There’s more to this post than a stroll down memory lane, but indulge me — no way was I gonna let the 10th of September pass without a nod to one of my favorite places on Earth and my personal touchstone, Kintla Lake.
The mountains around me that day in 2021 were shrouded in wildfire smoke. The haze had no effect whatsoever on my experience — I was there for different reasons, my own reasons.
I’ve said many times that I was on a mission to fetch my soul, which I’d left behind when I returned to Ohio from Montana in September of 1978. Whether you think that characterization is poetic or just a tad precious, it’s the only way for me to express the truth of things.
The essence of who I am marked time at Kintla Lake while I spent 43 years looking for a different self, chasing employment and amusement and fulfillment in relationships. None satisfied. None compared.
None lasted.
I walked the shore that September day, occasionally dipping my hands into the water and bringing them to my face. Another baptism. The refreshment, the renewal, was symbolic and yet very real.
I haven’t been the same since. I rolled away from Kintla Lake at peace, moving on as the man I was always meant to be.
Like I said a couple of days ago, it’s intensely personal. I don’t expect anyone else to understand. Thanks for reading anyway.
A time to cast away stones
Pete Seeger (1959)
A time to gather stones together
To every thing
(turn, turn, turn)
There is a season
(turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose
under heaven
The Mountain has entered the time of year when swings of 35°F are common. Yesterday was typical — fifty at sunrise, eighty-five by mid-afternoon. Hoodies and t-shirts.
When the Ranger and I came off the high ground with the second load of firewood Saturday, I noticed that the tire on the right side of the utility cart was low. It wasn’t flat, exactly, but if I’d had my inflator with me (I didn’t) I would’ve put it right before heading down the trail.
It survived the trip. The flaccid tire and tube, however, “walked” around the wheel a bit. That put strain on the valve stem, just begging for a cut and a leak and a new tube.
Tuesday morning I brought the cart up from the shed to my workbench (the tailgate of my pickup), got out my tire tools and re-set the tube. Nothing too terribly difficult about that — pull the valve core, deflate the tube, then rotate it so that the stem is aligned with the hole in the wheel.
Valve core goes back in. Re-inflate the tube while holding the valve stem firmly in place. Easy. It’s the kind of task that’s tempting to put off but better to address before it costs money.
(Note to self: Get into the habit of checking tire pressures before a job.)
Where I’m goin’ has no end
Mr. & Mrs. Garvey (1971)
What I’m seekin’ has no name
No, the treasure’s not the takin’
It’s the lovin’ of the game
The big rounds from the wind-downed roadside oak have been sitting in my wood yard for months, waiting to be split. I’m not ready to do that just yet, but yesterday I conducted a brief test of the wood, the tools I use to process it, and myself.
Yes, I’ve reached the point where I often check to see if I’ve still “got it.” (Don’t think too long about that.) I know I used to be able to split rounds that size by hand, and I wondered if I still could.
The chunk I chose for the experiment was 18 or 20 inches across. Radial cracks in the end-grain were tantalizing targets for my Fiskars splitting ax. I lifted the round onto the chopping block and began whacking away.
The ax, considering what it was up against, acquitted itself well. It doesn’t have enough mass to cleave dense, stringy oak in a single stroke, but in a pinch it’ll get the job done.
Instead of striking at the heart of the round, by the way — though I did try swinging at it a few times — I started at the outer edges and chipped my way toward the center. That method works well with a lightweight and overmatched tool.
The wood itself is on its way to being ready for the woodstove. (No, I didn’t meter the moisture.) If I absolutely had to burn it now, I would. But I dont have to.
That one large round, once split, produced two armloads of fuel. (I define “armload” as the most I can carry cradled in my left arm, plus one or two chunks in my right hand.) I’d say that’s a pretty respectable yield.
And me? Yeah, I’ve still “got it.”
A proper maul would’ve made this much easier. Naturally, a hydraulic splitter is the right tool for the job. Though I have no intention of splitting a winter’s worth of oak by hand with an ax, it’s good to know that it’s possible.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable