I guess I’ve never minded yard work. At an early age, I got used to the idea that it’s simply something guys do, so hating it seemed pointless. Without becoming one of those insufferable braggarts who manicures their lawn (I like weeds in mine), I maintain a certain pride in taking care of what I have.
That’s how I was raised.
For four years in the early ’80s, when I was a strapping twenty-something, I lived in a tiny 1830s saltbox house on two tangled acres. Yes, there was grass to mow, but there also were mature trees to limb, a substantial garden to tend through the growing season and four feet of snow to move every winter.
(I can’t help but compare that to an annual average of 21 inches at Second Chance Ranch and eight inches on The Mountain.)
The house was heated with wood that I cut, hauled, bucked, split and stacked myself, to the tune of four to six cords a year. It was hard work, and some of the most rewarding work I ever did.
Until now, that’s as close as I’ve been to homesteading — and by that I mean country livin’ that’s more than show. Forty years on, this aging frame moves slowly, takes a lot of breaks and uses leverage rather than relying on brute strength.
We have no “yard” on The Mountain, so it ain’t “yard work.” But my approach and lifelong ethic are the same.
Today I resumed clearing and cleaning up around the edges of the homesite. I picked up where I left off, more or less, rounding the corner from the shed to the cabin.
Satisfied with that, I limbed-up a few tall cedars at Deb’s favorite vantage point for sunsets, then I crossed the driveway and neatened the woods about ten feet in. After doing all I could in that direction, I swung around and attacked it from the opposite side, through the south end of the leach field — pretty much from the soft shed and the burn barrel over.
That was a lot of saw work. Some of the material I processed was the by-product of excavation, but most of it was natural deadfall, broken limbs and the like. For the first time, I ran completely through a fully charged DeWalt 4AH 20V battery, swapping it out to finish the job.
Once again, I’m pleased with how these areas turned out.
Construction of the septic system and running grid power to the transformer pole took a lot of trees on what I call the “lower level.” The exceptions are the north and south corners, bounded by the road and the driveway. The south end, where I worked today, was left almost completely intact.
A little limbing and a little cleanup (a lot of both, actually) produced a cozy little glade, mostly cedars but also some oaks. I can imagine taking a chair down there and relaxing on a hot summer day.
I purposely didn’t touch the vegetation standing between the road and our homesite. That’s what’s left of our “buffer,” and we mean for it to stay (and grow). And though it’s not a perfect “denial” barrier, briars and dry brush make it somewhat uninviting to intruders.
As usual, my electric tools keep doing everything I ask of them. And that Polaris Ranger 570 continues to save this old man’s ass. Without it, or something like it, I wouldn’t get nearly as much work done.
This day ended with a home-cooked meal, thanks to Deb — fresh tortellini with Rao’s marinara, fresh bread, salad and Goose Island IPA, enjoyed outdoors at our picnic table under the cedars.
Such is our American Life on The Mountain. Life is good.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB