a man and his hoe

every day is a good day

Month: February 2019

  • Glaciers Recede, Duck Eggs Appear


    I gathered the first eggs of the year yesterday. Among them was one of Emma’s, the biggest duck egg of all. With duck eggs for breakfast, I can forget about the snow.


    It is above freezing, the sun is burning away the clouds, the glaciers around the house are receding, and I have finished shoveling the driveway so I can deliver eggs, bread, and tofu tomorrow.


    Not quite the twenty meter (sixty-five feet) high snow walls along the Tateyama-Kurobe Alpine Route you can see from April into June in the Northern Alps of Japan, but it’s fun to pretend the snow here is that deep.

    [youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjmm9EOOe-4&w=700&h=394]

  • Snowed In


    This is a first. I had to shovel my way into the garden this morning.



    Shovel a path for the ducks to walk to their swimming hole.


    Shovel a path to the hoop house the ducks spend the night.


    The ducks don’t care how much it snows as long as they can swim. Can you really call what ducks do on water as swimming? They float and paddle, they dive and splash, but swimming implies some effort, and as buoyant as ducks are, floating is effortless for them. They often go to sleep floating on the pond. Which makes me wonder if wild ducks ever fall asleep on a lake, go sleep paddling, and wake up wondering how they got to where they are when they open their eyes.




    It has been many years since we’ve seen this much snow. The forecast is for steadily warming temperatures with snow melting warmth knocking on our door. With this much snow it’s easy to imagine this as the start of an ice age, forcing us to flee on foot out of here, sojourning across vast snowfields in search of snow free lands far to the south, thousands and thousands of snow refugees fleeing advancing glaciers nipping at our heels.

    In a few days the snow will most likely be gone and my mind can wander through other calamities. Today it is all about the snow.



  • No Sneaking About in the Snow


    The snow sparkles this morning under a blue, cloudless sky. You don’t need to ask, “Who goes there?” when powder-puff snow blankets the ground. Every last footstep of every last creature leaves an imprint in the snow. There is no sneaking about in the snow.




    Down the lane I stumble on the sad, feathery grave of a flicker. One of the many flickers which grace our woods has met its demise. With no tracks of a fox, bob cat, coyote, or cougar in sight, a goshawk, or merlin, or such forest bird of prey must have snagged the poor flicker. To sneak about on a snowy day you must fly.


  • The Hush of Snow


    The pond is a sheet of snow today. The hush of a snowy day is so calming. With no wind, the soft, gentle flakes pile up everywhere. Vines become white ribbons chasing phantom shapes through the air. Dried flower stalks turn into cotton puffs.




    Daffodils droop their yellow heads in the snow, hoping for sunny days.


    The dogs run all day. Fluffy snow on a not too cold day is their idea of a perfect playground. Tonight they are fast asleep, dreaming of more snow.



    The chickens aren’t that fond of the snow. The ducks don’t mind. As long as their pool doesn’t freeze, and it won’t with the heater at the bottom of their pool, they paddle all day.

  • 2519 Is Just 500 Years Away


    Soaking soybeans is an artful practice. The beans are so peaceful, resting in the quiet water. I let them soak overnight in gently running water. It’s just the slightest of streams falling into the pot, not even making a ripple, just a dimple you can see at the top of the picture. The flowing water gently purifies the beans. By morning they are plump and beautiful.


    Outside the tofu cabin, the small sequoia we planted more than a decade ago is now so tall I have to tilt my head back to see the top. Behind it, the cottonwoods tower more than a hundred feet. If I live to be five hundred years old, the sequoia may tower three times the height of the cottonwoods and dwarf the cottonwoods. In 2519 a three hundred foot sequoia on Bow Hill will draw the attention of everyone traveling through the Skagit Valley. This sequoia is destined for great things.


    Around the sequoia are these curious tracks. Are they Chicken tracks? I’m not sure, but they are the normal routes the chickens take on their meanderings around the pond.


    Where many chickens gather, the snow is trampled to smithereens, three toes at a time.



    It’s been a few years since the pond has frozen over like this. If it snows like forecast this weekend, the pond will become a white field, and maybe the chickens will take shortcuts across the pond to get to the other side, maybe. I’ll know if I see chicken tracks across the snow covered pond.