years. I am at an interesting transition time now, with the sun setting on my old way of life, while one that aligns with my values is coming to light. The new way will surely lead to less money, less comfort (at least for a time), and more physical and emotional exertion, but it is the only way to a life worth living. Right now, I have amazing experiences with different ecosystems for bits of time, and then walk back into a sterile office environment. This pattern is unsustainable, unsatisfying, and jarring to my being. I want to live in a community that relies on and contributes to the healthy ecosystem around it. Right now, I am learning about and meeting the beings that surround me. I made important progress toward that end during a mushroom walk with Matt Cohen of Matt’s Habitats (Silver Spring, MD).</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-6390ba38-ce2a-3f0a-1c04-808b2cded361" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve been eating some select wild mushrooms for a couple of years, due to becoming best friends with the seasoned mushroom hunter, Joseph Ziobro. But, I’ve never asked him the right questions or tried to come up with a way to conceptualize learning new mushrooms. I fell prey to the belief that most mushrooms would kill me and that there are only a handful that are edible. As I’ve now finally come around to using Tom Elpel’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u>Botany in a Day</u></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for placing plants that I know into families, I am happy to have found a way to start categorizing mushrooms and understanding them more.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I seem to always be surprised when I come to find that something is not as complex and scary as I thought it was. Learning mycologist’s names for mushrooms is a matter of careful observation, patience, making the time, and asking questions. When I learn a mushroom’s name and some of its history, I am let into a space where I’m able to develop a relationship, to begin understanding what this fungus is and does. Matt taught us to ask questions like: is the mushroom growing out of the ground or wood? Does it have gills, pores, neither? What color is it? Does it stain when bruised or cut? Then, we can categorize: boletes, russulas, amanitas, polypores, cup fungus, etc. I’ve been whipped into a frenzy - a good kind of frenzy. I find myself laying down on the forest floor and crawling around on my hands and knees to meet new friends.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Treeful of oyster mushrooms</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aside from the identification aspect, Matt’s class was incredibly important to my perception. As I mentioned above, I had pretty much decided that many mushrooms were killers, and that I should just stick to the few I knew. In the area that I live, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Amanita bisporigera</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, or destroying angel, and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Amanita phalloides</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, or death cap, can kill me in very unpleasant ways. Of course, other mushrooms are also very harmful in significant quantities. But, I came to learn that </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">that there are many edible, good tasting mushrooms - many more than I imagined.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> My unfounded fear dissolved quickly as I started picking up mushrooms, observing their properties, and nibbling on some of the boletes that passed an initial screening test.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I eat wild food, I feed my body and soul. I am reminded that there is a whole world out there that does its thing independent of what I do. I realize the importance of connection to the rest of life and the reciprocal relationship I must practice to keep up my end of the bargain. Hunting and gathering is not just about taking, but also giving, and I must do more giving. From a young age, I learned that, in human relationships, I should give as well as take, that I should share. Here, I must apply this in a different context. To truly give, I must live amongst the beings that give me life. Right now, I am still an alien invader. My food comes from way over there, my water from over there, and my shelter and heat from long supply chains. I don’t eat much near my house due to pollution, lack of availability, and the law. I want this to end; it doesn’t feel right.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As someone who has trained for and lived a life largely in his head, I am learning to listen to and yield to the way things feel. When I meet another being, when I eat wild food, I am overcome with joy. I relish the great unknown that is becoming known, wondering what is out there and what else I’ve been missing my whole life. As I sit here, I imagine the mushrooms popping up and the deer moving about. I imagine, not out of intellectual curiosity, but because my soul yearns for connection. I long to get back to biodiverse places.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tried a russula and a bolete for the first time this past weekend. I cooked up a few pounds of oyster mushroom that I found. I made a delicious sweet and sour drink from staghorn sumac. When I was out setting up hunting blinds the other day, I noticed that the autumn olives were starting to ripen. As I keep track of the plants I know in </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u>Botany in a Day</u></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I realize that I’m actually making a dent in learning plants. When I go out to biodiverse places, I feel more and more at home. While in Pennsylvania last week, it seemed that every dead tree was covered in oyster mushrooms and silently shouting to me. As I open myself up to all that’s out there, a whole new world is being revealed to me. One that was always there, but that I ignored.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM0yrbf1uqMZSpDyfMhYKDrguEhNJRopKB88msoaJj6an7DJYB-uXAjZY1-s0y0rwHnI8t95LzQ1JuxE0JRy_yOihXitfX51utM4kBxBzNhUuup_d3g_9k79cmvZK2Q3xaEhH-nl4HmIs/s1600/IMG_3950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM0yrbf1uqMZSpDyfMhYKDrguEhNJRopKB88msoaJj6an7DJYB-uXAjZY1-s0y0rwHnI8t95LzQ1JuxE0JRy_yOihXitfX51utM4kBxBzNhUuup_d3g_9k79cmvZK2Q3xaEhH-nl4HmIs/s320/IMG_3950.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Staghorn sumac fruit</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMiy2sKotLECzmjjq1ASjNDSjepfnJQRkqO07YP0CjTqDpCWTC8OsWvlRO7onx2JeRTY_hidyWTguYKxOMVb1Lut_3H2dDpUoIwo0J38FOQJuLtDk-HoL35p7279Jde9zZxEY95gZkeHK/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMiy2sKotLECzmjjq1ASjNDSjepfnJQRkqO07YP0CjTqDpCWTC8OsWvlRO7onx2JeRTY_hidyWTguYKxOMVb1Lut_3H2dDpUoIwo0J38FOQJuLtDk-HoL35p7279Jde9zZxEY95gZkeHK/s320/IMG_3952.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sumac tea, the taste of summer - steep in cold water for 20 min</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though I experience the world in its wonder and sometimes think that things are speaking to me, I know that the universe does not care about me and my fate, because I am just one among many. Beings live and die every day. In some ways, that knowing is comforting and liberating, and in other ways it is deeply frightening. I say liberating because this knowing frees me from my old notions that I am really something, that I’m meant to be something amazing, that I’m important enough to warrant some special attention, that some god is watching over me to make sure that I’m taken care of. Knowing that those notions are false, I can let go of the great, impossible expectations that I’ve had for myself. On the other hand, I say frightening because the Earth’s ecosystems, in all of their beauty and wonder, contain real dangers: ticks, hypothermia, snake and spider bites, trips and falls, allergic reactions. The list of dangers goes on long enough that my head implores me to consider staying inside, or at least not venturing far. But, there is no unfeeling the feeling of tasting the wild, literally and figuratively, of making something with material that another being provided. And so, I continue to march on, toward a more wild life.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-55204805045309615152017-07-13T18:03:00.000-04:002017-07-13T18:03:15.682-04:00A Life That Feels Right<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been profoundly lost for most of my life. Various frames, bounds, and ideologies have kept me in check and from harming myself; well, too badly at least. I did spend quite a bit of time drinking, as was socially acceptable in the early years of my 20’s, had low self-confidence, emotional intelligence, and self-awareness. In part due to these issues, I did not stop and ask, with social bounds and frames removed, “Matt, what do you want your life to be like?” I had short-term goals, but no long term vision that felt right. I was following trodden paths that I thought would lead to fulfillment and happiness, instead of living intentionally. I wish I had the awareness to be ruthlessly intentional at age 15 rather than 30, but, here I am. I’m fortunate to be untethered by debt, dependents, material possessions, and, soon, geographic limitations. I’m grateful for the very supportive people in my life that will entertain ideas that don’t fly in polite company. I’m set up to live a life that feels right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">From an early age, I excelled in doing what the adults thought was best. I did well in all of my classes; in fact, I graduated with the highest GPA in my high school class. I went to church regularly and confessed my sins. I didn’t drink until I got to college. I did torment my siblings, which I deeply regret. As an adult, I realize that the problem with doing what the adults think is best is that the adults do not always know best. I often witness adults making very, very bad choices and decisions for the Earth’s ecosystems, and also (and by extension) for their dependents. Many in my social class work jobs so that they can support their families and/or their habits. If one does that, then he/she is pretty much deemed to be successful. This is what children see, and so a seemingly endless cycle of working to support the family continues. What if that isn’t what you are called to do, at least in the modern conventional sense?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Identity crisis is what happens. I had several episodes of despair and feeling absolutely horrible. I could have learned a lot more and made better decisions if I was equipped to deal effectively with my emotions, but that was something I only learned over time. I used to revert instead to avoidance, numbing myself with distraction, usually in academic achievement. I can remember being in graduate school at Rutgers, working into the late hours of the night with toxic chemicals in a lab. One night, I looked in the mirror of the first floor bathroom as I was leaving. “Who am I?” I asked out loud. I was in miniature crisis mode. My relationship with my then-girlfriend was on the rocks. It was on the rocks because I was not ready for what I thought was the inevitable get married, get a mortgage, have kids path. I was having a crisis because on some deep level, I knew I didn’t want to be working in a lab, but was spending most of my time there. I felt out of control and trapped.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eventually, the relationship collapsed. I was able to stomach working in a lab for a couple years longer because I was going to use my degree to get into environmental policy work. I succeeded in getting into that field. The problem is that I don’t want to do environmental policy work and never actually did. In my naivete, I did not know that it is not the world-saving work that I believed it would be. It is just a job, with meetings, cubicles, long times staring at a computer, doing things that are against my values, and professional development. Despite the fact that I scavenge and hunt for food and practice primitive skills, I spend most of my productive hours at a job that theoretically allows me to raise a family in a big suburban house or even an overpriced city property. I don’t want those things, so I will stop. My action often lags behind my epiphanies, and this is just another one of those cases. Luckily, those lags are getting shorter.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City life - oil to the river.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My life has run in four year blocks for a long time. Elementary school, middle school, high school, undergraduate, graduate, and now a big ol’ full time job. As I’m slowly coming up on the 4th year of the job, I know it is again time to move on. The 4 year cycles stop after this one, I declare! The difference here is that I’ve asked myself the important question, “Matt, what do you want your life to be like?” I was honest with myself, the person that can sometimes be the hardest to be honest with. I want to be a part of an ecosystem. What a simple and elegant answer! Which ecosystem? I don’t know. I wasn’t born into a healthy ecosystem, so I won’t go back there. I was born on the outer edge of suburban sprawl. I don’t currently live in a healthy ecosystem, so I won’t stay here. I live in a city, overrun with humans, noise, and pollution. I have not found my home, and so I am on a quest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Home is not just a place, it is other beings. When I imagine home, it is a place where the other humans around are a part of the ecosystem. They have stopped talking about 'the environment' and 'nature,' because these terms imply 'an other' that humans are not part of. They are respectful and aware of what gives them life. When I am home I will be able to split wood for heating, swim in a creek, stop shitting in clean water, and plant trees. Ideally, I would be in or near a wooded area, where I could hunt and gather on foot. I can’t do any of these things where I live now, where everything is fenced, controlled, and badly degraded. What I most look forward to is learning the land, knowing all of my neighbors - not just the humans, but the plants, animals, fungi, mountains, streams, and rocks. In short, I want to reconnect with the spirit of my ancestors. This is not some hippy endeavor. This is about approaching a beautiful, connected way of life that humans have lived for thousands and thousands of years.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChF8G8UpbbrOYl14TPiYsqykPVETmQSlYxhMJCtWlgkcSPT6JLyypqZsKoZkrcV4iJKws840Ab7Uv8RjDjM9QMSGy9MBUPj2fdf7YumSkKreE43wijtWDQ4jhEkb0Z2bAq9qcU9z2IltE/s1600/IMG_3626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChF8G8UpbbrOYl14TPiYsqykPVETmQSlYxhMJCtWlgkcSPT6JLyypqZsKoZkrcV4iJKws840Ab7Uv8RjDjM9QMSGy9MBUPj2fdf7YumSkKreE43wijtWDQ4jhEkb0Z2bAq9qcU9z2IltE/s320/IMG_3626.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gathering service berries - lucky me that city people by and large use the supermarket.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m through with trying to fit the visions of my future into the frame of the society that I was born and raised in. It was an exhausting and painful process, and consumed a lot of valuable time that I could have spent learning skills and becoming comfortable with more responsible ways of living. I’m no longer interested in ‘helping’ society at large, because I don’t believe it can be helped. I am interested in integrating myself into an ecosystem and helping it thrive. Industrial society is, ultimately, incompatible with healthy ecosystems. It is based upon endless economic growth, gobbling up the Earth’s bounty as fast as it is able to grow, leaving destruction and havoc in its wake. Industrial society depends on winners and losers and is based on the exploitation of all beings. I refuse to live my life pledging allegiance to such a system. Will I use it while it is around? Yes, but I will reduce my dependence upon it as much as possible. As I make my next life choices, they are based upon reconnection and reducing my dependence on destruction.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-48998438691069367812017-06-27T18:05:00.000-04:002017-06-27T18:05:59.689-04:00Definitely the Right Spot<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I walked up to the campsite, I smiled and knew it was the right one. Little Stony Creek was right there. It was loud when I walked up to the banks, but the sound of rushing and churning dampened with each pace I took away. It was a mansion of a campsite with ample room for many people, but I had it all to myself. It was bounded enough to feel like one room, in a forest that went on for about as long as they do in this part of the world. I set out to gather some firewood, and immediately found Ganoderma tsugae, a medicinal mushroom. Yes, this is definitely the right spot, I thought. It was going to be a good weekend for sure.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbHNKLqszNP-kJcMTDSX7027eiIHVj8sHW_1sCeSQJz_toFEulbRgNcyphx_h8Zg_f-CZc74koEzeeVXZoBMYFZ8n-2IoAUiWZpTkoIeR2HPAkejLmQ_0_lSDK9Ful-ORcR0VioMTNClGZ/s1600/IMG_3564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbHNKLqszNP-kJcMTDSX7027eiIHVj8sHW_1sCeSQJz_toFEulbRgNcyphx_h8Zg_f-CZc74koEzeeVXZoBMYFZ8n-2IoAUiWZpTkoIeR2HPAkejLmQ_0_lSDK9Ful-ORcR0VioMTNClGZ/s320/IMG_3564.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Stony Creek</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">This adventure was the first in which I’d be sleeping solo in a deep woods location. I set up both my tent and a hammock my Aunt gave to me, intending to sleep in the hammock unless the skies opened up. I did end up sleeping in the hammock, which I found to be as comfortable, if not more so, than a sleeping bag / pad. I fell asleep watching the stars through the trees and watching the fireflies flicker. I was still in transition from city mode to woods mode, though. This takes time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did a whole lot on the second day. I woke up more or less with the sun (though I threw the blanket over my head a few times). One of the highlights of the day was trying my first bull thistle stalk! It’s an intimidating-looking, armored plant, but a sharp knife made short work of it and got me down to the slightly sweet and very pleasant stalk, which I ate raw. I also had my first Solomon’s Seal root. After boiling, it tasted a bit like potato with some slight bitterness. Throughout the day, I grazed on large quantities of greenbrier, a bit of violet, some spruce tips, and boiled some milkweed tips. I also ate a half a pound of Oscar Mayer, no preservatives, Angus hot dogs. Those were foraged the weekend before, from a supermarket dumpster.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spruce tips - they just scream "pull here!"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">On this second day, I was slipping into woods mode. My mind was going here and there, without the distractions of the internet, any type of schedule, and any other people to interact with. I thought about the meeting I was facilitating the next week (not for a long time, pesky work commitments) as well as current and past relationships. Without distractions, I had to deal with everything that I could push aside in the city, where I find it hard and make it hard to hear myself. Past relationships, current relationships, what do they all mean? Well, I’ll probably never know the ultimate answer to that question, but it sure is a trip to ruminate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I physically exerted myself throughout the day, bushwhacking up a mountain in the early AM. The greenbrier and mountain laurel made the journey especially difficult, but I was rewarded with a stunning view. I walked across the backbone of rocks, enjoying the warm sun as the coolness of morning was burning off. I was also happy to be getting more comfortable off trail in the big woods, using the lay of the land and an understanding of the basic map of the area to stay oriented. When I got back down, I took a dip in Little Stony Creek; well, not a full dip, because it was cold. Mental note to start some cold training soon.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSkWm82lxANrck6XtIJL3DTA8BNs9MDDrg6UBQPasQT-UgGFJrGFTOeEwfjMF-WDZ-8gBn4oRASHhLJuS65uWuU9fMNhweAmGxX_mc7-Q_h2uQiwpvk0YPIZ34Y0LbfhV4u-z_Q6CxeUi/s1600/IMG_3559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRSkWm82lxANrck6XtIJL3DTA8BNs9MDDrg6UBQPasQT-UgGFJrGFTOeEwfjMF-WDZ-8gBn4oRASHhLJuS65uWuU9fMNhweAmGxX_mc7-Q_h2uQiwpvk0YPIZ34Y0LbfhV4u-z_Q6CxeUi/s320/IMG_3559.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful view after bushwhacking.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I found a peaceful campsite on the second night, though not nearly as aesthetically pleasing as the first. The peacefulness was a bit unsettling. This night I was especially deep in the woods and I really felt out on my own. I was writing some in my notebook and had the fire going. All I could hear were planes, the sound of animals (mostly birds), the crackle of the fire, and my pencil moving across the page. Everything was as it should be, but there was still that creeping feeling of aloneness. The discomfort, though, is part of getting away from all the distraction and schedules so that I’m able to hear myself and heal. A slight mist was coating my journal page and making it hard for the pencil to make good contact, so I went and checked my hammock, which was getting wet. I took everything into the tent. I was happy to have the increasingly strong rain put out the fire and I soon fell asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had vivid dreams that night, so much so that I’m not sure what I dreamed and what actually happened. At one point, I awoke to a noise that sounded like a big cat meowing fiercely in the distance. My heart started pounding. Eventually, I chilled out and went back to sleep. I can really psyche myself out when sleeping in tents, since I can’t see anything, but only hear noises. Did a cat really meow? I’ll never know for sure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next day, after a hurried, and thus unsurprisingly unsuccessful, try at making friction fire with some paw paw that I found, I walked back to the car barefoot. Driving down the forest road, I had that mixed feeling that I always get when leaving a camping trip. On one hand, I’m almost out of the food that I brought, I have wet clothes, and these problems get fixed by going to a house in the city. On the other hand, I just about start to come awake and alive in the woods after a couple days. I start to feel less like an alien visitor, and more like a part of the woods. It’s such a nice feeling to finally get in that mode. I’m removed from my addictions of email, social media, and junky, sweet food. I have no choice but to be with myself and deal with myself. I can focus on the small things and big things physically in front of me, zoom in and zoom out, walk fast and walk slow. It’s a spiritual experience for me. I’m finding myself increasingly distracted and unsettled in the city, feeling restricted and as if everything is programmed. Day by day I realize that I’m not where I want to be and that I'm starting to stagnate. I can see a light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s not far away.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-18695764636686522142017-06-05T18:02:00.000-04:002017-06-05T18:06:36.089-04:00What a Community Can Do<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m often unjustifiably credited with making “something from nothing.” A couple weekends ago, we performed one of those feats - making a fired clay bowl that holds both water and its shape. Of course, the clay pot was not made from nothing, but rather without things purchased at a strip mall. I was only able to shape the pot through thousands of years of human ingenuity, through the hands, minds and passion of a group of people, and with some basic, but skillfully collected, materials. The bowl, to me, is a symbol of what a community can do. This is why I say that ‘we’ made the bowl. I simply kneaded (wedged) the clay and shaped it, with expert guidance.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It holds water and doesn't become amorphous!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We made the clay bowl at the Mid-Atlantic Primitive Skills Gathering over Memorial Day weekend in West Virginia. Having gone to the event last year, arriving Friday after dark was almost no problem. I knew where to park, where to set up my tent, and where to find people gathered around the fire. After accidentally stepping in a small artificial pond with my then-dry shoe, I met some friendly people by the fire. We exchanged stories of picking up and processing road-killed animals until about 1 AM, and then headed to bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next day I took classes on rabbit hide tanning and flint-knapping (breaking rock to make stone tools). It was a long day, and I did little besides make some rabbit hides smell like smoke and make a big rock smaller. Two skills I certainly need to refine some more! When dinnertime came, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed because I didn’t have a firm grasp of the skills I had just learned. But, when night fell, a father-son duo kicked off some storytelling and music by the fire. They had the group of at least 100 captivated, telling folk stories about possums and people, pushing the bounds of believability and leaving me wondering whether their stories could be true! I was feeling good at the end of the night, grateful for the campfire, the storytellers, meeting new people and seeing old friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I decided that Sunday would be pottery day. I had taken a pottery class the year before, but I did a shitty job. I rushed and skipped important steps. This year, I was determined to make a good pot and take my time. Our trusty instructor was there, dedicated as always, helping probably over 100 people make pots throughout the weekend, and often forgetting or neglecting to eat meals. Under his guidance, I wedged some clay, and started shaping it. I took my time, smoothing out any small cracks that started to form, knowing that these fissures would only intensify once the pot was dried and fired. I eventually got the bowl into a shape I was satisfied with, and left it to dry while attending an afternoon wild edibles class.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I got back to the central fire, my pots were already there. The primitive pot virtuoso was collecting wood and arranging pots by the fire, making sure that none of them dried too quickly. He had two very dedicated people working with him to fire 100 or so pots. There were a few of us chipping in here and there to help, but the trio was doing the bulk of the work. I wanted to learn as much as I could, having forgotten much of the process from last year.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second kiln being fired (right), pots being dried for the third kiln (left).</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At this final night of the Gathering, something suddenly started to click. I was not a master of any of the skills that I had just learned, and of course it was ridiculous to think that I could be. It did take me some time to be OK with that, though! My realization was that this Gathering was not just about skills; it was about people coming together from different places, geographically and philosophically, to learn and to teach. I was overcome with a strong feeling that these are my people, that this was my pack. The people I interacted with </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">see the value in old ways and have a true appreciation for what has been largely lost in North America and elsewhere. We are actively passing on and learning skills that are teetering on the brink of extinction. Besides these skills being a part of our humanness, they are becoming more vital as our dependence on functioning ecosystems becomes obvious and real.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I continued collecting raw materials for the kilns, but was mostly observing the trio moving pots around, building platforms with coals under them, and fitting tight wood pieces around the pots for firing, making sure that no flames would lick the pots. The smoke from the large fire was often blinding and choking. With determination, focus, and teamwork, the trio built and fired three kilns. Someone literally slept next to the kilns to keep an eye on them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, I came back to the fire pit to remove one of my pots. The expert potter's rule is that no pots should be moved from the kiln until they are cool enough for bare hands. As I looked at the pot, noticing some of its glistening mica, I remembered the music by the fire the night before. A musician shared the following thought (paraphrasing): “Why is it that we come here (to the Gathering), and feel so good? It’s because we come together and work together in a way that we want to see in the rest of our lives.” There is something truly special about coming together in the context of primitive skills. Coming together happens in other aspects of my life, for jobs, school, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">religious observances,</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> etc., but these often feel like obligations. Meeting to practice skills that are foundational to being human and are used to provide basic needs feels very different to me. When we come together for this purpose, it is easy to see glimpses of how small groups of people, working together, can live without all of the maddening complexity and destruction that industrial society has created and caused.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The upside down pot with the 'M' at the bottom is the one I shaped.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I’ve said here before, I just want to be a person, with other people: a human animal. The titles of man, scientist, pay grade level, hunter, young professional, PhD, mean little to me. I am satisfied with being a person, and am learning and relearning the physical and emotional skills to be a true and effective person. I’m continuing to put together what that means for the way I live, and it’s invigorating to be with others who are working through the same challenges.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-88840807977875833442017-05-11T19:38:00.000-04:002017-05-13T21:31:25.029-04:00The Down and Dirty Truths About Wild Edibles <div dir="ltr">
I didn’t exactly grow up having the importance of fresh, nutritious foods drilled into my head. For example, when I was in middle school, one of the most popular cafeteria lunches was taco pizza. It didn’t taste anything like tacos or pizza. It was a cardboard disc posing as crust smothered with low-grade ground beef, a thick caramelized layer of some distant cousin to cheese, and a mystery sauce that subtly evoked “ethnic” without deviating too far from the flavor notes that Americans have come to expect. Normally I brought a brownbag lunch to school, but on taco pizza day, I used saved-up quarters and dimes to buy as many taco pizzas as possible. I shamelessly asked my friends if I could eat any taco pizza they hadn’t finished, while struggling and failing to comprehend why they hadn’t devoured every last crumb.<br />
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Now that I’m a bit older and wiser, I don’t think taco pizza is so great. In fact, if nutrition is a virtue, then I think taco pizza is every vice ever envisioned in the course of human history, rolled up into one and smoked, chugged, and shot up at the same time. <br />
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Fortunately, I had some exposure to fresh foods in my youth. My parents taught me and my brother how to plant and tend a vegetable garden. I was also exposed to killing for food in my early years when my father taught me how to fish. I vividly remember the first time he showed me how to dispatch a brown trout by breaking its neck. I was both horrified and enlightened. At that moment, it dawned on me that those chunks of meat on my plate were once in-tact parts of living, breathing entities, and they were killed for my benefit. I also remember feeling excited yet somewhat puzzled by the fact that it was possible to pull a meal out of a river. After all, a river wasn’t a refrigerator, and up until that time, that’s where I thought meat came from.<br />
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As an adult creeping towards my mid-30s, I am finally taking a serious interest in local, fresh, nutritious foods. I wish I could say it was because my body is a temple and what I put into that temple matters. I would be lying if I said that. There is still plenty of room for mayonnaise and MSG in this temple. In part, my eating habits have changed because I live with someone who actually cares about what she puts into her temple. She has inspired me to start looking at food labels when I’m grocery shopping. There is also something of an upper crust social movement happening now around food, and people’s demands for access to wholesome, local foods have resulted in more wholesome, local foods being stocked on store shelves (well at least in the gentrified urban neighborhoods I shop in). Little by little, I am starting to pay more for higher quality, socially responsible foods. It irks me that quality foods cost more, but then I remember that in the U.S., we spend a comparatively tiny percentage of our income on food. Also, there’s no two ways about it - it costs more and is less efficient to produce foods that don’t trash ecosystems and/or torture animals. <br />
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Ethical responsibilities aside, there is another reason I am starting to think more about what I put in my body. In the past few years, I have become more and more interested in wild foods. I have committed to learning as much as I can about flora and fauna, and foraging for wild edibles. No, I do not forage all the food I eat. Not even close. After all, I have yet to find a wild mayonnaise spring in all my years foraging. However, with every passing year, more and more of the food I eat is harvested from wild and semi-wild environments, and arrives in my belly via my own labor. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating Manwich in a wild setting does not make it a wild food.</td></tr>
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The more I learn about wild foods, the more it amazes how far we have moved away from them as a species, and how much knowledge has been lost in just a few short centuries. However, I suppose there’s no great mystery. It is incredibly challenging for me – one person armed with modern tools - to find and harvest enough wild food to meet even a fraction of my daily caloric and nutritional needs.
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Couple that with the facts that many people spend 40+ hours a week working at jobs, and the habitats that wild foods exist in are shrinking and/or becoming more polluted/over-exploited with every passing day, it is quite clear why more people don’t gather and hunt their own foods.<br />
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However, I am proud to say I have done nobly. I have ingested numerous wild foods and try more with each passing day. In the case of fungi, I have in some way ingested - chicken of the woods, hen of the woods (in the past three years, I have had 50+ lbs. in my freezer at any given time), morels, Dryad’s saddle, honey mushrooms, Berkley’s polypore, aborted entyloma, chanterelles, black trumpets, hedgehogs/sweet teeth, Agaricus spp., Slippery Jacks, gypsies, witches butter, brick caps, turkey tails, chaga, reishi, turkey tails, hericium, boletes, and oysters - just to name some. Then of course there’s plants, fruits, berries, and nuts - stinging nettles, garlic mustard, Japanese knotweed, wild violets, dandelions, spring beauty tubers, wild onions, ramps, greenbrier shoots, miner’s lettuce, manzanita flowers, autumn olives, wineberries, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, serviceberries, cranberries, mulberries, wood sorrel, seaweed, redbud flowers, linden (basswood) leaves, crabapples, pawpaws, walnuts, acorns, wild ginger, plantain, chicory, mullein, pine needles, winter dead nettle, cleavers, milkweed, and watercress. Notice that I am not a native plant snob. I will eat invasives like garlic mustard without a second thought. And let’s not forget the animals - trout, salmon, halibut, earthworms, ants, and deer.<br />
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All sounds romantic doesn’t it (well maybe not the worm part)? What could be better than eating foods you found yourself? <br />
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Plenty of things. <br />
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In my early foraging days, I focused on easy-to-find, easy-to-identify, easy-to-gather, and easy-to-eat wild edibles like chicken of the woods mushroom. There really aren’t any poisonous lookalikes to chicken of the woods, and it is possible to find 100 lbs. growing on a single dead tree. It is meaty and palatable.<br />
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Rachael and I can't wait to tear into this <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">chicken of the woods (once it's been cooked of course)</span></div>
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However, as I started to branch out, I realized that many wild edibles are less user friendly. Some of them, well, kind of taste like dirt. Come to think of it, many of wild edibles I have tried over the years have posed something of an affront to my modern, American gustatory sensibilities. They have a bad mouth feel. They are bitter, sharp, pithy, fibrous, tough, slimy, and grimy, just to toss out a few adjectives. <br />
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There are other concerns with wild foods. If you are able to confidently identify a specimen based on your field books and experience, it could take you hours to gather enough to constitute a meal. If you are lucky, you can eat what you find raw and with minimal processing. If not, you will have to spend hours, if not days, peeling, scrubbing, leaching, boiling, and grinding. Of course wild foods aren’t treated with preservatives, so many won’t keep for very long, even with refrigeration. Oh yeah, on the off chance you pick the wrong thing, or the right thing at the wrong time of year, or eat too much of the right thing, you could suffer grave toilet woes and/or die. Anything I’m forgetting?<br />
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My favorite is when one book tells you a plant or fungus is edible, another says “edibility unknown”, and a third says “poisonous”. Quite the spectrum of outcomes associated with one species. Kind of reminds me of the end of pharmaceutical commercials - this medication was found in clinical trials to relive symptoms of depression for most people, but in rare cases, depression may worsen and you may want to kill yourself. In rarer cases, you may lose the ability to sleeps and will go crazy over the course of weeks before spontaneously bursting into flames.<br />
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So back to toilet woes for a moment. It has taken my modern human body some time to get used to and assimilate the nutrients in some wild foods. A few years back, a friend and I went foraging in the spring. In the course of a few hours, we found ramps (spring leeks), wild onions, and watercress. Overjoyed we raced to my kitchen.<br />
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“We’ll get more nutrients if we eat them raw. Let’s make a simple salad”, I said. And so we did. <br />
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It was awful, but we powered through, each eating the equivalent of a meal-sized restaurant salad. Within five minutes, we were grabbing our tummies and fighting for the bathroom. I felt nauseous for the rest of the day and experienced intermittent stabbing gut pains. In part, our symptoms were probably caused by eating too many raw alliums. Try eating several cloves of raw garlic sometime and you’ll know what I’m talking about. However, I also believe we shocked our systems by introducing too many nutrients at once, and nutrients our bodies weren’t familiar with. <br />
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Wild foods pose other difficulties still. You may have to walk many miles and cover acres of rugged terrain to find a particular resource, which may only be visible and/or harvestable for a few days or weeks each year. You may have to crawl through pricker bushes, contend with poison ivy and stinging nettles (ironically, nettles are tasty edibles in their own right), surgically dig amongst torturous root systems and rocks, and fend off attacks by all manner of annoying, buzzing things. <br />
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Once, I was deep in a wineberry patch gathering fruit when I felt several fiery stabs in my ankles. It took me a few seconds to realize what was going on. As anyone that gets deep in berry bushes knows, painful sensations aren’t exactly uncommon. Then I saw the hornets and realized what was happening. I jumped up and made a mad dash out of the brambles, careful not to spill the berries I had placed in my baseball cap. I sprinted through the forest for a full half mile while frantically stripping off my hornet-filled clothing. Just shy of fifteen stings, when I thought it was over, a particularly vicious hornet got in one last blow, stinging me dead-center on the forehead. What a prick.<br />
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On another occasion my friend and I spent hours gathering thimbleberries only to later discover we were covered in deer ticks. My friend, who is far harrier than I, became so paranoid that he ended up shaving his entire body. <br />
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My co-blogger and best friend Matt coined the term “goalies” to help describe the above phenomena. In ice hockey, goalies are the things that make it more difficult for the puck to go in the net. In Nature, goalies are the countless things that make it difficult, annoying, or downright impossible to exploit a wild resource. Goalies can take many forms - spines, stinging compounds, itching compounds, shells, husks, barb wire fences, private property signs, and strip mall development. Regardless of form, they are effective at what they do, and they suck.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuGt3UNNAFL7OtMR8-n41EQ42hNDDO1P-_firFQ7zbJ2HtisGhrGy-kCidriE8HSCHbp3VhMo3jzXlxigMKKUXQrhojJ4kdJS8eRF8lKrjFS1LqP761Qqf1zhHB9uxJezh4K_Du6vg_cM/s1600/berries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuGt3UNNAFL7OtMR8-n41EQ42hNDDO1P-_firFQ7zbJ2HtisGhrGy-kCidriE8HSCHbp3VhMo3jzXlxigMKKUXQrhojJ4kdJS8eRF8lKrjFS1LqP761Qqf1zhHB9uxJezh4K_Du6vg_cM/s320/berries.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pretty nice haul of wineberries despite those savage goalie pricks.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Despite the difficulties and hazards, there are few things I would rather be doing than learning about, searching for, and eating wild foods. Wild foods haven’t been meddled with by geneticists and taste engineers. Most of the produce that modern people eat has been selectively bred over centuries to favor the attributes of size and sweetness, not nutrient content. It’s amazing to think that most modern humans survive on a handful of ultra-hybridized, hyper-saccharine, low-phytonutrient, high-protein foods.
<br />
<br />
Moreover, wild edibles intrigue me because they are far more common than most people think, yet largely forgotten. I tend to be drawn to common things, and things that the majority of people aren’t (actually maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them). Sure, there are pockets of people out there foraging for chanterelles and morels, but very few are interested in the things I am. I can assume with confidence that I will never have to compete for space in a patch of stinging nettles. I will never have to take up arms to defend a downed log covered in turkey tail mushrooms (<i>Trametes versicolor</i>).<br />
<br />
Aboriginal people have sustained themselves on wild foods for millennia, however, most wild foods are brand new to me. My culture has moved so far away of wild foods that for most of my life I didn’t have a clue how many potential resources were out there. There are thousands and thousands of wild edibles on every continent, in all manner of ecosystems, that I know nothing about. In age where so much is known by science, it is exciting to have the opportunity to discover so many “new” things. I once read that more than two-thirds of the Earth’s oceans remain unexplored. However, I’m not interested in exploring the oceans. There’s nothing to see there but plastic.<br />
<br />
Wild edibles are all around us, hiding in plain sight, driven largely into obscurity by modern, industrial agriculture. Finding wild edibles doesn’t have to involve scouring forests while fighting off prickish insects. In many cases, wild foods are more abundant in cities and suburbs compared to wilderness areas. The next time you take a walk, find a lawn (preferably one that doesn’t have little flags with skulls and crossbones warning not to walk on it because it’s covered in chemicals). Ask yourself what you are looking at. The word “grass” may come to mind. However, grass species represent just a percentage of the numerous organisms in those green patches we conveniently call “grass”. I would bet anything there is as much oxalis, clover, dandelion, plantain, and violet in that lawn as there are grasses - all of which are edible. Go out and get yourself a good field guide. Join some online forums for foragers and see what other people are picking and eating. Join a local foraging club and take a walk with experts. Don’t try to learn too much too fast. Start with just one plant species and become intimately familiar with it. Learn its leaves, flowers, stems, and roots. Pay attention to it’s different phases as it grows over the course of a season. Learn its Latin name. Do some research and learn how various cultures have used that plant throughout history. If you are feeling confident, go back to that lawn. Harvest a few leaves or flowers from that plant you are now intimately familiar with. Place it in your mouth. Chew. Swallow. Now go to the store and buy yourself something that actually tastes good.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZbVVa0IYNO65KqK2_z9xFlqOHfeiclys9uu8Hi4lTW0By36ty6uwnVzITr5tSy49A3pIIYb5-CyhMnwtQ0hmZ_glvkRRepE17vfGQte6hVsqOD-EtGXVVsUYpGu5E7pz4pN9c1Ey6CE/s1600/DSC_0522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZbVVa0IYNO65KqK2_z9xFlqOHfeiclys9uu8Hi4lTW0By36ty6uwnVzITr5tSy49A3pIIYb5-CyhMnwtQ0hmZ_glvkRRepE17vfGQte6hVsqOD-EtGXVVsUYpGu5E7pz4pN9c1Ey6CE/s320/DSC_0522.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring leeks and rock-cooked bacon in the campfire. The bacon tasted awesome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-64032693249886854982017-05-01T18:14:00.000-04:002017-05-01T18:14:13.095-04:00Equals to Be Honored<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If there is one principle that guides my actions, it is that all beings are worthy of the same respect as Homo sapiens. Species such as Odocoileus virginianus (white-tailed deer), Laetiporus sulphureus (chicken-of-the-woods mushroom), Urtica dioica (stinging nettle), and Lactobacillus delbrueckii (lactic acid bacterium), as well as entities like mountains and streams, are equals to be honored, and not simply resources for my use or mistreatment. I will strive throughout my life to embody this principle in all of my actions. Judging by the way I effortlessly grouped the above beings into living/non-living, and how I put the ‘living’ in roughly size order, I still have quite a ways to go before I live my ideals!</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though I do kill and eat members of the species above, drink from streams, and erode the mountains with my feet, my duty is to better fit in with these beings to help ensure their survival. This role seems daunting because I was not taught the principle of universal respect growing up. Fitting in with nature is intuitive to me, but conditioning has not set me up to easily match my intuition and actions. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I came up in a community and society where I was told that I was extremely important, that there was an outside and an inside, and that there was some type of narrative that I was roughly supposed to live out, albeit with a few of my own choices permitted. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">H</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">umans were the pinnacle, with pets as a close second, followed by perhaps ornamental flowers.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was presented with a menu, if you will, that I was free to pick and choose from; but, the menu was the menu and it was all I saw. As a result, parts of my life are still tied to that menu.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It wasn’t until very recently that I threw out the menu. I didn’t like the taste of many of the items anymore. I’ve realized that the plane flights, the car rides, the food choices, the ‘jobs,’ the forms of entertainment, the obligations, all the way down the fate of my poo when it leaves my body, were not what I wanted. In fact, as I slowed down and reconnected with myself and the humans and non-humans around me, I was able to clearly see the destruction that my way of living was and is causing. It was not pleasant. But, by unearthing the source of my life-long unease, I discovered why I have been largely passive, unexcitable, academically high achieving, and ultimately directionless. Importantly, I’ve caught glimpses of living fully and in the present, and am starting to see some picture of how to live the right way.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZhK8I8UKUhHkQ0NLNdKvrwBMXLoNA6msKoO6RD8kKKA_TdJEdClcTtpXRqDX_xpPrDD4yV54-BC_yGjQtU-NRrLxf3QhH8Q1tiayRc0YAKt5ImLXXT2LxTYrjoxSc6H9nsUivjn3r0F/s1600/IMG_3379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZhK8I8UKUhHkQ0NLNdKvrwBMXLoNA6msKoO6RD8kKKA_TdJEdClcTtpXRqDX_xpPrDD4yV54-BC_yGjQtU-NRrLxf3QhH8Q1tiayRc0YAKt5ImLXXT2LxTYrjoxSc6H9nsUivjn3r0F/s320/IMG_3379.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tulip poplar flower in the woods down the street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something awesome happened when I gave myself time and space to do what I wanted to do, and removed the typical constraints that I would put on my time. Namely, as an almost 30 year old, I allowed myself not to think about ‘what I wanted to do’ in terms of ‘how I will make money.’ I stopped scheduling so much and just allowed myself to be. One thing that I discovered is that I enjoy finding my own food, or knowing first-hand who grows or finds it. A simple realization, really; and, I can lessen the ecological damage of my food choices this way. I have also lessened the damage of my “entertainment” choices because procuring food, and observing nature while doing it, takes time and I like doing it. Spending time in the ecosystem, instead of shielded from it, is what I choose to do above all else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because there is a non-human world out there that sustains me, but that I’ve neglected, I find wonder around every corner, in every square foot. There are individuals, let alone entire species, that I’ve never met. In living and dynamic ecosystems, something is always new to be found. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Their tracks come and go, as they are born, die, and change with the seasons. In contrast, when I look out the window of my current residence or office, concrete does not change particularly quickly or provide stimulation. Diversity and life are paved over with pourable material designed to choke it all out. People are hurrying around to get, well, somewhere.</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VU7njts4WGrUoU1KhI2Rg-4TWA7LYv9gtrgnwwyyZ_nur9deEzs_d9tSqXorSONZsVhxvJWs6LT9UWL0ymO_aXctlmJ41BD0nPhfTU-_mTJgctA2x8Zuzf_jHvJZE39I0067ScjxqBIx/s1600/IMG_3289.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VU7njts4WGrUoU1KhI2Rg-4TWA7LYv9gtrgnwwyyZ_nur9deEzs_d9tSqXorSONZsVhxvJWs6LT9UWL0ymO_aXctlmJ41BD0nPhfTU-_mTJgctA2x8Zuzf_jHvJZE39I0067ScjxqBIx/s320/IMG_3289.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Center: sad American Chestnut in MD. Casualty of humans out of balance.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because of the wonder close by, I've found that my desire to travel long distances has waned. Granted, I have traveled looong distances in the past, and likely will again. These past trips may have also affected my current outlook. But, I have no flights on my horizon, and I feel content with that. I’m sure I will have some explaining to do, at least for a bit longer, amongst my peers as to why I’m not jet setting any time soon. There is so much to be found near where I live, especially where human populations drop off. I am beginning to own and internalize that feeling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am experiencing something that I haven’t for the vast majority of my life – comfort in my own skin, as opposed to comfort in my job or comfort in living up to expectations. Let me tell you, it is wonderful. Is life the best ever, every day now? Definitely not, and it never will be. But, the good times are greater than ever and last for longer periods. At times, I can say I’m proud of myself, which I haven’t said much despite my long list of societal accomplishments. I am proud every day to be lessening or at least figuring out ways to lessen the destructiveness of my lifestyle to ecosystems. Connection makes my life better, and I am getting more of it every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be sure, tensions arise often. I find myself attracted to people that reflect the innocence, comfort, and helplessness of my past, where I was just a person floating through life and hoping that I would get caught on something. I feel in myself a tendency to relapse, to throw in the towel and say that I must be mistaken, grab the menu, and cobble a few choices together. But, deep down, I know better. I’ve mixed, matched, and tasted from the menu to no avail: PhD student, fellowships, girlfriend-get married-mortgage-kids, federal government pensions. None of the combinations have brought me satisfaction.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead, here has been my guiding principle all along, waiting for me to just turn and face it: I should be living the way humans lived before we lost our connections to what keeps us alive, before we started disrespecting ourselves and others. The challenge and the excitement comes from the fact that there is no well-established path to where I’m going. There is no formal school, no certifications, no guarantee of safety. I am casting my net broadly, being mindful of relapsing into my old ways, and opportunities are beginning to open up. I’m meeting new people, going new places, seeing differently through these same old eyes. All the while, I have to keep reminding myself, until it sinks into my bones, “you are not the most important thing out there.” I am amongst the uncountable that are just as worthy of respect and care, and I must not thoughtlessly harm them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2z4w0Pygq5aaI2d2yb4HOtwN3pFCaZKO1F41RmWsnf0WiNR8ME8GqC8CR8nZooz3zVq4AoWUL-3yhKf_VKx0_B-eb1ScUwSGlzWA5pJSLnnJVvd6lbajcsZ2d8si0HX_vCUb9IpWKKIP3/s1600/IMG_3378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2z4w0Pygq5aaI2d2yb4HOtwN3pFCaZKO1F41RmWsnf0WiNR8ME8GqC8CR8nZooz3zVq4AoWUL-3yhKf_VKx0_B-eb1ScUwSGlzWA5pJSLnnJVvd6lbajcsZ2d8si0HX_vCUb9IpWKKIP3/s320/IMG_3378.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young buck in the woods down the street.</td></tr>
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Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-56423571389245965052017-04-26T19:27:00.001-04:002017-04-26T23:40:12.355-04:00Morel Envy; A Case Study<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever since I became interested in edible fungi, the same
thing happens every Spring. In early April, I start thinking about morels. I
look for them weeks before I know they’ll be out. A quiet voice nags me- “This
year they might come out freakishly early and you won’t want to miss them.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They never come out freakishly early. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, every year I tell myself that I don’t actually care
that much about morels. I tell myself there are other mushrooms I prefer- like
hen of the woods, which is delicious and can be harvested readily in great
quantities. Sure morels taste good, especially when sautéed in butter, but then
again what doesn’t taste good sautéed in butter? I tell myself that I am better
than the morel snobs out there who act as if “their” patches were deeded to
them by the gods as part of their sacred birthright. I am not like them. I am
generous. I have taken close friends to morel patches to let them experience
the magic. For me, finding mushroom treasures feels somewhat hollow if I’m
alone. I like seeing the joy radiate from a friend’s face when they stumble
upon their first brain-shaped little wonder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course my generosity has its limits. One must display an
appropriate amount of deference if they have any hope of learning my secrets. One
must demonstrate a genuine desire to learn. One must not complain about walking
off-trail, over hills, and through brambles. One must show an interest in
learning about trees, plants, soils, and other types of fungi besides morels. Morels
are part of the forest ecosystem and one part of the system corresponds with the others. For example, I have learned that it is futile to look for morels if the May
Apples are too small and the Dryad’s Saddle isn’t fruiting. Most importantly,
one must convey that they understand that the forest isn’t a damn grocery
store.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just because I am open to sharing the gift of morels with
others does not mean that I am above the base human emotions. I get annoyed
when people I barely know ask me for hints on locations. I get more than
annoyed when those people have the almighty gall ask me outright to show them
my patches. After all, it’s taken me countless hours of slogging around wet
forests, crawling on my hands and knees through brambles, literally circling
the bases of thousands of trees to find the elusive fungi. I’ve logged
innumerable hours learning about the trees that morels often associate with.
I’ve learned to identify them by bark, leaves, flowers, and fruit. I’ve learned
the Latin names. In short, I’ve put in the work and they haven’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past weekend, I experienced another base human emotion.
Morel envy. On Saturday a few of us went to a known morel spot and had a look
around. We found three sad looking morels. They were brittle and covered with
mold. On Saturday evening, I told myself that I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to
spend my entire weekend traipsing around the woods looking for mushrooms that I
pretend to not even care about. My girlfriend and I would spend our Sunday
being lazy and doing miscellaneous things that we had been meaning to do for a
while. Perhaps we would look the next weekend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it happened. On Sunday morning, my friend Sara texted
me a photo. She was holding a sack over-brimming with giant morels. Each
mushroom must have been at least five inches long. There was no mold. They
didn’t look brittle. They were perfect, and she had about 25 of them! She and
her boyfriend chanced upon them in a forest they were visiting for the very
first time. Fortune had really smiled on those lucky dogs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart sank. I showed the picture to my girlfriend Katya. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5auBPoXrCyj4m19io3YOKVqR3iV3bsMIMn72MKu3Pu-o8PpMlVMlQD4lhm9C8o1qdSWheT6Fk0pV7D2MNdlEl3er07S5DVMRxY7Mces84JdFCc7Bqbr0A1VkkE2x_uXtK0yOUjGsVsE/s1600/sara+morel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5auBPoXrCyj4m19io3YOKVqR3iV3bsMIMn72MKu3Pu-o8PpMlVMlQD4lhm9C8o1qdSWheT6Fk0pV7D2MNdlEl3er07S5DVMRxY7Mces84JdFCc7Bqbr0A1VkkE2x_uXtK0yOUjGsVsE/s320/sara+morel.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joy or smugness? You decide.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What can we do about this?”, she asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s only one thing we can do. We need to scrap
everything and get out there”, I responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our lazy Sunday got active real quick. Within five minutes
we had changed out of our PJs and into our forest attire. I filled our water
bottles and hastily stuffed some bread and fruit in a bag. We threw our
supplies into the car and were driving. But to where?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have lived in DC for over three years now, and know of
just one reliable morel spot in the region. However, I had already checked that
spot the day prior with little success. I wracked my brain to think of a
location. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hmmm, let me think. Drive north for now. That’s our best
option” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Picking new morel hunting grounds on the fly is no easy
task. In fact, anyone undertaking such an endeavor should make it easy on
themselves and simply assume they will not have <i>any</i> success. I considered latitude. I considered geography. I
considered elevation. Most importantly, I considered tree types. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned to forage in upstate New York. In New York, morels
like dying white ash trees. However, I couldn’t think of many good stands of
ash in the area. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The story of morels is somewhat sad. They are continuous
orphans of a sort. Over the past several decades, the trees that morels like to
associate with have been ravaged by this fungus or that insect. At some point
in history, morels liked to associate with elm trees. However, Dutch Elm
Disease virtually wiped out all of the elms. So they learned to like white ash.
Now the emerald ash borer is devastating white ash trees. For the time being,
however, the dying ashes still yield morels. In the Mid-Atlantic, morels also like
tulip poplars, and there’s plenty of those in Piedmont forests in the region.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remembered some small-ish ash and poplar forests out in
rural Maryland that could offer some hope.
We hurried there. We parked the car and I raced into the forest, Katya trailing
behind me. I began dashing around the forest like a madman, scouring the base
of every tree. It looked like perfect habitat. The only problem was we weren’t
finding any.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After about an hour, we clambered out of a dense thicket and
headed back towards the car. Katya spotted a sad, slug-eaten morel that I had
just walked over without noticing. It may have been sad, but it was the first
morel she had ever spotted on her own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t even think this counts. It’s all rotted.”, she
said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can still take credit for it”, I assured her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, we both knew that she wouldn’t be satisfied until
she found a healthier specimen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This area looks and feels perfect. There should be tons
here.”, I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, morels appear when and where they damn well please.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We got to the car and took off down the road. As we were
driving, I remembered another nearby forest that I had visited the past Fall. I
had made a mental note that there were some ashes there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We parked hurriedly and again we were off. About three
minutes in, we found some Dryad’s Saddle that was just past its prime. Dryad’s
Saddle is an edible poplypore fungus that fruits around the same time as
morels. It is also far more common and easier to find than morels, so it has
been humorously labeled “the poor man’s morel”. I’m not above poor man’s
morels. They are excellent sautéed or pickled. Anyways, it was a good sign. The
time of year was right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my opinion, there was too much oak around. Morels don’t want
anything to do with oak. “Let’s get away from this oak. We <i>must</i> find ash or poplar. Come on.”, I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We crested a hill and walked for about a half mile. I paused
and noticed a river below us. Next to the river was a vast flood plain
dominated by massive tulip poplars interspersed with dying ash. It was a glorious
sight for two people in a morel frenzy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walked down to the plain. A family was fishing a few
hundred yards downstream. Again, like a lunatic, I started racing around the
bottom of promising looking trees. I checked four or five giant poplars to no
avail. Then I noticed some more Dryad’s Saddle out of the corner of my eye. I
went over to see if it was fresh, but saw right away that it was not. “We can’t
even find poor man’s morels today”, I joked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took one step and stopped dead in my tracks. A giant gray
morel, hardly visible, was hiding in the underbrush. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sweet Jesus I found one!”, I yelled to Katya.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She raced over and marveled at it. It was flawless. Firm,
free of mold, and very large- but not so large that it was starting to
deteriorate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How did you even see that?”, she asked?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“After a while, you just get locked in. You get those morel
eyes”, I responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glanced towards the family fishing downstream to make sure
they weren’t paying attention to us. Couldn’t have looky-loos capitalizing on
our hard work (Truthfully, most people probably wouldn’t have noticed what we
were doing, and even if they did, they wouldn’t actually go out and harvest
their own). Safe from looky-loos, I bent down and photographed the mushroom
before harvesting it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IQBCOz8qlwqP3IT5amoK_GNRLsvTZuM6wHz8m2dIpkMeSZbGo5QEwTuK1XhSMi8IThyphenhyphenC1b_EzFBZDPAYkLoDCwsmD6tGTOzHmwA5R2ASwqMb7aBhgbZXzvzFDWvQOUWgyNfjPdfY32E/s1600/morel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IQBCOz8qlwqP3IT5amoK_GNRLsvTZuM6wHz8m2dIpkMeSZbGo5QEwTuK1XhSMi8IThyphenhyphenC1b_EzFBZDPAYkLoDCwsmD6tGTOzHmwA5R2ASwqMb7aBhgbZXzvzFDWvQOUWgyNfjPdfY32E/s320/morel.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's the little beauty as she sat. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With a new-found energy we began searching every promising tree.
I found another magnificent morel not even a minute later. It was a giant blonde.
We moved methodically through the forest, occasionally getting on our hands and
knees to make sure we weren’t missing any in the dense grasses. Katya and I
walked in parallel, she closer to the riverbank, me more inland. The next ten
minutes were every morel hunter’s dream (see map below for the exact location we struck gold).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUEr8i1CqciVo8T9SzZLzJVrD9U9bFe70r0qlX6cfb8HXTqgfeAb865-N7iUTxb5OK7qw71eCXcJELVABg3HhPk4ziG0H6BTCzGshsX_GpAByDWeVCkJnWdzx5Bq9DQPxw6MTM0KPOQ0/s1600/map.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBUEr8i1CqciVo8T9SzZLzJVrD9U9bFe70r0qlX6cfb8HXTqgfeAb865-N7iUTxb5OK7qw71eCXcJELVABg3HhPk4ziG0H6BTCzGshsX_GpAByDWeVCkJnWdzx5Bq9DQPxw6MTM0KPOQ0/s320/map.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's where we found em'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found one every minute or so, and would tell Katya “Go and
check that tree over there, it looks promising.” While she was searching that
tree, I would find another one. This happened so many times that we began to
joke that I was intentionally sabotaging her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s one. And another! And another!! Oh boy!!!” I
exclaimed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One giant tulip poplar had six perfect specimens around its
base. I have found this to be rare with tulip poplars. Multi-morel fruitings are relatively common under ash trees. However, I have found that morels tend to pop up
individually under tulip poplars- maybe as a pair if you’re lucky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Katya was amazed. She was finally getting a proper morel
experience and it was a pleasure to see her excitement. She found another,
however, it was also past its prime. We continued on, having scoured several
acres in a short amount of time. I was checking out some ash trees when I heard
Katya.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I found a real one! My first real one!”, she yelled
joyously.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed, she had. It was a medium-sized gray morel, and very
difficult to spot for even the most trained eye. I gave her a congratulatory
hug and we did a little dance.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkBDdiLWbZImvTFzcD9ZpfrKgH8g8eOei6cJvcj_DshxbDIe8auTvmOpN2aHzN6tchD26bH7YR6Wh7z1Ql9yhT7BdSFAHN4EbyxJL1rlwZV1XDO420pH0R2oCQxEOWxEaVia9kj-BHVWc/s1600/katya.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkBDdiLWbZImvTFzcD9ZpfrKgH8g8eOei6cJvcj_DshxbDIe8auTvmOpN2aHzN6tchD26bH7YR6Wh7z1Ql9yhT7BdSFAHN4EbyxJL1rlwZV1XDO420pH0R2oCQxEOWxEaVia9kj-BHVWc/s320/katya.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First proper morel victory dance by Katya.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that, things quieted down some. We found a few more,
but the flood gates had closed. All told, we found about 15 prime mushrooms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening we cooked our bounty in a well-buttered cast
iron pan. They were delicious, and gone within two minutes. Katya and I looked
at each other smiling, sharing a deep satisfaction that probably only other
morel nuts can understand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pbXAuNxzmVpkzQo6R6QV4nRRT3afY9N_e0vt8zu0BVPX-A4h05ntLdwca3ys_il4A22hyphenhyphenYtiR2cGtrx3YIaR7PoNbyXdDmMHlLBrvN-PFslh5cZIqhqfCmghY10rZYynMcWgKMfMJjY/s1600/cooking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pbXAuNxzmVpkzQo6R6QV4nRRT3afY9N_e0vt8zu0BVPX-A4h05ntLdwca3ys_il4A22hyphenhyphenYtiR2cGtrx3YIaR7PoNbyXdDmMHlLBrvN-PFslh5cZIqhqfCmghY10rZYynMcWgKMfMJjY/s320/cooking.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at those beauts sizzling away.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have decided to stop pretending that I don’t care about
morels. I’m bonkers for them, for so many reasons. They are one of the first
mushrooms up in the Spring, which is nice for mushroom nerds like myself who have
just suffered through months of frigid, fungi-less conditions. They only grace
us with their presence for a few short weeks if we are lucky. They are really, <i>really</i> difficult to find, which makes
finding them very rewarding. They have stymied numerous human attempts to
cultivate them. Nothing else tastes exactly like morels, and they taste great
sautéed in butter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it goes deeper yet. Over the past several years, I have
been on a quest to learn as much as I can about Nature’s wonders- wonders that
are still there even if most people don’t know to look for them. I am on a quest to
learn about Nature’s cycles and to find my place within those cycles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
have found a rogue morel or two by happenstance. But I have never accidentally
found myself in a bona fide morel patch. If I am standing in a morel patch, all
of the conditions are just right- the season, the weather, the elevation, the
trees, and the soils. While I have no control over those natural conditions, I
do have the capacity to learn about them and from them. If I’m standing in a
morel patch, it’s because I have put in the time, the miles, my sweat, and my
blood. I have employed my full suite of naturalist skills just to give myself a
fighting chance. When I am standing in a morel patch, I am overcome with the
sensation that I am precisely where and when I should be. And I tell you this- I
don’t spend my free time painstakingly scouring countless acres of forest because I like the taste of things sautéed in butter. I do it because if I
don’t, how the hell am I supposed to match or one-up that smug Sara?<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>*Note: In reality, Sara and her boyfriend are lovely people and very dear friends. However, sometimes even lovely people have to suffer for the sake of the narrative. Like the market, its in control. </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-5283929358562766382017-04-12T19:16:00.000-04:002017-04-12T23:56:41.449-04:00Joseph's Bright Idea<div class="MsoNormal">
I live in Washington DC. While I normally
relish opportunities to disparage anything and everything about this city, it
does have a few things going for it. For example, it is possible get out of it.
Unlike some big cities, you can actually escape for the weekends and get to
something that resembles gen-u-ine wilderness. Granted it takes some effort.
You have to drive at least three hours into WV to really get away- and it takes
the first hour just to drive the short five miles to escape DC proper. Of
course, for city folk, rural West Virginia can be, well, an experience. There<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
a popular house and lawn decoration out that way. It<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s a red flag with a big blue X in the
center, which is filled with white stars. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m not sure what it means exactly, but I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
heard it has something to do with equality. And I tell you this- the Dems
definitely don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t have many out-of-the-closet supporters in those parts.
However, I don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t want to make it seem like all West-Virginians are
intolerant. For example, on the road leading to one of our favorite camping
spots, there<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s a church with <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>All Races Welcome<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> painted right
there on the side of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you asked me a few weeks ago, I would have been hesitant
to call any Mid-Atlantic forest <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>gen-u-ine<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> wilderness. For anyone that<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
been to the West, you get it. Most Eastern forests were clearcut at some point
in the not too distant past. The mountains, while beautiful in some cases, kind
of feel like hills if I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m being honest. When you get to the tops
of those hills <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">–</span> ahem- I mean mountains- you<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>re far more likely to see roads, houses,
and farm land than virgin landscapes. Bucolic yes, but wild? And while part of
me appreciates the fact that I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ll never be eaten by mountain lions in
West Virginia, another part of me would gladly offer myself up as a big cat<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
lunch if it meant the area was as wild as it once was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, my girlfriend Katya and I recently had a gen-u-ine
wilderness experience, but not because we were necessarily seeking one. It all
started because I had a bright idea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was early April and the weather in DC was mild. We both
had a long weekend and planned to go backpacking. We looked into some hikes and
settled on one of our old stand-bys- Dolly Sods. Dolly Sods is a wilderness
area in the Monongahela National Forest with some unique attributes. The
landscape is somewhat reminiscent of upstate New York or southern Canada. At
elevations above 4000 ft., the dominant tree types are spruce, birch, and
maple- very different from the typical oak-dominated Appalachian forests. There
are vast meadows filled with blueberry bushes and peat bogs chock full of
lowbush cranberries. There are streams and plunge pools to dip in on hot summer
days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJFumnkZBwgxtxwrrHWMt4tUf5ZC-c6-UQ8L_aaxNLE-mB5dphDrwtU2KplUhHV4Xyswuca8K7H8HR2AKk4vv-Er2Zp3O0lKxgtaZnfjdzCBRaI-e3260A3EmElRUhzVn5nmAu9LpJHw/s1600/sods2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJFumnkZBwgxtxwrrHWMt4tUf5ZC-c6-UQ8L_aaxNLE-mB5dphDrwtU2KplUhHV4Xyswuca8K7H8HR2AKk4vv-Er2Zp3O0lKxgtaZnfjdzCBRaI-e3260A3EmElRUhzVn5nmAu9LpJHw/s320/sods2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what Dolly Sods looks like...sometimes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have seen hiking forums that describe Dolly Sods as unique
in climate as well as landscape. Apparently, it snows there even in early
summer, and temperatures can vary wildly from microclimate to microclimate.
Until last weekend we had only visited in late Spring, Summer, and Fall.
Normally we drive to the trailheads on the eastern side of the park, which
is essentially a plateau at the top of a mountain. However, last weekend, we
encountered something we hadn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t expected. An extended section of the
forest road was closed for the winter. The road was blocked some five and a
half miles shy of our desired trailhead. It was annoying, however, neither one
of us wanted to abandon our plans to camp out. It just meant that we would have
to walk an additional five and a half miles uphill in the rain before reaching
the trailhead. Backpacking isn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
always roses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We loaded our gear, slung our heavy packs on our shoulders,
and headed up the switchbacks. As we ascended, I grew more and more annoyed.
The road was in great shape. There was no need for it to be closed. The rain
intensified and the temperatures dropped noticeably as we gained elevation. Walking
uphill isn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t actually that much fun. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>Five miles uphill could mean a few more
hours of this<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>, I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s when I had my bright idea. What if we
were to bushwhack up the side of the mountain, avoid the switchbacks, cut
across the plateau to the forest road, and arrive in glorious triumph at the
trailhead having shaved off some serious time? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Initially Katya was dubious. The grade off-road was
ludicrously steep and there were large rocks everywhere that would obviously
make locomotion difficult. However, I can be convincing. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>We
either spend a long period of time moderately exerting ourselves, or we do a
short burst of extreme exertion<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>, I said. After rounding yet another
steep switchback, knowing there were many more to go, Katya became more
amenable to the idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I scouted out the side of the mountain looking for something
that was steep but not ludicrously steep. I found a game trail that snaked up
the mountain. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>If deer use this trail, it probably isn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t that bad<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>,
I said with utter conviction. Never mind the fact that deer are ungulates with hooves that
have evolved to move about gracefully in wild landscapes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started up first. While the first fifty feet were very
steep, the slope from that point on became more gradual. We occasionally
needed to grab on to trees to pull ourselves up a particularly steep or
slippery section, however, it was very doable. We climbed for about twenty
minutes before reaching a level area dominated by incredibly dense mountain
laurel thickets. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>We have to get through these thick laurels and over that small
rocky hill before we reach the mountain-top plateau. From there we should just
have to cross the plateau over some big rocks and we<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ll be at the
trailhead in no time,<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking the lead, I tried to bust through the thickets in a
few spots, but was repelled wholesale. I noticed another game trail that seemed
like a better option. We started along the trail and found the laurels to be
dense but penetrable. We reached the rocky hill and scrambled our way to the
top. It was not easy by any means, but again, it was doable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my mind<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s eye, everything was so clear. After
cresting the hill, we would be atop a magnificent rocky plateau. We would hop
from granite slab to granite slab unimpeded before reaching Forest Road 75. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That wasn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t the case. Not even close.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We might has well have been on the surface of the moon. A
massive escarpment of bare rock stood in front of us. There were enormous gaps
between the rocks that would be challenging to cross. The smooth rocky highway I
saw in my mind<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s eye turned out to be bullshit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was discouraged, however in an attempt to convince myself
that I should be excited, I invoked the spirit of an intrepid mountaineer- one
who is able to pause and find transcendence in Nature<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s beauty in
even the harshest conditions. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>This is beautiful,<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>
I said. In reality, everything had turned to crap. It had become very cold atop
the mountain. The wind howled at a steady 25 mph with frequent stronger gusts and drove the rain sideways in sheets, soaking our clothing. The
rocks were slick and my thin-soled running shoes offered little in the form of traction.
To boot, I was wearing eyeglasses and they had fogged over so completely that I
was functionally blind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Katya and I climbed over several sizable fissures to reach
the base of the escarpment before carefully scaling the rock face. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>Baby,
I know it<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s rough but we just have to get to the top of these rocks and
then we should be able to cut across to the road,<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do I really have to tell you what happened? I didn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
think so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the moon<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s surface still, only this time a lot
more of it. Dense blueberry bushes made moving from rock to rock even more
difficult, and painful. I wiped the fog from my glasses and saw that at least a
mile that treacherous terrain stood between us and a tree line (which I guessed
demarked the forest road). Katya stopped to don an extra pair of pants because
the blueberry bushes were cutting her legs through her thin spandex leggings. It was
at this point I remembered that I lived in 2017 and those fancy cell phone
contraptions got GPS that tells you were you is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shielded the phone from the rain and looked at the screen.
We were a tiny blue dot with lots of green around us. I zoomed out and saw that Forest Road 75 was about a mile in front
of us. I assured Katya that my futuristic technology had confirmed what I knew
all along. We were almost there. More crap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked a large group of trees in the direction we needed
to travel, however, it was impossible to walk in a straight line. The giant
cracks between rocks forced us to walk in zig-zags, and made us focus so much
on our feet that it was difficult to stay trained on our target. Katya was sure
we were traveling in circles. I assured her that was not the case. In
retrospect, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m pretty sure we were traveling in circles. I became
increasingly disoriented and paused several times to take GPS readings. I was
starting to worry that the rain was going to ruin my phone and leave it all up
to my wits. In case you haven<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t been paying attention, I don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
have any.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We carefully climbed over the rocks for about an hour before
finally reaching the trees. The GPS showed that the forest road was 75 yards in
front of us. However, a wall of spruce, laurel, and rhododendron stood between
us and the road. We looked for a way around the greenery, but our efforts
proved fruitless. We would have to go through it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started into the dense vegetation, trying to find anything
that resembled a path. Nothing. That<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s when I went for broke. I used my
shoulder to push apart the torturous branches and forced my way through
with brute strength. My backpack hung up on everything. My glasses wouldn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
stay on my face. Lacerations abounded. At one point I made it a few yards
before realizing that I wasn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t actually walking on the ground, but
was instead walking on a mat of overturned branches and limbs a foot or two off
the ground. We were traveling at the rate of about a meter a minute. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bushwhacking takes a lot out of a person. I was positively
winded and my muscles started to feel all gooey. My clothing and backpack were
now dripping wet. I remember thinking that I couldn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t take much
more. It was just then I saw something that resembled light. I used my gooey
muscles to power through the last few yards and finally broke through into open
air. I took a few steps and found myself standing on Forest Road 75.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>It<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s the road!<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> I exclaimed.
Katya joined me. We hugged and did a little dance. We proceeded on to the
trailhead, still operating under the assumption we were going to camp out. It
had rained so much that the trail was more river than trail. It<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
never good when a trail has a current I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve always said. Regardless, we started
down the path, which cuts through vast meadows in the northern section of the
park. Without the protection of trees, the wind buffeted our saturated bodies and we started to get real cold real fast. I was shivering. My dexterity was
impaired. My fingers were pruned as if I had stayed in the bath for too long. I
was worried that the forest was so wet it would be challenging if not
impossible to make a fire. Our sleeping bags and extra clothes were obviously
soaked. This is when I said the first intelligent thing in a while. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>What if we were to just go home?<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>
I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>That<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s the only good idea I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
heard all day,<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span> Katya responded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIjkpiXSiHxNWJ_9m7Gr7J0OvZfvuN1YNB5Gz1jr3B6nMtmFSpR7UHjHIGjPXcfobp3pTSgzb-DarfwBHJnMn4GAbU2Vn63fuVA34TNTRCNSZN8NQCM1r1j8VumkJJ5SG9KJgQ_Rto-g/s1600/fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIjkpiXSiHxNWJ_9m7Gr7J0OvZfvuN1YNB5Gz1jr3B6nMtmFSpR7UHjHIGjPXcfobp3pTSgzb-DarfwBHJnMn4GAbU2Vn63fuVA34TNTRCNSZN8NQCM1r1j8VumkJJ5SG9KJgQ_Rto-g/s320/fire.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah that wasn't happening.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hopped and skipped down the road, rubbing our hands
together to get some feeling back in them. Joy came easily as we made haste
down the road. We weren<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t fighting gravity. We weren<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
fighting slippery boulders, gale force winds, or impenetrable forests. We knew
we would be warm and comfortable that night. We got to the car and got the
hell out of there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the drive home, Katya and I joked and listened to music.
It<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s easy to joke when you<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>re not hypothermic. Then I got to thinking
about our ordeal and realized many things. First, we are pretty tough-
physically and mentally. Some people would have panicked and/or collapsed if
they were in our shoes. Second, we are adventurous. Plenty of people wouldn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>t
have been in our shoes because they wouldn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>t have strayed off the road into unknown
territory to begin with. Third, sometimes I have jelly for brains- not fancy
currant jam or apricot preserves, but store-brand grape jelly (I for one like
to blame mathematicians- it turns out the shortest distance between two points
is not a straight line). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I realized how important it was for me to
have had that harrowing experience on the side of the mountain. How many
chances do we get in this strip mall nightmare to feel the overwhelming force
of unadulterated wilderness? How many chances do we get to feel completely
vulnerable- not because we wear our hearts on our sleeves or someone shines a
spotlight on our deepest insecurities- but because the landscape we are in can
actually kill us? These were strange thoughts for me, because I spend so much
time thinking about how I want to become more a part of the ecosystem. Over the
past few years I have learned so much about how wilderness can potentially
sustain and replenish us, but not so much about its occasional disregard for
us, the ecosystem participants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, these thoughts don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
depress me. They give me hope. I often worry about how humans are destroying
our precious planet. I worry that humans are incapable of being responsible
stewards. However, our ordeal reminded me that Nature was here before us and
will probably be here after us. People can buy into whatever nonsensical
narratives they like that place humans in dominion over Nature. Humans can go
on believing that Nature is there for us to exploit. Nature doesn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
care. She is resilient. She is implacable. She is simply
there- in all of her majesty, rawness, and occasional ferocity. She<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
just there, and we can do more than take. We have the choice to open ourselves up
to her enduring rhythms and the privilege to join in and make her song more
beautiful still.</div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-42520617277132101242017-04-10T18:10:00.001-04:002017-04-10T18:10:07.067-04:00An Eternity in One Day<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m beginning my 31st year today. In the past few days, I’ve often been asked what I want or what I want to do. I’ve mainly been reflecting upon the coming year, as it will be a big one; my daily life is going to change quite dramatically. I am giving myself the greatest gift of all this year, the gift of living in a way that’s better for me and the ecosystem I eventually settle in. But, I’m not going to write about any of that. Instead, I’d like to share a magical day that I had recently, the kind of day I’d like to have more often. If you know me, you’d know I rarely (if ever) have used the adjective “magical!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I woke up feeling refreshed and ate a hearty breakfast. I stopped by the garden that Joseph and I share at a generous neighbor’s house. I sowed some carrot seeds, the ones that make beautiful purple, orange, and cream-colored carrots. They also happen to taste fantastic. I had a huge realization about fresh food about a year and a half ago after eating some straight-from-the-field asparagus at a friend’s farm. I’d never tasted anything like it. I’d just about call truly fresh asparagus a different vegetable than store bought asparagus and say the same for other vegetables. Anyways, with my knowledge of wild edible plants growing, I gathered Japanese knotweed shoots, dandelion, and Pennsylvania bittercress at the garden.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After feeling the warming morning sun and spreading some cayenne pepper over the seeded areas (to keep the other animals away!), I headed to Lake Needwood archery range. There was one other archer there, just finishing up with his recurve bow. It was peaceful at the range, just the way I like it. I was on this morning, though I hadn’t shot in a while. The arrows were flying particularly true at 5, 15, and 30 yards, guided by my hands and state of mind. The beauty of an arrow arcing from a longbow at 30 yards and hitting its mark is unbeatable. A year and change of training in how to hold the bow, come to full draw, release, and follow through was showing. Everything was flowing, though I still have a ways to go to be a master!</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDW3DTrgI7jpHjsniZxgdPSG7WZd4W6jnCg9dY9aDZRHa0gOWDwI-4ixDT0m55W__piiHEiRhcYyGZ3PpQKaqBtzd-u83qT4s9IjiUwhDhX4BubGh-qb1fVfEnmG4eecvbiz6qxdER4hob/s1600/20170310_152304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDW3DTrgI7jpHjsniZxgdPSG7WZd4W6jnCg9dY9aDZRHa0gOWDwI-4ixDT0m55W__piiHEiRhcYyGZ3PpQKaqBtzd-u83qT4s9IjiUwhDhX4BubGh-qb1fVfEnmG4eecvbiz6qxdER4hob/s320/20170310_152304.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of Lincoln Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the middle of my practice, I heard a rustle and saw some deer coming out of the corner of my eye. They showed no signs of noticing me, until they sensed that I noticed them. I ducked behind the hay bale target and just watched. These beautiful and graceful creatures had been my prey months earlier, but I was now just intrigued by them. They bounced through a small patch of trees, crossed a gas pipeline clear-cut, and disappeared into the brush beyond. Was this an omen of the rest of the magic to come that day? The middle finger of my right hand started to go numb, so I figured it was probably time to wind down.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I drove down to the lake, with the rough idea that I’d sharpen my foraging skills. Many great days have come from being flexible based upon what comes, rather than trying to force the day to conform to my wishes. I had the stinging nettles patch in mind that I’d picked from the other day, along with a vague stinging sensation in my hands! Stinging nettles are my favorite green, and I love the way they smell. I got distracted by all of the plants near the road and the path leading to the bigger woods and took a nibble of a few plants here and there. I identified cat’s ear in its early rosette - another plant friend to be aware of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now where were those nettles? I went back to where I thought I had found them. I doubled back, and saw a small clump, but my attention was taken away by a rustle somewhere else. My senses were attuned to what was going on around me, just like I’ve trained them to do. Frogs were diving into the creek while I walked around with boots on my hurried, clumsy city feet. Didn’t end up finding that nettle patch, anyways.</span><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04zOFlgFud7M0e7X7bzZcJCymNr0VNIeQFrJqT4yi9o_AfLuXub0v7trnMjvGEQB3fVSkIV7H_voWB1aWNvHJ3n8v0A97-KkVZX34LmIjsZGphelMNU4LrwIlBR7OlkvSeGcHO9FYmWV9/s1600/IMG_3317.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04zOFlgFud7M0e7X7bzZcJCymNr0VNIeQFrJqT4yi9o_AfLuXub0v7trnMjvGEQB3fVSkIV7H_voWB1aWNvHJ3n8v0A97-KkVZX34LmIjsZGphelMNU4LrwIlBR7OlkvSeGcHO9FYmWV9/s320/IMG_3317.PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A different stinging nettle patch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was getting warm. I longed to take my shirt off and feel the sun, but I still had this feeling that I needed to get somewhere. Finally, I slowed down and took my shirt, boots, and socks off. Ah, that’s what the ground feels like! I thought about the last time I walked barefoot in the woods. Once, for a short time, but before that, never. I've been missing out! I noticed some small fish in Mill Creek. Now that I felt more connected with my surroundings, could I catch a fish with my stealth and bare hands? I crept into the creek to stand on a large rock. I stepped on a branch that I thought would support my weight - SNAP! Most of the fish disappeared. I laughed at myself but still gave it a go. A few small fish were still hanging around and I stuck my fingertips in the water. They seemed to be interested but didn’t come close enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I eventually moved on and that’s when I heard a SPLASH! A bit later, another. Something was going on beyond the creek bank that I couldn’t see. I walked over in my bare feet, just like I would if I were trying to sneak up on a deer. I got down on all fours. To my surprise, I saw some </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">sizable</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> fish, maybe a foot long. They were swimming against the current. From talking with friends who are knowledgeable about fish, they were likely a type of sucker fish. I watched them for a while until they noticed my presence and shot upstream.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I walked upstream, loving the warmth on my skin and the various sensations underfoot. I have to say I also felt a bit exposed and vulnerable. What if a snake lashed out at me? This thought stayed in the back of my mind as I tread carefully, realizing that I was equally likely to step on broken glass. My caution helped me to move slowly, which is the key to seeing more and blending in. I did nearly step on a frog or toad. Sadly, I don’t yet know the difference between the two!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I moved along, I saw some movement and heard a squeal from the creek bank. I threw a few pieces of bark that way, assuming the creature would fly away if a bird, or run away if something else. Nothing happened. The movement I was seeing struck me as odd, but likely reptilian. As I got closer I saw the frog (or toad?), then the snake, then the blood. I felt a rush of blood to my own face. Past the initial feeling, I started thinking. Should I intervene? The pitiful sound of Frog made me feel so sorry for it. Frog’s leg was in Snake’s mouth. Frog was still fighting, pulling Snake’s body forward by grabbing any twig in front of it, but Snake would undulate and pull Frog back. I was incapable of doing anything but watching.</span><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNzJVM34Rx2jJOhi_dy2WQ3-diUIX0XyVXiHR5LF4MgIKaQ_PMgCLR84Qwacnyxy1hPvqpY40fR4e-8NIhEQ9VXw3V4gfXgq8zoeJD250nvrzPerTbRa1hkpLv6w1oLrlWFNJXCOJgNFm/s1600/IMG_3316.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNzJVM34Rx2jJOhi_dy2WQ3-diUIX0XyVXiHR5LF4MgIKaQ_PMgCLR84Qwacnyxy1hPvqpY40fR4e-8NIhEQ9VXw3V4gfXgq8zoeJD250nvrzPerTbRa1hkpLv6w1oLrlWFNJXCOJgNFm/s320/IMG_3316.PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see Snake and Frog? (center of picture)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My feelings of exposure and vulnerability crept back up. I felt for Frog. I was confused about what to do. I was suddenly aware that I could be at risk. I pictured myself as a frog. I then felt guilt as an apex predator - because, in fact, there are very few things out there that could harm/kill me. The experience awakened something primal in me - a fear that humans once had: that they were walking meatballs*, and had to be alert at all times to avoid being eaten. Snake released Frog, perhaps feeling threatened by me, and scurried away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I walked longer, checking out trees, standing on a fallen oak, feeling the density of the wood. I stopped and puzzled at some trees with my ID book. I was enjoying the sun and the feel of the ground, following deer trails over some ridges as I looped back to where I started. I sat </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">among</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> some mugwort, which I looked up and saw could be used as insect repellant, among other things. I also remembered that it can be used as a bittering agent in beer, like hops. It has a wonderful smell!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I got back to where I left my boots, some deer snorted and took off, tails flagged. I started walking through a swampy area, and vicious snakes popped into my mind again. I doubt it was even a rational thought, but I was just thinking about the small snake nearly swallowing that frog. As I write, I remember that being alert is all part of participating in the ecosystem. Things can happen out there. I could get bitten by a tick carrying Lyme disease, or I could get bitten by a snake. I should take caution and be prepared, but I am out there as a participant, as part of what’s going on. Things are constantly eating and being eaten. Easier to say all this when I’m hiding behind a keyboard instead of sneaking through a swamp! Again, I take both solace and a hint of guilt from knowing that I am at an advantage to the other animals out there with the availability of medical treatment, my car, and well established trails that I can always retreat to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I walked back along to the area where Rock Creek and Mill Creek meet, I saw a flash of white near the creek edge. Then came the quick adrenaline pulse when I saw the snapping turtle! My alert system went down as I was able to dismiss any threats. What an awesome sight: the snapper had killed a fairly large (about foot long) fish, and was standing next to it. I think Snapper noticed me, because he/she didn’t go for the fish, and slowly poked his/her head out of the water. I took that as a signal of, “stay away from my dinner!” I stayed still, and eventually Snapper lunged at the fish and took a bite. Snapper then proceeded to use its front claw to push and tear pieces off of the fish. The whole affair was just mesmerizing and I was honored to be a fly on the wall. I eventually let the turtle be and looked for those nettles one more time. No luck!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz6uo20mqhcotuI8m_weGLyy_GscVbcGTUJDZifZCzl4-9MrYGRsKkDsgcNyweXY8Ghl2l6xkJwy0_fFYfDxA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I headed back to my car nettleless, but with immense satisfaction and the feeling that I had lived and seen an eternity in one day. Many beings lost their lives out there and others were nourished. This is the kind of day I hope to have over and over: one where I immerse myself in an ecosystem and play a part. Right now, I have the luxury of opening up my senses, wandering and observing without purpose, not worrying about finding shelter, potable water, or food. I am growing and reconnecting with my ancestors from long ago, and I couldn’t be happier or more contented in those moments. If ever I was meant to do anything, this was it: to be a human animal, to immerse myself in my ecosystem, to live within it, not above or next to it. How good can I be at that? Time will tell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>*Credit for this term to Richard Adrian Reese</i></span>Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-76596232439071746592017-04-01T08:30:00.000-04:002018-02-22T18:19:51.083-05:00My Head is a Big Old Dummy<div class="MsoNormal">
I was at a party when a yoga instructor told me I was
resistant to yoga because I lived in my head and not in my body. This was
moments after she nearly laughed aloud when she realized that not only could I
not touch my toes without bending my knees, but I was a few feet from it. She
went on to inform me that the division between mind and body is gendered.
According to her, men tend to live more in their heads and women more in their
bodies. Furthermore, because I lived in my head, I was less likely to acknowledge
the validity of my feelings and follow my heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She struck a chord and hit a nerve with her remarks. She
struck a chord because I have long thought that our giant human brains, and all
of the rational powers contained within, aren<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t nearly as impressive as we<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
made them out to be, at least not in the context of modern societies. I
sometimes wonder if our brains are oversized vestiges from a time long ago when
we needed buckets of wit to compensate for our puny bodies in order to hunt mastodons
and avoid being gobbled up by saber-tooth cats. Now that modern, industrial
societies help us meet most of our basic needs, our brains are free to run
wild, fretting about bills, contemplating our impending death, or wondering
whether or not people think we're cool or attractive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, she hit a nerve, not because her subtext
was that men are foolish because they are out of touch with their feelings. I
accept that as a well-established fact. Here<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s why she hit a nerve. I'm the poster
child for rationality. I rationalize everything to death. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
also able to think about things from multiple perspectives and genuinely find
merit in several, sometimes starkly different alternatives. Some might argue
that this is strength. However, as a
34-year old contemplating some major life changes, I argue that it<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
the worst, and more likely to lead to inertia than change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The name of our blog is <i>In
Transition</i>, but truthfully, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m not exactly sure what I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
transitioning to, or if I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m even transitioning for that matter. I
will say that I want to be transitioning. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>ve read lots of stories written by
people who have made radical life changes and had it work out for the best. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>ve
also read stories by people who took leaps of faith and fell to their deaths.
However, it<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>s rarer that I come across accounts by people who are
seriously contemplating life changes but don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span>t know exactly how to go about it. That
is a niche I think I can fill nicely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me start with the obvious question. What would I like to
be transitioning to? This has always been a tricky one for me, but maybe that<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
just because I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve been relying too much on my head. My heart tells me I
should be a homesteader, a farmer, an artisan craftsman, a mountain man, a
Left-coaster, or some combination of those things. Those are all real things
that I can be, aren<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t they? If nothing else, my heart tells
me that I should be taken steps to get closer to those things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s what I do know. Ever since I
self-actualized, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve known in my heart that I don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
want much to do with the things that many people want much to do with. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
never wanted or appreciated formal schooling or academic institutions. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
never wanted a standard 9-5 career. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve never wanted to have children so I
could live vicariously through them. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve never wanted religion or faith. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
never wanted a house in the suburbs with a manicured lawn. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve
never wanted a sports team. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve never wanted heaps of crap I don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
need. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve never wanted my precious, few years to be dominated by
tedious obligations, duties, and responsibilities.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Furthermore, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve known in my heart that I want to
explore and roam. I want to play outside. I want to learn by doing. I want to
use my hands. I want to constantly have dirt under my fingernails. I want to
teach others about the things I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m passionate about. I want my work to be
more directly connected to my subsistence. I want to grow lots of produce,
forage for wild foods, and hunt some game. I want to live in or near an
expansive forest. I want true freedom- not the nationalistic, propagandistic
brand of freedom that is shoved down my throat by the crazies running the
country at any given time- but the kind that means I can wake when I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
rested, sleep when I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m tired, and generally do as I please. I
want to make things- arts, crafts, breads, kimchi, and maybe even construct a
log cabin or two with my own semi-skilled hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s been fairly easy for me to avoid some
of the things I never wanted. For example, it hasn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t been too
difficult being a sports-hating, childless agnostic in this society. However,
schooling and career were/are far trickier. Despite never really appreciating
formal education, I somehow wound up with a Master<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s degree. And
despite not wanting a standard career, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m smack-dab in the middle of one- a
well-paying, bureaucratic, mind-numbing one at that. I spend the best parts of
any given day and the greatest number of hours each week doing things that I
don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t want to be doing. So what happened? I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ll tell you
what happened. My damn head happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am just now starting to realize how sneaky my head is.
Whenever I entertain the idea of doing the things that my heart is screaming
for me to do, my head starts telling me why it<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s a bad idea. It tells me that anything
I feel in my heart is stupid, juvenile, extreme, rash, impulsive, and destined
the lead me to penury. It tells me I should stay cautious, leave myself with as
many options as possible, stay in my comfort zones, think, think some more,
continue thinking, and then re-think just to make sure I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m thinking
about thinking the right way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, I am starting to understand that my head is a big
old dummy. There will always be good reasons not to do the things my heart is
telling me to do. In fact, in any given situation, those reasons will probably
outweigh the reasons <i>to do</i> those
things. Furthermore, straying from socially-sanctioned, <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">“</span>legitimate<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">”</span>
ways of living may end very poorly for me. It may lead to utter penury. People
may write me off as a mangy hippie, an idealist, or a dreamer. I may have great
difficulty in re-entering the workforce if things as a mountain man don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t
quite work out. I may be crushed by a log cabin that I build with my own
semi-skilled hands. I may regret everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1E01g2dbJiTjjAUt-OrCDe68nAY9WAuPou9KPJ7a9j2oBa8TPZ6DOW2NdCvOeVJdAhOg_NFHFhwrNPf8_pAB97hNxHVXc2KqKq_GtJn6zzsvz-sZPt-KU5LDqm22VDXwA-vMy2wTIWo/s1600/10560460_605198630695_6484716744171029681_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1E01g2dbJiTjjAUt-OrCDe68nAY9WAuPou9KPJ7a9j2oBa8TPZ6DOW2NdCvOeVJdAhOg_NFHFhwrNPf8_pAB97hNxHVXc2KqKq_GtJn6zzsvz-sZPt-KU5LDqm22VDXwA-vMy2wTIWo/s320/10560460_605198630695_6484716744171029681_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How could life as a mountain man not work out for Joseph?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite all that, there<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s something else I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
beginning to understand. If I don<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t make a change, there are things I will
<i>definitely </i>regret. I will definitely
regret spending my best years sitting in a cubicle staring at a computer screen
or in meeting rooms acting like I care about the mundane topic de jour. I will
definitely regret spending my best years in a noisy, polluted, overpriced,
congested metropolis filled with fashionable urbanites who genuinely find U.S.
politics interesting. I will definitely regret spending my best years as a
miserable bastard, and I will definitely regret the effect that my misery could
have on the people I love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My proclivities for drama naturally lead me to think about
my life and the decisions I make (or fail to make) as an epic battle between my
heart and my head. For most of my life, my head has been winning. It has
assault rifles and Kevlar vests. My heart has flint arrowheads and buckskin
armor. Yet, it should come as no surprise that my heart is under-equipped. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
a member of a society that values knowledge over wisdom. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
a member of a society that doesn<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>t learn from its collective mistakes. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
a member of a society that watches catastrophe after catastrophe unfold while
waiting for better data or looking for a silver bullet techno fix. I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>m
a member of a society that routinely perpetrates or quietly sanctions
unspeakable atrocities against humans and the planet because rational
institutions dictate that economic growth is the only noble pursuit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any old head can acquire knowledge, but it takes a heart to
consider the relevancy of knowledge and attribute meaning and context. It takes
a heart to make knowledge personal. It takes a heart to know what is moral,
right, or just.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly I'm no sage when it comes to following my heart. My
heart journey is just beginning. And while some things in their infancy demand
baby steps, I<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>ve taken enough of those for a lifetime. All that<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri;">’</span>s
left for me to do is take that one giant step out of my head, reach down with
knees unbent, and touch my goddamn toes.</div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-31298133400532509932017-03-15T19:48:00.001-04:002017-03-16T13:45:03.778-04:00Finding Treasures; or Foraging to Stave of the Insanity that Invariably Results When This Wild-at-Heart Primate Tries to Find Fulfillment in the Rat Race<div class="MsoNormal">
I became a hardcore forager about four years ago. It
wasn’t something I had planned on. I moved to a small city in upstate NY at the
age of 28 to get a Master’s degree because I thought it would make my life
better. It was late August, a few days before classes began. I took a long bike
ride out to a state park. I was exploring the trails around a lake and wandered
into the forest. After bushwhacking for a while, I found a downed tree with a
beautiful orange-colored fungus on it. I took a photo and vowed to figure out
what type of mushroom it was and if it was edible. That fungus would change my
life in some profound ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAoXIb1HT6BoJOcTWklj0nCaN_A900BnbhSN9e5oVn7nvNs3Ndn0YE6EVrl0c94Obqn47gYjQla37ZYurnECPXKn_2DHFsTMRqGPEvTZ-2y00a6lTXA4-KCt_FAozu0sXUTLWhOPD54Q/s1600/mushroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAoXIb1HT6BoJOcTWklj0nCaN_A900BnbhSN9e5oVn7nvNs3Ndn0YE6EVrl0c94Obqn47gYjQla37ZYurnECPXKn_2DHFsTMRqGPEvTZ-2y00a6lTXA4-KCt_FAozu0sXUTLWhOPD54Q/s320/mushroom.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fungus of destiny. The very Chicken of the Woods or <i style="font-size: 12.8px;">Laetiporus sulphureus </i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I found on that fateful day.</span><br />
<h3 class="r" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
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I got back on a trail and headed towards my bike when
I encountered a woman walking a golden retriever. The dog shoved his head in my
crotch and wagged his tail vigorously, as if I was the greatest thing he had
encountered, ever. The woman was named Jean. The dog was named Tyler.</div>
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“Just taking a walk around the lake?”, she asked.</div>
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“Yes, I just moved to town and was doing some exploring.”, I
responded.</div>
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I told her that I was about to start grad school, and when I
mentioned the school’s name, she said, “that’s where we have our meetings
sometimes.” </div>
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“What meetings?”, I asked.</div>
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“Our mushroom club meetings. I’m the president of the club.”,
she responded. </div>
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No more than five minutes after I had found a mushroom and
became curious about it, I ran into the president of the local mycological
society. This stuff is impossible to make up. I’m not typically one to believe
in fate, but sometimes I wonder. </div>
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“Are you serious? I literally just saw a mushroom right over
there and wondered what it was.”, I said, pointing towards forest.</div>
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“Show me”, Jean said.</div>
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I walked Jean over to the log and showed her the mushroom.
Without any hesitation, she exclaimed, “It’s chicken of the woods, and its
fresh!”</div>
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She explained that the mushroom was edible and said, “You
can take this home and sauté it. It’s delicious! But you probably won’t eat
it.” </div>
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“Yes I will.” I promised.</div>
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We walked around for a while and she pointed out some other
mushrooms. Having known me for less than an hour, she then invited me to join
her on a foray with the mushroom club the next day. I accepted. That night I
cooked the mushrooms in butter and savored every bite. The next day she picked
me up. The rest is history. I became a mushroom person and a forager, and Jean
and Tyler became dear friends.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNVzcsAf2RuKlBMXwLv5Dnl91htuGbcKWzAS8yo9tUzjG2NFHQSU6YFVqwq7jh3hvHj3bSTejccsVVRv3q-rcsfrQfYqph1CfL6IPcllih0y5Cr89WSBRFIwRrPqwosiPu8IIP4CQaCk/s1600/IMG_5054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqNVzcsAf2RuKlBMXwLv5Dnl91htuGbcKWzAS8yo9tUzjG2NFHQSU6YFVqwq7jh3hvHj3bSTejccsVVRv3q-rcsfrQfYqph1CfL6IPcllih0y5Cr89WSBRFIwRrPqwosiPu8IIP4CQaCk/s320/IMG_5054.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tyler the golden retriever, one of the most magnificent creatures to walk the face of the Earth.</td></tr>
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Flash forward one year. I had learned volumes from Jean and
others, and had become more of an expert than am amateur in wild edibles. Jean
and I were spending yet another Sunday bushwhacking around the woods when Jean
started to pontificate on what it means to be a mushroom person. <br />
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“You see, it’s not just about loving the outdoors, getting
nerdy with the Latin names for fungi, being more self-sufficient, or enjoying
the taste of mushrooms. Foraging is about finding treasure. That’s why I really
think we like it!”, she said.</div>
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Jean was right. I do like finding treasure, in both wild and
urban settings. In fact, as a child, I often dreamed of finding buried pirate
treasure and went through a spell where I wanted to be a gold and precious
stone prospector (truthfully I sometimes still think about this). </div>
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Flash forward four years and switch to present tense. I live
in Washington D.C. I struggle daily to cope with the realization that my fancy
Master’s degree and a job envied by many don’t fill the sizeable void in my
soul. The streets are flooded with young, over-privileged, aspiring policy wonks.
The guys wear cheap, skin-tight suits and colorful, striped socks. Even though
I’m able to get away with business casual at work, I cringe at the thought that
I might somehow be like them. The girls wear ill-fitting, conservative frocks
or pantsuits that are otherwise only seen in turn-of-the-century photos of presidential
first ladies. The older federal workers’ cheeks are sunken in, all hope or joy
drained from their faces, and in stark contrast to the young, hip policy wonks,
their suits are baggy enough for two. They wear sneakers and carry backpacks
that are probably hand-me-downs (or is it hand-me-ups?) from their children in
middle school. </div>
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I am hyper aware of the fact that just a few miles from
where I live and work, a band of millionaire and billionaire Type-As are holding
the most influential positions in government, occupying the most iconic buildings
in DC, and they seem to be hell-bent on destroying any and every aspect of
society that might actually be decent or noble. They are adults, behaving very,
very badly. All of this is soundtracked by the persistent blare of ambulances
racing to keep people alive for just a while longer. Had Paul Simon lived in
DC, he might have written <i>The Sounds of
Sirens</i>. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimG8-0JyzkzykGgKw8ZGhb2uRMcjs270ko8W9L5SweJ3gWcGKnUh85VwoKQF_3KysjFF2xNjtSVILvMEtUuKc1j5elteoTE2BkdMUI3gpcZhHduQZLtU2Unx1RysZJU-D22LIs7gFAFaw/s1600/capitol.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimG8-0JyzkzykGgKw8ZGhb2uRMcjs270ko8W9L5SweJ3gWcGKnUh85VwoKQF_3KysjFF2xNjtSVILvMEtUuKc1j5elteoTE2BkdMUI3gpcZhHduQZLtU2Unx1RysZJU-D22LIs7gFAFaw/s320/capitol.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pennsylvania Ave. looking towards the U.S. Capitol- a favorite haunt of adults behaving badly.</td></tr>
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Yet as impossible as it might seem, DC is actually a great
place for a forager. There are a surprising number of fruit trees lining DC’s
streets- cherries, serviceberries, plums, mulberries, and apples, to name a
few. For those willing to put in a bit of effort, there’s a nearly endless
supply of nutritious acorns. And then there’s the stuff. DC is a notoriously transient
city. Interns come to town in droves but typically stay for just a few months.
Many professionals put in their obligatory few years before they realize how
terrible DC is and move, or they finally land that job in international
development that necessitates their travelling to Sierra Leone for six months
(If I had $100 for every time I met a twenty-something that wants to get into
international development because traveling for work is just the best- never
mind the poor people that need food- I could be one of those misbehaving
millionaire adults destroying the country).</div>
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So where was I? That’s right, foraging for stuff. So people
move to DC, buy all the stuff they need for the rest of their lives, stay for
three months, and put all that stuff on the curb, in alleyways, on porch steps,
and in garbage cans. They move to a different place and buy all the stuff they
need all over again (though I’m not sure there’s an IKEA in Sierra Leone). Can
you imagine a better situation for a person who likes foraging for treasure? Despite
my cynicism, I don’t want to come off as unappreciative of well-to-do
transients. In some neighborhoods,
there is a deeply-embedded and highly laudable culture of recycling and sharing
stuff. People neatly place their unwanted stuff in boxes and label it “gratis”.
Some go so far as to put up ads on Craigslist to let the world know there’s
free stuff for the taking. </div>
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My girlfriend and I moved into a small apartment almost a
year ago with little more than our suitcases full of clothing. In two short
months, we had furnished the entire place at virtually no cost. The only thing
we purchased was a cast iron pan and a television. Despite my many misgivings
about modern society, I like the idiot box as much as the next guy. </div>
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So what kind of stuff did we find to outfit our little abode?
To name just a portion of it: a bed (donated by previous tenants);
entertainment center; two bookcases; a West Elm sofa (a good company I’m told);
a recliner; a plush rocking chair; a computer desk; end tables; mirrors; framed
prints and paintings; space heaters; a toaster oven; enough flatware and
kitchen utensils for a lifetime; several pots and pans; glasses; plates; bowls;
a blender; an electric knife sharpener; a vacuum cleaner; a blue rubber fitness
ball; throw blankets; pots for plants; plants in pots; and lots of completely
unnecessary, yet tasteful nick nacks and kitsch that would have cost a fortune
at some tacky home goods store (One such piece is a gold-framed, black and
white photo, circa 1950, of a family that is not our own. It sits proudly on
our shelf of oddities). </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtFscjLHvX6jHTboyxaS0tk0YfNO1YSWirMWcdEqUFNAV82eu3PxmqPDkdpyr3HWQ5UrJqEArqBuYPcmiXhrYLRNUGnLHTFZIQ0gb7r47Vc4Nvn0H5Gvkzzp7yVpG-y5zWDJu9yJQH1Q/s1600/family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgtFscjLHvX6jHTboyxaS0tk0YfNO1YSWirMWcdEqUFNAV82eu3PxmqPDkdpyr3HWQ5UrJqEArqBuYPcmiXhrYLRNUGnLHTFZIQ0gb7r47Vc4Nvn0H5Gvkzzp7yVpG-y5zWDJu9yJQH1Q/s320/family.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gold-framed, black and white photo of a family that I've never met. Highly prized.</td></tr>
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And then there’s the clothing. Shirts, pants, shoes, skirts,
dresses, hats, jackets, gloves, etc. We've found two bicycles that didn’t work
but work now. We've found bike helmets
to keep us from cracking our heads when falling off of the two bicycles that work now. We've found a
metal frog statue that holds a potted plant. We named him Vincenzo. Who doesn’t
need a metal frog named Vincenzo? We've found puzzles and board games. We've found sacks of uncooked rice, freeze-dried coffee, and canned cranberry sauce. We've found power tools, screws, caulking, and garden rakes. We've even found a
flatbed handcart that holds up to 500 lbs. so we can haul all of the free stuff
we find home. We’ve found it all! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB0CIjY3qSkV0dqBChc1YRbhsV6KNOWatP-omateN5MOG5WJjNN95w4kCiinnoBT-aM8_RYRTsQGNjyj1Q34yVOSlpoFf7ROW7NYMJ8T_84AMBZiwpIZ-vOGTsUTcCtPAfMCVpr2RKzY/s1600/DSC_0458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB0CIjY3qSkV0dqBChc1YRbhsV6KNOWatP-omateN5MOG5WJjNN95w4kCiinnoBT-aM8_RYRTsQGNjyj1Q34yVOSlpoFf7ROW7NYMJ8T_84AMBZiwpIZ-vOGTsUTcCtPAfMCVpr2RKzY/s320/DSC_0458.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vincenzo the garden frog.</td></tr>
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Admittedly, much of the stuff we haul home gets recycled or
donated. Some things seem amazing when we find them. We think- it’s free, why
not take it home? Then we get home and ask ourselves “What the hell were we
thinking when we picked this up?” I’ve even had a few moments that are
downright shameful. Once I found an old leather satchel near some garbage cans
in an alley that was discarded for very good reasons. I picked it up,
exclaiming to my girlfriend “This is real leather, vintage! I can restore this
and take it to fancy work meetings.” Her look said it all- I appreciate your
excitement, but what you are holding is a rotting briefcase you just found in
an alley, and you should probably wash your hands. Another time, I found a pair
of woman’s wool trousers from the 1960s. They smelled like mothballs and
perfume. I held them up in front of my lower half to eyeball whether or not
they would fit me, exclaiming “These are 100% wool. I can wear these camping. Wool
keeps you warm even if it gets wet.” </div>
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So what is it about foraging that I love so much? A whole bunch. I love
foraging because: I like the hunt; I get a high when I find treasures; the more
free stuff I find, the less I have to buy; foraging doesn’t require cash; I
like the idea of nature providing; I like the idea of urban streets providing;
it forces me to learn about plants, trees, and ecological systems; it forces me
to learn about alleyways and dumpsters; it forces me think about how I can use
something I just found and am unfamiliar with; it teaches me virtues, like
patience; it promotes reuse and recycling; and it helps to combat years of social
conditioning that whispers “you need to incur massive debts just to try
and keep up with the joneses”. Perhaps more importantly, foraging for treasure
awakens a part of my brain that has been hibernating for most of my life- a
truly human part of my brain that remembers, almost unconsciously, that foraging is hard wired into our DNA, and that modern, industrial societies- and
all of the conveniences that go along with them- are inherently unsustainable
anomalies only made possible by finite, dwindling fossil fuel resources.</div>
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So yes, from time to time I have to endure puzzled, if not
horrified looks from people who learn that I’m wearing shoes I found in a free
box on someone’s front stoop. Yes, from time to time I have moments when I want
to find something I really want or need but don’t, and then feeling defeated,
I convince myself that the tattered straw Panama hat I <i>did find</i> is exactly the thing that will make me whole. But that’s
ok, at least I’m not going into debt to obtain things I don’t really need. And
foraging for wild food and for stuff has given me and my loved ones countless
hours of thrills, laughs, and genuine disappointments (despite the obviously non-serious nature of finding or not finding free stuff). It’s allowed me to
experience the full continuum of human emotion. </div>
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Whenever and wherever I forage, Jean’s insight always creeps
into mind. I could find a pawpaw on the banks of the Potomac. I could find a small, knitted, purple fabric bull, complete with nuts. I could find pounds of invasive
wineberries growing along a fence. I could find a vase in the shape of a toucan.
It makes no difference to me. It’s all treasure and I love it all.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdTBHMyoQsrYUOqucfzudile4Kwn1RfCu9nTooS2KbJ8cIy3i3RGPo19cdS7GAOo-SJIsYqqvAQpP0aMJlrqrawMHmgSjjcooVNPHpzQi2PZABHj9hd1zAOmHvv5r3jIKCsSCwqZduOw/s1600/bull.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdTBHMyoQsrYUOqucfzudile4Kwn1RfCu9nTooS2KbJ8cIy3i3RGPo19cdS7GAOo-SJIsYqqvAQpP0aMJlrqrawMHmgSjjcooVNPHpzQi2PZABHj9hd1zAOmHvv5r3jIKCsSCwqZduOw/s320/bull.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our most prized possessions, a handmade knit bull with complete anatomy.</td></tr>
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Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-64592465215477869822017-03-06T18:11:00.000-05:002017-03-06T18:11:41.111-05:00Enough Philosophy and Back to the Bacon<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Both mornings of this past weekend, I had some absolutely delicious bacon for breakfast. How much did I pay for it? $0. How did I do that? Well, I found it, you see. In the greater Washington DC area (and many other places), perfectly good or even great things are out there for the taking. I am beginning to learn that I can live well while spending little money. I just have to follow some guidelines, like not being picky, taking a bit of social disapproval, being patient, and having a strong support network.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Urban foraging elicits many raised eyebrows, reactions, and questions. I can't do much about the eyebrows and reactions, but I will try to answer some of the questions. First, why do I want to avoid spending money? Quite simply, I've found that I have to do things I don't actually want to do to get money. In many cases, I have to compromise my values. I have to help keep industrial society on life support as it continues to squash ecosystems. I used to look at job postings, paying close attention to the dollar sign, and then say, “Yeah, this could be a pretty good fit.” Then, after getting into the job, I’d realize quickly that it was quite far from a good fit. I inevitably seem to become a cog of a system that I do not believe in, and have to work within that framework to keep my job.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do not want to live this way for much longer. Recognizing that I do want to make some money, I am taking the arbitrary motive of ever higher payment out of the driver's seat. Besides using the magical stock market to turn my money into more money, I want to do the things I already love to make the money I want. Things I love include learning about and living within ecosystems, and teaching others about them. The jobs that exist in this type of work, or ones that I could create myself, do not pay nearly as much as many office jobs I could have. Luckily, I’m finding ways to reduce the amount of money I spend and increase my level of satisfaction. Every dollar that I do not spend boosts my feelings of freedom. Instead of buying things, I am buying my ability to determine what I do each day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, enough philosophy and back to the bacon. I found the bacon in a grocery store dumpster. Sounds disgusting, right? Wrong, it was delicious! Uncured, applewood smoked, no nitrates or nitrites added. It smelled great when I opened the package, and smelled even better when it was cooked. In the same winter-refrigerated metal box (dumpster) I found kale, yogurt, pizza dough, dried banana, shredded wheat, salted truffle almonds, red onions, and the list goes on. Why were all of these things wasted? I don’t know. I could speculate that it was because some items were near their expiration date, but some were far from them. Having done a lot of microbiology work, I know that harmful or deadly things can grow on food. Thankfully I've been around food my whole life (as all of you have also been!) and can use my senses to know what’s good or bad. There is nothing magic about expiration dates; microbes don’t use clocks or calendars.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjLI-s_8sPePRUObyhbw4O-_15zhPFiwFzx6c_EYw8mxFKouP6NHpIaP6wyMZN115Huf-Y3gxqTTGBvyuDpiZnjgaMCq-84N4O25YfOvU4pBeFE6Lcxby-CMp49yhExhb4sMK7T2qnGDq/s1600/IMG_2956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFjLI-s_8sPePRUObyhbw4O-_15zhPFiwFzx6c_EYw8mxFKouP6NHpIaP6wyMZN115Huf-Y3gxqTTGBvyuDpiZnjgaMCq-84N4O25YfOvU4pBeFE6Lcxby-CMp49yhExhb4sMK7T2qnGDq/s320/IMG_2956.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A recent haul</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Along my food recovery journey, something curious has happened: people started to give me food. I think they do so because they know I’ll eat it and that I accept it with gratitude. Often they give me foods that they have in surplus, that are near their expiration dates, or that they simply don’t like. Maybe they think I'm broke. Whatever the reason, people give me food, I thank them, and then I eat it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Moving beyond food now, sort of: my friend and I are going to start growing Shiitake mushrooms with some starter materials we got from another generous friend. We needed logs, preferably oak, to inject the mushroom spores into. Instead of calling the tree store to deliver oak of the perfect size and shape, we asked friends and checked free Craigslist. Within one hour, we found two different groups down the street cutting down oak trees, and were able to get much of what we needed. The good feelings I get from all of this salvaging is astounding. I connect with people, learn a lot, and don’t have to compromise as much to turn my time into money and then money into things I need. I can simply do what I need to do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clothing is also covered under the finding stuff method. It appears that people are just dying to get rid of perfectly good stuff and get the latest fashion. I went out on Saturday night wearing my fly bright blue jeans and orange shoes, both found. The orange shoes were found by Joseph - he is a more dedicated clothing hunter than I. I’m fortunate to have had a lot of clothing gifted to me over the years, so I don't think about clothing much. I often say that I don’t need to buy clothing for the rest of my life; with the exception of shoes and stuff to keep me warm, I might be right.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found: blue pants and orange shoes </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are many problems in the world, a great number of which are unsolvable. Waste is rampant, and industrial society runs on it. Many people with high paying jobs are writing on pieces of paper or Word documents trying to 'solve' the waste problem. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We can always do our part by salvaging and scavenging. W</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">e can all grab a friend and empower ourselves! We don't need permission or authorization. While I continue in the urban environment for a bit longer, I’ll keep looking for the things I need before buying them. When I get out to healthier ecosystems, I will ramp up healthier ways to acquire my needs - gathering, hunting, and growing. For now, urban foraging is an empowering supplement.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-56151264361398058532017-02-15T15:31:00.000-05:002017-02-15T15:31:00.838-05:00The Unexpected Way That It All Unfolds<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The past five days or so have been an emotional roller coaster that led to some enlightening places. And enlightenment is what I need, because all of the physical actions that are taking me to the life I want to live are accompanied by, or often preceded by, emotion. Along this particular roller coaster, I had moments of extreme clarity and moments of despair. While I felt pretty terrible at the lows, I learned and gained a great deal of clarity throughout. I remembered that my emotions help me, which I only learned fairly recently after the end of a romantic relationship 3 and some years ago. Because of the work I did then, prompted and helped by many others, I knew that my emotions should not be repressed but allowed to flow in and through me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">So it all began five days ago, with a seemingly straightforward trip to Snowshoe Mountain for some snowboarding in West Virginia with my good friend Mark. Despite the commercial and destructive aspects of my current practice of snowboarding, I love to get out once or so a year to dance across the snow and get a good workout in! Those aspects were great fun, and I was feeling good. I did not plan for what would come from seeing people and places associated with a past romantic partner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt it in my throat and in my abdomen. Memories of the budding relationship and how great it was when I felt resonance with her cascaded through me. While I was thoroughly enjoying the snowboarding and the time spent with Mark, the underlying feelings lurked just beneath the surface, popping here and there. Shadows of the past relationship were all around.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a day spent gliding through the mashed-potatoey snow, we headed through the countryside to the city of Elkins. Mark and I ate some Holiday Inn Express cookies and took a walk through the city, having some great conversation about the importance of relocalizing economies, but the unlikeliness of that willingly happening on a large scale. When we got back to the hotel, I grabbed some more cookies, hopped in the shower, and it dawned on me that what was going on inside of me was a grieving process that was hitting me particularly hard now, 6 months after the break up. With clarity, it felt right to say goodbye to Snowshoe Mountain the next day, not because I couldn’t face it, but because it was simply time to say goodbye to something that symbolized a lost relationship.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">On Snowshoe Mountain</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a hearty, predictable, complimentary breakfast, we hit the road in the rain back up to Snowshoe. We talked and laughed. All the mountain lifts were closing due to wind, and the rain always threatened, periodically coming down. We did what we could, facing closed trails and melted snow at every turn. With global average temperatures warming year by year, this could be the future for the mighty mountain. We decided to head back to the car after a couple of hours, and did so just in the nick of time. Sheets of rain came down, blowing sideways. As Mark hurried ahead out of the rain, I lingered back, saying goodbye to the mountain, out loud. I thanked the mountain, said goodbye to those good times that will now just be memories, with yearning removed. I stared at my favorite slope, closed due to the wind and rain, vaguely wishing that I could have gotten one more run in, but feeling content at the same time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back in the Prius, we headed back home through West Virginia, passing dilapidated barns and creatively built homes with trailers as their core. The feelings of the past two days flared again, and I swelled with doubt. What am I doing with my future? Am I being foolish by leaving behind the comfortable and the (at least temporarily) stable? Would I be the one in the future who city slickers see, living in one of these less-than-shiny homes, and think, "what did he do to land himself here? Where did he go wrong?" Those questions came from my own arrogance. Though I can intellectually come to grips with living in nothing more than a shed, years of conditioning that I should live in something big and shiny, maybe with vinyl siding, continued to influence me. But then, I fought back with knowing that, should I end up living in some tiny, humble structure, I would simply feel that it is where I live, and it would become normal. Home would keep me warm and protect me from the elements. I replayed how different my life is now than it was two years ago; how I am currently doing things that were unthinkable then (like hunting or picking up and eating hit-by-car deer).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">There was much more in between that drive home and now that have brought me to my current clarity and calm. Talking with close friends, taking moments to meditate and just drift, writing pages that are intelligible probably only to me, and maybe not even to me if I look back in a few weeks. I watched some inspirational videos, and a film clip of a sea bird dying from eating too much ocean plastic - the bird's stomach was quite literally full of plastic. I also participated in a meeting where people were talking about fighting against lunacy with passion, in a world where many are jaded, asleep, or just don’t care. Somehow, all of this and more brought me here, feeling more resolute and convinced that I’m moving in the right direction, toward a more wild life. I’m remembering that my emotions are there and have something to say, celebrating them and being grateful for what they teach me. I’m reveling in the tortuosity of life, in the unexpected way that it all unfolds.</span>Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-40182554464791426342017-01-26T18:17:00.000-05:002017-01-26T18:17:21.553-05:00Smell the Flowers, Pick the Fruit, Watch the Animals<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On my worst days, I feel as if humans are a scourge on the Planet Earth. On other bad days, I lapse into thinking that we are not to be blamed for destroying our Home because we are just doing what we naturally do. On my best days, I see clearly that industrial civilization is not what we are, and that humans have a role to play in this world. That role is a stewardship role, and the vast majority of us are not doing our duty. Myself included.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">To play this important role, we must interact with all parts of the ecosystem. We cannot be stewards through our purchases. We cannot be stewards by recycling. We must smell the flowers, pick the fruit, watch the animals, feel the heat and the cold, be comfortable in our own skin: know ourselves thoroughly. We must be able to feel discomfort and not immediately recoil. There was a time when all humans did this and more, so it is definitely possible. The challenge is reaching beyond our comfort zones and abandoning the belief that the only way to go is the way we are going, toward ‘progress.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">If we are to be stewards, we must think beyond our immediate needs, as many of us who are damaging our Home have the luxury of being able to do. We have to be less selfish, in a sense. We have to do what’s best for other species and parts of the ecosystem, not just because it is the right thing to do, but because in the post-fossil fuel age we will need functioning ecosystems to live. Feel what it's like to know that when you eat food from far away, drive a car, turn the air conditioning on full blast, etc., you are causing harm to something else that is nearly irreversible. You are contributing to a planet that is less habitable to your family and friends. To feel this way is uncomfortable, but the truth should not be obscured. Occasional discomfort can push us to change our behavior.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My soft, wannabe steward hands</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />Despite what I perceive as a somewhat common, unstated belief, our elected officials cannot make us stewards. They will not perform magic that negates our need to be stewards. Why? Let’s consider an example (for areas of the world that have freezing temperatures). Supreme Leader A cares about us being stewards. S/he orders us to keep the heat in our homes and offices set at a temperature no higher than 45 degrees Fahrenheit, just to keep the pipes from bursting and give us a bit of warmth. Most would find these temperatures to be quite uncomfortable. Many would be angry that the government is telling them what to do. But, in fact, Supreme Leader A is confronting energy depletion, climate change, and environmental degradation head on. S/he is not talking about these issues, but actually pushing us to be stewards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Supreme Leader A is, of course, a fictional character in our industrial society. Austerity and sacrifice are not sexy, whether you’re on the Red team or Blue team in the United States. We should not expect a leader to tell us to do anything we don’t already do in some form, or that they don’t do themselves. We need to lead with our actions. Only then will Supreme Leader A pat her/himself on the back by claiming credit for what we’re already doing. Elected officials only do what earns them praise. How can we expect them to be stewards, or ask us to be stewards, if we are not stewards ourselves?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steward</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is nothing left but to simply do. Walk outside; spend a weekend outside. Bring a friend if you like, but spend some time alone. Look at what is around you. Feel, observe, be. Start to tinker (responsibly) with what you find; seek guidance from others. How do you feel? You may be uncomfortable, mentally, physically, or emotionally: that’s OK, stewards are not always comfortable. The comfort comes when you dive in and through. There is no substitute for walking away from the human-built environment and being in the awesome presence of all-there-is. This is where we came from and where stewards must return to. Only by being out there does it become clear what we must do. That which extends beyond human reach has much to teach us, and we are wise to listen and learn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m on my way out the door for a couple days to continue my practice.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-24133983515941411812017-01-18T18:10:00.000-05:002017-01-18T18:11:31.814-05:00Something Primal Keeping Me Going<span id="docs-internal-guid-e94fbffe-b341-2c93-cb45-2af9b3d3f9e5"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hesitated as I considered the task in my parked car, finally gathering up my courage and wits. I had passed a dead deer a few miles back on the edge of the road. Cause of death was clearly humans, who may have otherwise left the body to rot or put it to some dishonorable use under some bureaucratic name. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My decision to pick the deer up led to a weekend of manual labor and a weekend of incredible reward. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was happy to lessen the tragedy of this deer dying unnecessarily and prevent it from being obscured in society’s cloud of waste.</span><span id="docs-internal-guid-e94fbffe-b341-2c93-cb45-2af9b3d3f9e5"></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doe, a deer</td></tr>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-e94fbffe-b341-2c93-cb45-2af9b3d3f9e5"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-e94fbffe-b341-2c93-cb45-2af9b3d3f9e5"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister in the ecosystem met an untimely death. As I took apart her body, it was clear that she was healthy and had been eating well. White-tailed deer in cold climates eat as much as they can in Fall to build their bodies up for the Winter, not knowing when their next substantial meal will come. The amount of hard, white fat I found indicated that she would have made it through Winter. The cold winds whisk away the warmth from an animal, and those fat sources burn to keep the body warm. I now think of my own body as a heater when I’m out there on those cold days, burning my own fuel to keep warm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, she and I spent a lot of time together. A late night, sorting out the battered, gory tissue from the still edible meat, all while watching Youtube to make sure I was correctly remembering the processing technique from my class at Charm City Farms over a year ago. Though I hadn’t eaten for quite a while, and had gotten up well before dawn, I was completely engrossed in the process, som</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ething primal kee</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ping me going. By 4 AM, I had the deer quartered, and was ready for bed. The night hearkened back to my days as a grad student in the science lab, running experiments into the wee hours of morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was exhausted when I woke up a few hours later, but had planned days before to have some friends over for breakfast. We enjoyed some splendid sourdough pancakes, made with the last of my sourdough starter. I then had some tidying up and planning to do, but was mostly just tired with a dull headache. I talked with my friend Kevin who invited me to come out to process the hide and prepare it for preservation at Overlook Community Farm. The hours just flew by as I was thinking about all of the deer parts and how to honor each one - a true challenge when you are living in a sea of concrete and neighbors all stacked in a concentrated housing operation. I couldn’t help but yearn for my next stage, living somewhere more wild.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next day was probably the most wonderful of all. Joseph and I did the final butchering, with assistance from our new Youtube friend Richard Smith, who was there with me and the deer the whole time. Joseph and I were both amazed at the ease with which we were able to use a knife each and make some pretty nice cuts, all in a few hours work. Processing is quite intuitive; it has been made mystical only by disconnection from our food. 60+ pounds of meat, with no money needed; just our time, and a few sharp knives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stuck Joseph with most of the clean up and hopped in the car to head out to Kevin and McNeill’s for hide processing. The peace and green of the farm were a welcome respite from the busyness and grey of the city. Kevin lent his expertise, and all of the tools, to help me remove the fat and meat from the underside of the hide. We then salted the hide for preservation and further processing in Spring. Kevin and McNeill prepared a wonderful dinner for us, we talked and laughed, and I then bid them adieu. I went back out to the barn in the pitch black, tidied up, and rolled up the salted hide. I bashed my shin on a wheelbarrow in the dark. I didn’t mind. I thought of it as a reminder to slow down; there was no rush. The dark was peaceful and in no way threatening, a comforting glimpse into my future. I felt at ease.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kANe1DZVUrNo0y0P1df2jJP1QA7hQ_hplYxsexv5_0cyMbpslT9tdTKtwKNwqSYTmF4JLGcUZxZoU1-ZYAg-5Tx8PtMS5q5wMdHbbJF2TDQSFQxhLOOEyzDwZ6rVIachgUDbxoBwzsey/s1600/IMG_2784.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kANe1DZVUrNo0y0P1df2jJP1QA7hQ_hplYxsexv5_0cyMbpslT9tdTKtwKNwqSYTmF4JLGcUZxZoU1-ZYAg-5Tx8PtMS5q5wMdHbbJF2TDQSFQxhLOOEyzDwZ6rVIachgUDbxoBwzsey/s320/IMG_2784.PNG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salted hide</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I headed back to the city, hide in the back of the rugged Prius, with the bits that had come off the hide left behind in Kevin and McNeill’s compost. It was comforting to know that those parts of the deer would be incorporated back into the soil. In contrast, it was a bit deflating to come back to the city after being at the peaceful farm, now having to worry about locked doors and someone possibly busting my car window to steal anything that had the slightest suggestion of being valuable. I did laugh at the possibility of them rummaging through my stuff and coming up with a deer hide!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ended this amazing day at Joseph and Katya’s, had some of the delicious odds and ends that were left from the butchering, which they had cooked up in bone broth. I sipped some tea that the couple found in a free box out in front of someone’s house, another score from the vast urban 'waste' stream. We reveled in all of the meat we had the pleasure of being fully present in obtaining, and the bright future of being able to acquire the necessities of life without the need for riches. It truly is the taste of freedom. The simple act of picking up this deer brought me into a new connection with my ecosystem, including tightening my bonds with other people. What a weekend it was - I’ll never forget it!</span></div>
</span>Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-55127567870697700842017-01-05T19:01:00.000-05:002017-01-05T19:01:40.334-05:00Sticks over Bics<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been hooked on the outdoors since the day my father
first took me trout fishing as a child. I grew up and spent most of my early
life near the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York. I took it somewhat for
granted that I could get in the car, drive thirty minutes to a trailhead, walk
a few miles, and have an entire lake to myself. A few years ago, after
finishing graduate school, I moved to Washington, DC for work. That’s when it
hit me hard- those forests and lakes I had taken for granted were out of reach.
I struggled to make sense of the blaring sirens, honking horns, bad suits, and
never-ending concrete. But not all hope was lost. For a forest person, DC’s
greatest gift is Rock Creek Park, where old-growth Tulip Poplars stand supreme
and barred owls keep watch in the canopy. Rock Creek Park became my sanctuary.
If anything, the relative lack of wilderness in metro DC reinforced for me how
truly important wild nature is, both for my own sanity and the health of the
planet. I became inspired to connect more deeply with Nature and learn
forgotten or snuffed out skills that our ancestors used to thrive in a time
when there was less of a distinction between humanity and Nature.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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For years I have been intrigued by friction fire. My concept
of friction fire was entirely shaped by Hollywood. While circumstances vary
from film to film, the general premise is that someone gets lost in the
wilderness. They gather a few sticks and start rubbing them together. After a
couple of failed attempts and a little sweat, they succeed and celebrate in triumph.
I never bought that it was that easy. Quite the opposite. I thought of friction
fire as a nearly impossible enterprise, linked more closely to magic than
physics. So I started watching every YouTube clip on friction fire I could
find. In some respects, YouTube made it look even easier than Hollywood.
Everyone seemed to succeed. Encouraged, I went off into the woods with a knife
and some paracord to try my hand. In my particular case there were about forty
failed attempts, a lot of sweat, the tiniest amount of smoke, but no fire.
Defeated, I conceded that friction fire skills were reserved for a select class
of super humans, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t one of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then one day my friend Matt asked me if I would be
interested in attending a class on friction fire at Earth Village Education.
Naturally I said yes. If there was any chance of becoming one of those super
humans, that was it. Matt and I left DC and headed out to Marshall, Virginia. I
had no idea what to expect. We arrived at the farm house on a chilly April
morning and were greeted first by two dogs, and then by the instructors- Tom,
Lisa, Kevin, and McNeill. After some hellos, we were off to the forest
classroom. Yes, it was going to be a good day indeed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I admit I was anxious to get right to it. I wanted to start
rubbing those sticks together. But the lead instructor Tom Brown III had other
ideas. He devoted the first hour of the class to expounding upon the physics of
fire and instructing us on knife safety. “When you are using knives, make sure
to stay out of each other’s blood bubbles- the area around your body out to two
arm lengths”, Tom said. Then he walked us around the forest showing us how to
gather kindling to build a fire structure. “First gather pencil lead diameter
twigs, then pencil diameter and so on”, he said. We returned to the forest
classroom and gathered around a fire pit. Tom built a tepee-like structure with
the kindling, explaining that a good structure is the basis for a good fire. He
took out a matchbook, and with a single match, lit the tinder bundle he had
placed at the base. Within ten seconds I was staring at a legitimate jet engine
of a fire that towered well above my 6 foot 2 frame. Amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt warming himself by a proper fire.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, (I said I was anxious) we got to the friction fire
lesson. The instructors gave us red cedar logs and Tom demonstrated how to
carve the components necessary for a bow drill friction set- a fire board,
spindle, and bearing block. For an hour I carved away at the fragrant cedar. I
shaped my components with great care, and I was damn proud of my work. Then we
moved on to the bow. I scoured the forest for a slightly curved stick, and
having found one, strung it with paracord (in times past, animal sinew, hides,
or cordage made from plant fibers were used). Finally, I was about to make fire
by friction. And that’s when Tom called a time out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took us back to the lecture area where he imparted his
philosophies on friction fire and ancestral knowledge. He told us that friction
fire isn’t about brute strength and ego. He explained that friction fire is
about connecting deeply with our environment and our ancestral roots. It’s
about respect and gratitude for the environment that sustains and nourishes us.
It’s about crafting your friction fire set with great care. It’s about understanding
and reacting to the unique materials you’re using in the unique environment you
are in. It’s about failures and learning from those failures. In fact, Tom told
us that every time he prepares to make fire with friction, before he starts
spinning a spindle, he takes a moment to give thanks to the tree that provided
the raw materials, and to Nature for providing humans with everything we need.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And then it was show time. We entered the forest and Tom
demonstrated how to produce a coal with a bow drill. I watched in amazement. I
had never been so close to one of those super humans before. First he burned
the spindle into the fire board. The unmistakable smell of burning wood
perfumed the air. Then he carved a pie-piece-shaped notch in the board. “You
want to carve your notch to just below the center line of the burned-in hole,
and it should be about 1/6 of the size of the hole”, he said. With the notch
carved Tom set up and began bowing. Within just 30 seconds a coal sat
smoldering on an oak leaf that he selected for a firepan. He carefully
transferred the coal to his bird-nest tinder bundle, made from finely shredded
inner bark of tulip poplar and cattail fluff. Slowly he blew life into the
bundle. Smoke poured out, getting thicker with each focused breath. Finally,
the bundle burst into flames. It was no joke. Friction fire really was
possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then it was my turn. I got into position. Tom and Kevin
helped me with my stance. After a few fumbles I got the spindle loaded and set
it in the fire board. I pushed down on the bearing block, took a breath, and
started to turn. After ten seconds the spindle jumped out and landed next to
me. Undeterred I re-loaded and got back into position. Again I bowed. The
spindle stayed snug in the fire board and smoke began to rise. A hole began to
form and the smell of burning wood crept into my nostrils. I had successfully
“burned in”. Then I carved the notch. I loaded the spindle and began bowing
again. Smoke started to rise and the notch began filling with dust. Excited, my
form became erratic and the spindle popped loose. I was close. “Open your notch
up a bit,” Kevin said. After shaving away some cedar and expanding the notch, I
regrouped and gave some gratitude. I bowed slowly at first, then vigorously as
the smoke intensified. Tom came over and encouraged me. “Your notch is filling.
Release a little pressure and bow faster.” So I did. I focused with everything
I had. After ten seconds of intense bowing Tom told me to stop. Panting, I
stopped and slowly backed away. A tiny coal was sitting in the notch,
smoldering on its own. I picked up the tinder bundle, arms trembling from
exertion and anxiety. My hands wobbled as I transferred the coal into the
bundle. Again I breathed deeply, trying to calm my body. I bunched the tinder
around the coal and started to breathe into it gently, just as Tom had. As the
smoke thickened I tightened the bundle around the coal and continued blowing
rhythmically. And then it happened. Smoke gave way to flames. I had become one
of those super humans.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joseph blowing his tinder bundle into flame.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Since my experience at Earth Village Education I have spent
many hours practicing friction fire. I’ve had success with several different
locally-foraged materials, and even had success with the hand-drill method
(mullein spindle on tulip poplar hearth board rocks!). For every success, I’ve
had about fifty failures, and that’s ok. I learned something from every one of
them. One day I hope to “bust a coal” using a bow strung with natural cordage
and a rock knife to carve the components. It’s the holy grail for me. By taking
a course on friction fire, I got so much more than just a day-long lesson. I
acquired fundamental skills that will serve me for a lifetime. As an added
bonus, friction fire has also strengthened my tree and plant identification
skills. I view flora in a whole new light and my respect and appreciation for
all things botanical has deepened immensely. When I look at a tulip poplar, I
don’t see a tree, but a giver of light and life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I now have a lifelong pastime that fills me with joy and a
deep sense of accomplishment. Now that I am one of those “super humans”, I
realize that I was thinking about things the wrong way. Primitive skills aren’t
in the realm of the super human. Quite the opposite- primitive skills are
quintessentially human. They typify the resourcefulness, athleticism, and
ingenuity of our forbearers who learned how to flourish in wild and unforgiving
environments. Primitive skills give me a purer, rawer sense of my humanity, and
make me question the notion of “human progress”. They remind me that our modern
human society is anomalous- a freakish blip in the epoch of human experience.
And while I know that friction fire is much more complicated than rubbing two
sticks together, for the sake of the rhyme, sticks over Bics is my new battle
cry.</div>
Josephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11410070665020282236noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-87640451783399805272017-01-03T18:00:00.000-05:002017-01-03T18:00:13.743-05:00The Simple Pleasures of Grammels<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Katherina Colombo, my Grandma, was born in 1929 in Olaszfalu, Hungary, when the world population was 2 billion. Olaszfalu had a population of about 1500. Grandma grew up without electricity and all of the things that come with it. Wood and kerosene (for lamps) were the only fuels, muscle and sun the only other means to do work. Nothing was wasted on her family's farm. How could it be, when they knew, firsthand, the hard work required to provide everything they needed? As I try to figure out what I want my life to look like, or when I try to picture what life might be like for humans in the future, I often talk to Grandma. She is the strongest and most resourceful person I know. At the age of 87, she’s more capable and aware than most.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">About a month ago, my friends Kevin and McNeill gave me two gallon bags of pig fat from last year’s pigs. They kindly offered their advice on rendering the fat into lard for use in cooking. When I told Grandma that I had the fat, she immediately said, “Bring it home, I know what to do wit it!”* By home, she meant back to New Jersey, when I was visiting for the holidays. I was happy to have some personalized instruction.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On Christmas morning, when my family was opening gifts, Grandma called and asked for the pig fat. We had planned to do the rendering the next day, but I heard her say to my Dad that it can’t all be done in one morning. I think she was just eager to get started! She drove down to pick it up. That night, when I got to her house, that familiar house with the familiar sights and smells, there were already 3 containers of lard on the old, but impeccable, yellow counter top. And, of course, there was a bag of the associated “Grammels” - a new word that I learned. More on that below!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9B5khFcZgX8C0dU6zmqtpgwIdlzQPacEBJdB-_l6-v0GCKEt1vSRR3u7mK0eyN89PQrQS7WvUKYp9VkNwy2tlJYBskJ0imSg0e3_odQ1CIceAAhrGYPR_IU-BB7MyW3ZmxEks_NRLToi0/s1600/IMG_2660.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9B5khFcZgX8C0dU6zmqtpgwIdlzQPacEBJdB-_l6-v0GCKEt1vSRR3u7mK0eyN89PQrQS7WvUKYp9VkNwy2tlJYBskJ0imSg0e3_odQ1CIceAAhrGYPR_IU-BB7MyW3ZmxEks_NRLToi0/s320/IMG_2660.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heating and mixing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next morning, I woke up late in Grandma’s guest bed, where I used to sleep as a child. I mostly still fit in the top mattress of the trundle bed; the roll out mattress on the bottom is a bit small for my frame these days. When I entered the kitchen, the cubed fat for the second batch was already in the pot. “You have to use a tick medal pot, odderwise it will burn. We used to have bick pots (she drew a three foot diameter circle with her hands). Stirred dem wit a bick stick like ah, how you call it, oar.” Any freezer burned edges or otherwise undesirable pieces were put in a separate bag. “No waste,” she said. These pieces would have been used to make soap, but Grandma said she would feed them to the birds over the next few weeks.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, there are the Grammels - the bits of crunchy food that are left over once the rendering is done. Grandma hand pressed these; I removed them from the press and put them in a bowl. “I like dem wit a liddle bit of salt.” She popped one after the other, recounting stories of her relatives and how much they loved Grammels. “When you mek eggs, cut these up and put dem in there, you doan even need oil.” I could see that the Grammels were bringing back memories!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-S07fXAHAJPBVFJxmxrB2H87C6_ChyphenhyphenNvRgOEHH5vX4uomNqmDTf7foKyUeXVsSdhkSOPth2Q36qtK7qX8fjOn1cFIyZZrrVI4ep4fHe0Su1Vl8BbQWaYEOnSrh-HmnSzAtyzquvMMOKE/s1600/IMG_2664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-S07fXAHAJPBVFJxmxrB2H87C6_ChyphenhyphenNvRgOEHH5vX4uomNqmDTf7foKyUeXVsSdhkSOPth2Q36qtK7qX8fjOn1cFIyZZrrVI4ep4fHe0Su1Vl8BbQWaYEOnSrh-HmnSzAtyzquvMMOKE/s320/IMG_2664.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pressing oil from the Grammels</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrt8daYwEV0W6BKbXdumY_t5L1ndYzEhrXm4rALQid4TnDtpuAJFcoJeak0xp0i4tmbh39UK720pW_w0T5IMBbAhoM3jjCfHeCqxi2kMZfUNfyQktzKlNCHlBGAhUSd6nZz8pAqwpkN3O3/s1600/IMG_2666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrt8daYwEV0W6BKbXdumY_t5L1ndYzEhrXm4rALQid4TnDtpuAJFcoJeak0xp0i4tmbh39UK720pW_w0T5IMBbAhoM3jjCfHeCqxi2kMZfUNfyQktzKlNCHlBGAhUSd6nZz8pAqwpkN3O3/s320/IMG_2666.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grammels! (and the yellow counter top)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It turns out, rendering is mostly a matter of heating fat without burning it. Though fat has been rendered for eons and will continue to be, it’s possible that no one will be doing it as Grandma does. Now I know her way, and continuing the tradition is one of the many ways I will always remember her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grandma and I sat at the kitchen table and talked, just like we always do, about how crazy the world is, how engrossed people are in their electronics, how extravagant the holidays can be. We discuss the merits of eating pig fat, and how her father used to eat handfuls of Grammels and always stayed lean and healthy. Grandma and I were very much on the defensive the whole weekend when we told relatives that we were going to render and cook with pig fat. Surely, our arteries would be instantly clogged! I love hearing Grandma’s stories of the old country ways that fly in the face of modern wisdom. She asks how work is going, and I express my usual frustrations that the environment is degrading while I sit in a cubicle. I can’t help but think that the world would be a much better place if more people could make and enjoy the simple pleasures of Grammels.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI52NX8lDDIDKq1kq4u45mRR2whVDCi_NeOWEsL06nrHx2DcvAg4kfvZCigcE0L73WcOureqlgAkvwpO4wSMDX6m9-cd_g-FoPuewYUHC-f4zPdCxMlJ6ptJe2NIy1Sb8SVucl9wIlRR7J/s1600/IMG_2676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI52NX8lDDIDKq1kq4u45mRR2whVDCi_NeOWEsL06nrHx2DcvAg4kfvZCigcE0L73WcOureqlgAkvwpO4wSMDX6m9-cd_g-FoPuewYUHC-f4zPdCxMlJ6ptJe2NIy1Sb8SVucl9wIlRR7J/s320/IMG_2676.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lard</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">*I must give credit to my sister, Brianne, a far better writer than I, who came up with these spellings to capture Grandma’s accent in a piece she wrote about Grandma’s life up until about the age of 25.</span>Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-6407828399309272902016-12-22T17:56:00.000-05:002016-12-22T17:56:56.096-05:00But, I Have Not Abandoned My Hope for People<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Facebook friend of a Facebook friend, Kathi Irwin, recently wrote “Abandon hope and start living.” These five words really caught my eye and resonated deep down. The words were followed by a quote by Paul Chefurka, a writer and thinker, which said that he has been living for years without hope of the world’s problems being solved, and has found richness by doing things that give him meaning.</span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though I read “Abandon hope and start living” a couple of weeks ago, the words have stuck with me. They have helped me to frame a decade or so of my desire to participate in fixing an ecosystem-destroying society. The society I am referring to is the industrial society that I inhabit, which is helplessly reliant on fossil fuels and industrially-produced materials. Years ago, when I realized the terrible damage that most of the human race was doing to all the ecosystems of Earth, I was overwhelmed. I would lose sleep. I wanted to be an activist and tell everyone that what was going on was all wrong. I read all I could on the subject, but still felt powerless.</span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over the past few years, I have acted. The experiences of working in government, founding a chapter of a small non-profit, learning primitive skills, and thinking/reading/talking about the changes needed to right the ship of society have led me to realize that the forces of inertia (called 'progress') and complexity that drive and support society are likely impossible to counter. I saw the product of ‘progress’ this past weekend, when driving through Loudoun County, Virginia. After witnessing the nightmare of over-sized, cookie cutter homes among earth bulldozed in the name of widening highways and building more developments, Joseph said, “This is progress.” He and I looked at each other and just shook our heads. People will live in that place; some will actually like it. Neat, trimmed, homogeneous grass will be planted over the bare soil, but it will not make up for the diverse ecosystem that has been ravaged wastefully and thoughtlessly. These bulldozed places have lost all of their uniqueness and diversity, and will be replaced with a homogeneous, destructive, consumer culture. Society continues to create living spaces where people are dependent on strip malls and the grocery store. This is considered normal, good, the best we can do. I disagree. So, over the past couple of years, I have struggled to abandon hope for a society that has no future and is leaving destruction in its wake.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though I've abandoned my hope for the industrial society in which I was born and raised, I have not abandoned my hope for people. I now know several people that recognize that a different, less destructive way is possible and preferable. They know that humans are not the center of the universe, that we do not need much of what industrial society provides, and that we especially do not need those things in the way they are currently provided. I write to continue to find and connect with like-minded people. They help to keep me going, because the feelings of isolation that sometimes come with this transition are difficult to bear.</span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While loneliness can often creep in, I am finding that my sense of fulfillment grows by the day. To be sure, life is not a cakewalk now. I have had to experience pain and make tough decisions, and to change my life in significant ways. The process continues. I feel as if I am bushwhacking through the woods, creating paths where no one I am close to has gone, which is both liberating and scary. My heart and soul tell me I am going the right way. I am finding myself able to experience joy without questioning if I should be experiencing it or if I deserve to experience it. Such feelings of guilt and inadequacy plagued me months and years ago, but they are receding.</span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25XIDv_-MX-Va6pOiJQaJMr60KfYIdiOhCfhstVHiTTg8l3ozNHBI5S-zX371dQNuz6HWxOXtPf4o0W1VpYkTpUvTmgrzhd85r3CbskjvBHSdy9mPWl3lIQUIP_E9MKIgBkHG9zx6jqHG/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25XIDv_-MX-Va6pOiJQaJMr60KfYIdiOhCfhstVHiTTg8l3ozNHBI5S-zX371dQNuz6HWxOXtPf4o0W1VpYkTpUvTmgrzhd85r3CbskjvBHSdy9mPWl3lIQUIP_E9MKIgBkHG9zx6jqHG/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Small inspirational sign given to me by my Mom</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />Industrial society will topple. It is using and wasting too much, killing off too many members of too many species, continuing to build in complexity to support unsustainable systems, and relying almost exclusively on non-renewable resources. Perhaps most significantly, it is creating people with no sense of place or meaningful direction. Unfortunately, industrial society is likely to fall violently because many among us two-leggeds believe, or at least pretend, that industrial society can continue indefinitely. We continue to trash the ecosystems that support us, all while saying that we're just on the brink of coming up with sustainable this and sustainable that. So, environmental and social degradation will continue until some event(s) happens and puts a stop to the destruction. There will be some remaining scraps for the life that is left on this earth to survive on. Hopefully, there will be enough left for life to someday thrive.<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For my part, I must go back to the ecosystem and live much in the way my (and our) ancestors did, even though the mechanics of actually doing so are still a bit fuzzy.</span><b style="font-weight: 400;"> </b>I have a long way to go. I will continue to strive to put down literal and figurative roots in an ecosystem and seek others who want to do the same. I know you are out there! I hope that you too will feel free to give up hope on things that you know have no future. It is, and will be, OK if you do. “Abandon hope, and start living.” There is no better way to say it, and there is much to be done!</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5059032523091985521.post-48699884115264851692016-12-08T18:06:00.000-05:002016-12-08T18:06:29.676-05:00<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-0c57458e-b80f-2c18-e18e-e375d34f9327" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Just Another Participant in the Ecosystem</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I feel a strong connection to the place that I hunt in Seneca Creek State Park in Maryland, USA. I’ve experienced this place through nearly all four seasons: the flowers and fresh growth of the Spring, the heat, mosquitoes, and refreshing coolness of Great Seneca Creek in Summer, the crisp, cool air and comfortable temperatures in the Fall. How this place changes through the seasons! Where there were once lush grasses, there are now fallen leaves, the occasional garlic mustard, and the still-strong canes of wineberry that once produced juicy fruit (and will again). Soon I will be standing on snowy ground, seeing a whole new perspective.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDko8td02cW509bD0xN1vtKvV6Crrorww-7zzdBrpqKTEI-FKa9tMvxWtleWB6VP6BtOuHGB3dxiMh9Glk59A3eMSxbCNK_SNjfbUqYRz_9lJZwC0W3WG74KCOfqwiVGYW4bQ55T6LkPg3/s320/14691293_10106946834899059_6046560574374768983_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Seneca Creek</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Since May, I have been going to these woods weekly. I started by orienting myself, learning to walk through the woods unnoticed, finding deer trails, and identifying plants. In the Summer, as I started to learn where the deer were and stalk them, I waded in the waters of Great Seneca Creek. The creek has a unique, pleasant smell that I’ve still not been able to place. I’ve asked around, even brought my closest friend there, and haven’t been able to tell whether I’m smelling a beautiful creek, effluent from the upstream wastewater treatment plant, or runoff from the surrounding suburban sprawl. Because I haven’t spent a significant amount of time near large creeks, only more experience in other places will tell, I guess. Any thoughts?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As the leaves fall, I can now see further in the woods. Whereas I used to follow the well-worn hiking and mountain biking trail, I now have an understanding of the paths the deer take. I rarely lose track of where I am, using features and contours of the land. Back in Summer, I remember telling my friend that I was developing a connection to this place that made it feel like home. Yes, it is sandwiched in between farm and suburban development. Yes, the ecosystem there is severely degraded. Mountain bikers, runners, and dogs are there generating all kinds of ungodly noise and smells. But, it is a place that I know well, a place that I feel a part of.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m still a guest there, coming in before sunrise and leaving after sunset, but I can visualize the landscape in my mind. I’ve seen the same Mom and Child deer numerous times. I enter the woods before the squirrels come down from the trees, before the birds begin to flutter and chirp. I’ve sat perfectly still and listened to acorns drop. I’ve seen a coyote chase a fawn. I am planning to use this place for my sustenance, and so I feel inextricably connected. I’ve never felt this way before, and have become so much more comfortable out of doors than I have ever been.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCUgIo-Ru90CdwtnZD2QkT4QDWB6Y_jof5a60ZLxW74IG1jkj8LpBAXdlGEHV0FH-VFODv7Q5eQXu5AWLtq226cletkzG_BwneI29EaYRHFUYvIsMmKGIXkxswg1f9QeGzov9ZZH9E9yF/s1600/13692576_10106570289598859_6280599710527104697_crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCUgIo-Ru90CdwtnZD2QkT4QDWB6Y_jof5a60ZLxW74IG1jkj8LpBAXdlGEHV0FH-VFODv7Q5eQXu5AWLtq226cletkzG_BwneI29EaYRHFUYvIsMmKGIXkxswg1f9QeGzov9ZZH9E9yF/s400/13692576_10106570289598859_6280599710527104697_crop.jpg" width="353" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coyote</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I daydream about this little section of an inconsequential state park. I think about the next time I’ll be out there, what areas I’ll go to, what the deer are doing as I sit here and write. Those woods are a place for me to slow down: walk slower, move slower, leave my rational self and reason behind to rely on instinct. I need not carry anything but my bow, arrows, and knife.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hunting continues to be a transformative experience for me. I’ve had the opportunity to take a life a few times, though I’ve so far not done so. Killing for food is an experience that many people in modern industrial society have never had and never will have. The desire to establish the connection of taking a life to sustain my own was a huge reason I abandoned half a decade of being vegan. I am, after all, an animal; an animal that was given the anatomy and ability to hunt. I am beginning to internalize how to let go of my ego and see myself as just another participant in the ecosystem. I’m working hard at abandoning my past conditioning, which, at its base, emphasizes that humans are supreme beings and separate from ‘the environment.’ The lens of human supremacy does not allow me to see the path to healing and connection, for myself or Earth’s ecosystems. So, I’m taking the lens off. I continue to learn and awaken. While I often question pursuits in my life, I have no doubt that I should be spending my time and energy out there, participating in the ecosystem just like the deer.</span></div>
Matt Colombohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00362723804794789171noreply@blogger.com7