I don’t consider myself an expert at identifying bird calls. Far from it. Oh, I know some of them — mourning dove, cardinal, blue Jay, great horned owl, crow, the obvious ones. While working outside this morning, I caught two that I recognized right away.
First, a wild turkey. By the gobble, a tom. Not far away, just over the slope toward White Rock.
Second, in the sky over the summit, a bald eagle. It’s the second straight day I’ve heard that sound — which, by the way, probably isn’t the call you’ve heard in movies or on social media. The cry of a red-tailed hawk usually is dubbed in, ’cause it sounds angrier. The bald eagle’s call is more of a complaint than a threat.
I laid eyes on neither, but knowing they’re here on The Mountain — both our national symbol, and what Benjamin Franklin called “a much more respectable Bird… though a little vain and silly, a Bird of Courage” — made me smile.
Today’s project — the “more of the same” I mentioned at the end of my previous post — was giving the area around our original fire pit the same treatment that the path to White Rock got yesterday. The temperature at 9am (which really was 8am) was right at 32°F, and I saw no reason not to have a fire going while I worked.
Rather than tapping our woodpiles for fuel, I swung by The Monster Pile and scrounged a half-dozen chunks of junk hardwood, which split easily with only a hatchet.
On one hand, it was a great fire, low and slow and warm. On the other, it was godawful smoky. The wood wasn’t wet and it wasn’t dry — it was old and damp. But it served the purpose today.
The approach to the fire ring and the space around it are loaded with rocks large and small, loose and buried. Just like I’d done with the trail yesterday, I picked my battles. If a thing didn’t surrender to reasonable force, or if it was the proverbial iceberg (much more below the surface than above), I left it where it’s been for thousands of years.
By early afternoon, the fire had burned down to embers and the job was done. I have to admit that the transformation was more dramatic than I’d anticipated. Not only is the area friendlier to feet, ankles and tires, but it’s much tidier.
It looks damned good.
I thought back to the Bushradical video we’d watched just last night. He paid another visit to the abandoned (and pretty decrepit) off-grid cabin he bought and intends to renovate. Most of what he did in this video was clean up and burn trees and brush.
He talked about the practice of dealing with being overwhelmed by a project by simply cleaning up the work site. He also suggested that he’ll proceed deliberately — not tackling everything at once, and not doing anything because it has to be done.
What he’s after, in essence, is avoiding killing his own joy. Slow is fast. Slow is more fun, too.
I wasn’t imitating Dave Whipple today. I wasn’t consciously channeling the mindset he described. But looking back at the way the day played out — building a fire, setting up a folding chair, working some, tending the fire and sitting in that chair, then working some more — it’s clear that Dave and I are on the same page.
Pace. Find the joy.
This evening, Deb’s meatball subs and a perfect sunset. Life is good.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB