Winterizing the Quick Hoop

I woke this morning to a delightful snowfall here in central Connecticut; a quick dusting that delayed the school opening and gave a taste of winter.  I peeked at the garden and noticed that the quick hoop low tunnel covering my beds of winter greens was sagging under the weight of very little snow. The tunnel, constructed of 1/2" PVC electrical conduit hoops draped with agricultural row cover, needed an upgrade to survive heavier snows to come.

Ag row cover quick hoops sagging under the weight of wet snow. The sagging material between the hoops illustrates the need for ridge support. This photo is from spring 2016.

A trip to the hardware store fetched me a 100' coil of 1/4" poly clothes line and a 100' roll of 10' wide, 6 mil thick polyethylene sheeting. I removed the row cover and stored it for next season. I then ripped a scrap of pressure-treated 2x4 stud into two sturdy stakes with the table saw. I pounded these in on both ends of the low tunnel, then proceeded to string the clothes line across the tops of the PVC hoops to create a ridge beam, so to speak.  The clothes line instantly frays at the cut ends so I found it easiest to pre-melt the area to be cut with a lighter, then cut in the center of the melted area. I then sealed the ends with an additional torching.

Cutting the clothes line in the middle of a pre-torched section to limit fraying. The cutting tasks went super quick with my new $10 razor sharp Mora sheath knife!

Finished rope end.

I tied the line to the first stake with a bowline, then fastened it to each PVC conduit using a clove hitch. 

Bowline attachment to the first stake.

Adjustable clove hitch on top of each PVC hoop.

I adjusted all the clove hitches so there was no rope slack between the conduits and then tied the line to the second stake using a trucker's hitch for quick tightening. The idea with this design is to structurally integrate the stakes, conduit, and rope to form a continuous support for the cover so that the weight of snow will not pull down the cover and bend the hoops towards each other.  

Trucker's hitch connection to the second stake

The low tunnel with clothes line "ridge beam". The rope appears slack because of the uneven heights of the hoops, but it is actually quite taught between the hoops and stakes.

I rolled out and cut the poly sheeting to length; leaving it a few feet longer on each end of the tunnel to follow the rope to the stake.  I weighed down the edges with rocks and called it a day.  The whole project took about 30 minutes and that included some time to harvest arugula, spinach, and radishes before covering them up! On a whim, I also seeded a few rows with the last of the spinach seed.  They'll either rot over the winter or sprout into super early spring greens. 

The finished product sheltering the winter greens. To the left is the garlic bed mulched with leaves and to the right is a stand of oat and pea cover crop that will winter kill leaving a mulched bed for spring planting.

The quick hoop seems fairly sturdy though I will still have to be diligent in brushing off snow; no sense in pushing my luck. I'll harvest greens periodically throughout the winter and hopefully there will be an early spring flush of growth.  Until then, time for wood stoves, Nordic skiing, and planning for next year.  Only another couple of months before it's time to sow onions indoors and start grafting apples!

Kindling the Spark

I enjoyed a wonderful parenting moment this weekend. My son Finn and I took advantage of a sunny February afternoon to hike in the woods and spend some time together after a busy work week. We drove to a nearby state-owned conservation land and began our trek at a lesser-frequented section of trail that is bestowed with interesting bedrock formations, stone walls, a relic truck body, and a sugarbush strung with sap collection lines. In other words, an area ripe for exploration by a four-year old, his dad, and their eager dog!
 

A snow storm two days prior had coated the forest with an inch or two of wet snow that was juxtaposed by temperatures nearing 50 degrees. We hiked with snowboots and light jackets and reveled in the warm sunshine on our cheeks. The first hour found us winding on and off the marked trail, climbing onto rock outcrops, and throwing snowballs for the dog to chase. We walked to the edge of a pond, marveled at the snow-covered beaver lodges, and turned back to retrace our footsteps to the car once the dog had a well deserved pondside drink.
 

I’ve noticed an interesting behavior with my son. In the presence of my wife, he often defers to her especially when faced with some sort of challenge. I suppose it is his instinct to turn to his mother for nurturing, which she instinctively provides. This is all good stuff, but I (perhaps too dogmatically at times) would like to see him at least attempt to struggle with challenges. Perhaps it is my fatherly instinct to prepare my son for the rigours of life. Anyway, when he and I are alone, on this hike for example, he is much more willing to take on a challenge. He walked nearly the entire 2 or 3 miles and only once asked to be carried over a particularly steep and slippery bit of trail. He never once complained about wet gloves or tiredness, and maintained his youthful inquisitiveness and sense of exploration throughout the hike. Without his safety net, he was far more willing to take risks.
 

The highlight of the walk occurred minutes from reaching the car when I pointed out a standing dead birch tree that was colonized with mushrooms. I asked Finn if he knew what the mushrooms were doing on the tree. “They’re eating the tree,” he correctly replied, recalling lessons from earlier hikes. (Such are the burdens of having a father with a degrees in biology and environmental science...no hike is safe from an impromptu science lesson). He then inquired why the mushrooms were eating the tree. I explained how all living beings, plants and animals alike, eventually die and the mushrooms eat dead things to return them to the soil. He chewed on this for a few seconds then astutely stated, “So mushrooms make the tree into little pieces of soil so that new trees can grow. And then those trees die and become new trees!” And within this 30-second bit of dialogue, my son intuitively grasped one of the fundamental cycles of life. We walked a few yards past the dead birch and he turned and quietly studied it for quite a bit longer as the revelation resonated in his brain.

As a parent of young children, my biggest hope is that I can at least instill a sense of wonderment, respect, and awareness of the natural world. After yesterday’s hike with Finn, I think I’m on the right track.

Chimney Sweep on the Cheap

Autumn is here, which means the first fire in the wood stove is only a few weeks away.  Although the forecast this week is for daytime temperatures in the 70s and 80s, the shortening days inevitably mean colder weather to come.  This winter will be the third season I've burned a wood stove at my home.  I decided to do a quick chimney sweep on the cheap to ensure trouble-free heating once the frost makes itself at home in central Connecticut.

Here's an easy method to sweep a stainless steel chimney using household materials and some vegetation.  You may have to modify this method to suit a masonry flue.  Disclaimer: Please hire a professional if your chimney is heavily fouled with creosote (and stop burning green wood, eh!).  Chimney fires are no joke.  This technique is for lightly to moderately fouled chimneys. And don't blame me if you fall off your roof!

Materials:

1. Rope, at least as long as your chimney plus a few extra feet
2. A branch from a tree or shrub that is big enough to scour the flue without getting stuck
3. An old tennis ball or similar sized object
4. Duct tape 
5. A buddy to call 911 if'n you do something stupid 

Step 1:  Remove the rain cap on the top of the chimney and the clean-out plug from the bottom of the chimney, if it is so equipped.  Enjoy the different perspective while standing on the roof.
 

Of course I somehow had to include the garden in this blog post!

Step 2:  Duct tape the tennis ball onto one end of the rope.  The ball acts as a weight to carry the string down the chimney.  Drop the ball and rope down the chimney (hold on the other end of the rope, duh!) and cut the rope a few feet longer.  Duct tape the branch onto the upper end of the rope.

Step 3:  Position the branch in the flue.  Have your buddy on the ground slowly pull the end of the rope with the tennis ball to draw the branch down the pipe.  A good amount of dry dust should come down with it.  Repeat the sweep a few more times.  Reassemble the chimney.

Appropriately enough, the branch I used was from a shrub called Lena's Broom.

If the branch comes out of the chimney coated with sticky tar-like substance, then you have a real creosote problem.  Creosote is formed when wood gases are not completely burned in the stove and then condense into tar on the cooler flue surfaces.  The best remedy for avoiding creosote is to burn properly seasoned hardwood instead of resinous softwoods such as pine, avoid slow smoldering fires, and use a stainless steel flue that will heat up faster than a masonry flue.

There are reasonably-priced DIY products if my dirtbag approach is not your style...

Woodheat.org has a ton of well-researched and FREE information on how to season and burn wood efficiently.  Check them out right now!  

The woodlot in all its glory.  Bonus points if you can spot the dog.

The sun sets on another suburban homestead project.

Can't wait for winter, but I love fall!

The Art of Living Simply: A Backcountry Trip Report, Part I

"Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them."

-Thoreau

Perhaps this post should be titled, "The Art of Simply Living".  Either way, the message is the same.  I am pleased to report that the Woods Hippie ski tribe plucked the finest of fruits during a recent extended excursion into the wilds of northern Vermont's backcountry.  In a fitting tribute to Thoreau's notion of economy (please read Walden if you have not already), we resided in a simple cabin with Spartan accomodation and our souls were enriched by tending to our most basic physical needs of food and shelter while living for days on end on skis and snowshoes.  We lived and breathed the ski lifestyle for a few ephemeral days, and, with the cares of a grinding civilization temporarily behind us, our thoughts were able to circle around to the direction of the wind, the condition of the fire in the woodstove, the tilt of windblown icicles on the high-mountain spruce, the interplay of sunlight and shadow on freshly-fallen snow, and...so as not to sound too erudite...the level of beer in the keg.  Replace the Gore-Tex with leather, skis with muskets, and fresh powder stashes with bison and we could have just as easily been a band of spirited mountain men in the pre-colonial past...both scenarios boil down to men thriving in wild pursuit of adventure in equally wild places.

The cabin was at once an incongruity and an extension of the mountainside...an incongruity in that such a crude structure should not reside in Gaia's temple; an extension in that its simplicity somehow just fit in with the woods, a permissible excursion of man's modest need for shelter in a cold place.  In many ways our small cabin was a modern version of Thoreau's; a shelter that serves to grow the spirit of wilderness travelers without unduly imparting itself on the experience.  Except, as Thoreau ultimately discovered, the cabin was so magically simple that we couldn't help but make it the centerpiece of our excursion.

Thoreau harvested beans and we harvested powder.  Other than that, not much else differed.
Kindling still needed to be split in 2011 as in 1845.

The crew was mixed this year with two seasoned vets and two cabin rookies, though the cabin rookies were no strangers to the outdoor lifestyle.  Johnny G. jumped into the fray with a fierce head cold and shone through by tending the fire and providing some rich venison stew.  Jamie joined the party with a 5-gallon keg of Trapps Golden Lager (hauled over a mile from the trailhead by Marquis de Richmond, I must add) and a home-grown ham dinner.  Marquis and I toasted the third successful installment of the cabin trip and lamented the absence of one of the founding triumvirate.  Everyone found a sheer delight in the remarkable late season snow conditions; late season by calendar only...Mother Nature gripped us in the full force of mid-winter with below-zero nighttime lows and howling daytime winds choked with copious orographic snow.

The woodstove stood as the silent sentinel over the day's activities; a source of heat and purified water and a catalyst for conversation.

The day's explorations unfolded with minimal forethought; we suited up and stepped into our skis and snowshoes and struck off on the high mountain trails, guided by the occasional marker until our search for powder and trees found us navigating the woodlands by map, compass, and dead reckoning.  After two years of teasing us with variable snow conditions, Ullr finally blessed us with shin-deep pow on top of a gracious base.  Skis and 'shoes expedited travel, but the base was firm enough to prevent postholing on late night latrine runs...

Johnny G. gettin' his.

By late afternoon on the second day, all parties converged at the cabin.  With woodstove blazing and night falling, the temperatures on either side of the thin wooden walls made their respective shifts, and our attention turned from skis and trees to cold beer and hot food.  The non-campers and spouses out there might ask, "What do you do on those camping trips?"  Jamie succinctly offered, "Mostly burping and farting..."

In all reality, a ski cabin trip is an age-old tradition in the vein of deer camps and fishing lodges.  I won't even attempt an explanation.  Those who know, know.  Those who don't, don't.

Marquis gettin' his.

Then he got an idea.  An awful idea.  The Grinch got a wonderful, *awful* idea!
Looks like all the Whos in Whoville will get their presents this Christmas...

Stay tuned for Part II, hopefully I'll figure out how to embed Johnny's sick GoPro footage.

The Evolution of a Backcountry Skier

If you've had anything more than a passing interest in New England skiing or snowboarding in recent years, you've undoubtedly noticed the blossoming of the backcountry riding scene.  It seems that every internet ski forum has elegantly photographed homages to the skin track and the accompanying backcountry lifestyle, and such popular tomes as Goodman's guide provide the roadmap to the better known off-resort stashes in the North Country.  Now, I realize that the backcountry tradition is strong and longstanding in New England but there seems have been a definite larger-scale acceptance in ski circles of late.  I can only speculate as to the reasons why, but I suspect that outrageous lift ticket prices, crowds, and homogenized resort experiences are contributing to the backcountry migration.  I say "migration" with tongue-in-cheek because in all reality, the masses will continue to ride the resorts with a select enlightened few making the transition the backwoods, so we need not fret about our pristine mountain escapes being overrun by hordes of greenhorns seeking freedom from resort monotony.  I have some confidence in that statement since the average skier, in my estimation, finds his or her way into the backcountry after a long apprenticeship on the groomers and chairlift.  I'm not trying to sound elitist by saying that the backcountry folks are the creme de la creme, but they have almost always sharpened their teeth over years, if not decades, of plying the manicured slopes.  The progression to the backcountry, at least in my case, was the direct result of that apprenticeship.

What is it about Tuckerman Ravine that makes
shorts and long tights socially acceptable?

The ski history of the Woods Hippie began circa 1988 by all accounts, at the tender age of 7 or 8.  Hell, I can't remember that far back but my mother claims to have had me out on the slopes at that point, and who am I to question my mother?  I do remember Mom riding some vintage '70's gear, which wasn't really all that out of date at the time.  Anyways, by the early 1990's my brother was old enough to ski and the three of us graduated from our local slope in central Connecticut to Loon and Cannon in New Hampshire, where I continued my two-plank education in earnest.  As my father reinvigorated his interest in skiing and my cousins came of age, the entire family clan took up the ski cause on the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont.  Indeed, those pre-teen ski trips remain among my finest memories of youth.  As the 1990's progressed, my cousins and I, one by one, grew bored of skiing and made the switch to snowboarding, which is still my snow technology of choice!  At this point we were still shreddin' the ski areas but began exploring the gladed runs and all manner of trailside booters as if it were our job.  When I was a senior in high school, my parents treated my brother and me to a week-long ski trip to Utah where I was greeted with my first experience with deep...ridiculously deep...powder.  My brother, who was still on skis at that point, struggled in the deep pow while I figured out how to surf the shit on my snowboard.  He lives in Salt Lake now, so I guess he got the last laugh there...

Those crazy bastards sledded down Mansfield's Teardrop Trail!
(Photo by Marquis de Richmond)

The college years proved to be a hiatus of sorts from the scene; I would ride when the occasion presented itself but my passions were, understandably, consumed by the college lifestyle and all that entails.  The catalyst for making the hyperspace jump to a backcountry junkie came at an unlikely place - work.  Soon after joining the career world fresh out of college, I encountered two like-minded outdoorsmen in the company with predilections for the snowy season, and the rest is history.  With various backgrounds in snowboarding, alpine, and nordic skiing, we made an instant bonds and immediately began scheming up unforgettable adventures.  All of us had done some winter camping in various capacities (I hadn't since Boy Scouts a decade earlier), but our common interest sparked a fury of gear purchasing, and our individual campcraft congealed into a proficiency that allowed us to forge into the woods unencumbered by trepidation or inexperience.  Together, we pushed deep into the wilds of Vermont and New Hampshire, first on snowshoes with snowboards strapped to our packs, then on waxless backcountry nordic gear.  We made notably stupid descents of such classics as Teardrop and the Mt. Moosilauke Carriage Road on cross country skis, but we also killed it on snowboards at the Birthday Bowls at Smuggs and elsewhere in the Mansfield BC.  Each trip added to our catalogue of backcountry knowledge and ski ability.

Setting camp near Sterling Pond, VT.

Ever on the path of personal growth as snow sliders, we quickly turned to telemark skiing, which gave us the ability to climb and descend on the same gear.  Tele blew the whole thing wide open.  With our discovery of the telemark turn, free-pivot bindings, and climbing skins, we were no longer held back by the technical limitations of nordic equipment or the weight of traveling with snowshoes and snowboards.  And there's no stopping here; no reason to be held fast by a dogmatic attachment to one style of turn (no offense, TTipsters).  Tele is fun as hell and I've finally nailed it after five years of getting schooled by sore quadriceps and wobbly rear skis, but the future is aglow with visions of alpine touring gear and...*behold*...splitboards!  Ah yes, nothing quickens my heart like the thought of ripping turns and wild powder wheelies on a board and then breakin' it down and skinning up to do it all over again.

Morning life at camp on a four-day outing.

Though telemark is here to stay in the Woods Hippie repertoire for the time being, the clan's preference in backcountry accommodations has changed drastically.  The tent, that fabric enclave which sheltered us on many an excursion, has fallen by the wayside in favor of our latest discovery, cabin camping!  Unbeknownst to many, there are numerous backcountry cabins and shelters in the North Country that are available for a nominal or nonexistent fee.  Our latest digs affords us the opportunity to sled in Coleman stoves, lanterns, mini-kegs, and pots of stew and relax in the radiance of a woodstove and some tasteful iPod selections after a sick day of backcountry adventure.  Other than those concessions to comfort, we still have to melt snow and poop in the woods while wearing skis, but the bitter endurance of below-zero nights and cooking on a Whisperlite in a tent vestibule is a thing of the past for now, but not forever!  Consider it a temporary transition from Type II fun to pure unadulterated Type I fun.  The New England backcountry is so diverse that before long, we will shoulder overnight packs once again and strike out in search of the untracked line somewhere just beyond that next ridgeline...

Whisperlite at night.

The rich backwoods traditions do not end with us, the current generation.  Though the apprenticeship never truly ends, the next round of greenhorns always comes up behind us, thirsting for adventure and an escape from the rigors of their complex lives.  My cousin, an experienced snowboarder in his own right, will join the clan this winter on his first backcountry expedition into the wilds of Vermont.  With any hope, the tribal knowledge will pass once again; those little tips such as how to keep warm at night by placing a Nalgene full of hot water at your feet or between your thighs (which, by the way, means you don't have to melt snow in the morning), or how to prime a white gas stove, or how to strip skins without taking off the skis, or how to pack down the snow with skis before pitching a tent, or how to use snowballs in lieu of toilet paper (yup), or how the slope aspect can be the key to a fresh powder stash, or any other of the infinite bits of wisdom that have been accumulated over the years.  To circle back, the great P-tex riding hordes will not move into the backcountry en masse, but there will always be those willing few who love cold nights, spruce-flavored meltwater, hair-raising descents on sketchy snow, and grand fun in the company of great friends.  And that, folks, is the spirit of the backcountry.

The Armchair Philosopher: Winter

A quiet spot on the Riga Plateau.

Once more, I sit to write as snow falls and continues to add to Connecticut's already impressive snowpack.  This may be the first time I have used "Connecticut" and "snowpack" in the same sentence; a pairing normally reserved for discussions of Vermont or the Rockies shared over a frothy stout at a ski area bar, anywhere.  A co-worker observed today that she finds it hard to concentrate at work during a snowstorm, a mindset to which I most definitely relate.  Even though we're at work, it still feels like a "snow day".  I postulate that that response to snow is hard-wired into our brains as young children, when we eagerly anticipated the news of a school cancellation during a good storm.  While every school child undoubtedly loves the day off, it's fair to say than only a percentage of children (and adults) actually enjoy a good snowfall.  What differentiates the snow lovers from the snow haters?  Does the root of our snow affection (or affliction) lie solely in youthful experience, or can our feelings towards the cold white stuff change as we age?  Today's post will explore the myriad of feelings we experience with regard to the "dark months" on the calendar.

John and Jack on Mt. Washington.

When I was a grade-schooler, my circle of friends and family of a similar age greeted each snow day with a phalanx of cheap plastic sleds and toboggans; we constructed forts from the mounds of snow deposited by the neighborhood snowblowers; and we defended our forts and pre-pubescent honor with fusillades of snowballs and jests and valiant charges across the snowy battlefields.  Living on a steep hill, we blazed the fresh-fallen powder with our sleds and painstakingly constructed slalom turns and jumps along a course that snaked between houses and unplowed streets, and we raced the course despite the stern admonishments of our parents to stay out of the roads!  We hurled jeers and the occasional snowball at the unlucky snow plow drivers who cleared our luge route and, in our minds, blazed a navigable path directly to the school parking lot.  

The Woods Hippie on Mt. Moosilauke.

Lunch provided the only respite from the fury, a pause that allowed us to throw our soaked clothing into the dryer while we sipped hot chocolate and tuned to the Weather Channel in hopes of hearing the forecast that could lead to yet another day off.  Later years saw an advancement of technology and parental expenditure as we made the leap from sleds and toboggans to skis and snowboards, honing our skills during much-loved night sessions at the local ski hill.  Weeknight sessions eventually evolved into weekend ski trips with the family, then school-sponsored ski club trips, then ski-tinged collegiate parties, and then continent-wide journeys for steep lines, tight trees, and deep pow.  What comes next?  Personally, I can only hope to breed the madness into next generation of powder hounds.

Winter 2011 at the Hippie Homestead.

As the years progressed, it became apparent that not all shared our enthusiasm for winter.  The first clues manifested themselves in lunchroom conversations following a snow day.

Me (in early '90s speak), "Dude, wasn't that a rad snow day?"

Dude, "I don't know, played some SEGA NHL Hockey '93 or whatever."

Me, "You didn't go sledding?"

Dude, "Nah, man.  It was like, cold out and shit."

What?  Indoors on a snow day? Blasphemy!  The point hit especially hard in the teenage years when, to my chagrin, I found that the girls were likely to take an interest in me despite the fact that I was a skier...a paradigm shift for my snow- and hormone-addled ego.  What could explain the difference in attitude?  We were all born and raised in the same central Connecticut town and experienced the same precipitation, yet some of us had some sort of predisposition to the cold environs.  Now, sitting here on the precipice of 30 years of age, I see adults with the same attitude as my schoolyard peers (indeed, some of those adults are my former schoolyard peers, but time inexorably creeps on...).  

Marquis on Mt. Mansfield.  To those inquiring minds,
that is a crampon strap, not something illegal.

And so I now realize, much like religion and political affiliation, fondness for winter is a trait passed from one generation to the next.  The evidence in favor of my case is solid; I have great-grandparents who sailed in ice-boats designed and piloted by none other than the famed Herreshoff brothers of Rhode Island, a grandfather who reveled in several crossings of the Arctic Circle aboard a Liberty Ship in World War II, and parents, aunts, and uncles who skied the mountains of New England and the Midwest years before my time.  The genetic pattern repeats itself almost invariably among my snow-loving cohorts, with few exceptions.  For example, I have one ski buddy of Southern breeding who, in a triumph of good taste over geography, took an interest in and mastered the dark arts of Nordic and Telemark skiing despite the reluctance of his parents to even acknowledge that the thermometer has the ability to dip below 32 degrees.  The Force is strong in those who experience the "awakening".

You'll have to hike to find this Eden of the Snows.

Does the love for winter ever fade?  I asked myself this just yesterday as I straddled the roof of my house, shoveling off a month's worth of accumulation in anticipation of another round of snow, sleet, and ice.  My answer?  Hell no.  My inner New Englander, born of the hard Puritan winters of our ancestry, is only strengthened by the onslaught of winter's finest.  When the ebullience of skiing and snowboarding fades into sore muscles and  cherished memories, all that remains is the stark cold that bites into your cheeks and burns your lungs in a deep breath, the blanket of hoarfrost that sparkles in the crisp glow of a full moon, and the mournful howl of a Nor'easter wind that flies unmolested through the bare forests.  

If that doesn't quicken your pulse, then there is no converting the non-believers.