The first four days of “modern gun” deer season (six days, counting the youth hunt) are behind us. Deb and I haven’t ventured afield, but we’ve heard evidence of pursuits and (potential) kills downslope. Now, between the rut and the gunplay, The Mountain’s whitetail population has scattered some.
We’ve seen yearlings moving together, minus does, with as many as four fawns. You’ll have that this time of year.
Deb’s cousin put meat in his freezer early — a four-point, if I recall correctly. From here on, as he says, he can be “more choosy” about his quarry.
We may or may not join the hunt this season. Though our 20-acre plot is only a tiny fraction of the range of the deer we see, we remain committed to attracting and encouraging the population (and harvesting animals is part of that). Creating a crossroads of sorts will pay dividends in the future.
The cabin, in its current state, is the gift that keeps on giving — or taking, as it were. It demands time and energy, more than you’ll read about here. Whenever it begins to feel more like an obligation than an opportunity, I walk away for an hour or two, or a day or two.
I broke from the build-out yesterday morning to do something that truly didn’t need to be done.
The seed was planted the day before, when we were in the woods with the dogs. I couldn’t help noticing that the area around the fire pit at White Rock was open and clean, damned near tidy. The original fire pit off the driveway looked shabby in comparison.
So yesterday, I took the time to put it right. Leaners and small standing-dead trees were dispatched. Close-in cedars were limbed-up. Brush was trimmed and debris gathered into a single pile. The effort produced a respectable amount of firewood to feed that pit, set aside in its own stack.
Turning my attention to the two stacks already there — one hardwood, the other cedar — I re-set the tarps in preparation for winter. I figured I’d do the same at White Rock soon.
It’s the sort of work that steers me back into my element. Doing it yesterday restored my equilibrium and reminded me how very right I feel on The Mountain.
The exercise came with a couple of surprises. First, the DeWalt saw threw its chain while I was reducing a pile of sticks and brush. Maybe I’d gotten a little lax about checking tension, allowing a twig or something to get between bar and chain.
I stopped, found no apparent damage, reassembled everything and continued. No problems after that.
The second surprise was the discovery of a new species (pictured). When I pulled back the tarp on the cedar stack, I found a cluster of these freakishly bright-green bugs on one particular chunk of wood.
I took a photo and used the Seek app to identify them — Banasa euchlora, commonly called “juniper stink bugs” or “jade stink bugs.” Eastern red cedar, which isn’t a true cedar but actually a juniper, is the critters’ host plant ’round here.
Deb was rounding the last bend on the subdivision road on her way Home from work last night when she saw a guy tending a couple of fires. She said it looked like he was disposing of small trees and brush.
That struck her as odd, maybe a little sketchy — 30 feet off the road, in the woods. I threw a shovel and an iron rake in the bed of my truck and drove down to see what was up.
Long story short, the young Cajun fella was being as conscientious as he could be about managing fires he’d lit in a spot where fires don’t belong. I pitched in for an hour and helped him keep the blaze contained.
When the flames got low, and with his assurance that a tank of water was on the way, I left.
No, I wouldn’t’ve burned brush like that, but disapproval accomplishes nothing and there was no reason to call the fire department. Lending a hand was the right thing to do. Welcome to the Country.
(Deb reported this morning that the burn piles were mounded-over with leaves, rising smoke indicating that embers still smoldered beneath.)
What was worth doing yesterday was worth doing again this morning. I checked on the woodpile at White Rock, then surveyed the woods for deadfall and storm-damaged trees. All I found within a 100-foot radius of the fire ring was a single downed oak limb.
That was disappointing. Still, I bucked what little there was and stacked it against a nearby tree, held off the ground by a couple of cedar runners.
Before tackling anything else, I drove down to see yesterday’s burn piles for myself. Today it was the Cajun patriarch — 82, I’m told, spry and feisty as hell — tending to the fires. We had a good visit, and he thanked me for coming to the aid of his grandson-in-law last night.
I backtracked after that, ending up at Dancing Tree near the summit. Some time ago, I’d dropped several slender oaks and hickories and anticipated bucking the trunks for campfire wood up-top. Unfortunately, I didn’t get back to them soon enough — about half of it had gone punky, and half of that was unusable even outdoors.
Again, I processed what I could and stacked it just downslope from where the Ranger was parked.
Still waiting for my attention this winter — and visible in the background of that photo — are two casualties of May’s tornadoes. They’re suspended off the ground, at least, so I doubt they’ll suffer the same fate as what I dealt with today.
So much to do. Only one of me.
Mountain Two was a-hoppin’ last night and this morning — does, yearlings and a buck. Here’s a sampling of what the trailcam captured.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB