A tale of two cherries

 

A porcupine, having a nap in the cherry tree

Note: I wrote this blog entry a year ago, but never got it posted. And here we are, nearly to cherry season again, but after an unexpected freeze while they were blooming, we don't yet know if there will be much of a crop this year. 

Sakes alive, I fear we’ve been cursed to live in interesting times, as the saying has it … but this is the tale of the smallholding of Foggy Mountain Farm, and not the tale of the Coming of the Great Plague, or all the disasters it presaged, and so, to our story.

Which is about cherries. We are blessed with a number of feral cherry trees on the property, great, venerable things 50 and 60 feet tall, and, we discovered this year, at least two kinds of them. This year they bore a bumper crop, to the great joy of the robins, squirrels, porcupines, and doubtless many other beings.

Including me. I am either a squirrel or a dragon at heart – a harvest dragon, to be specific – and the sight of all that gorgeous, glistening fruit awoke every instinct I possess to … gather it all into my lair and hover over it, hissing in admiration. Or something like that.

In any event, we picked cherries. Pounds of them.

I kept promising I was done now, but then a week later I’d see those branches still hung with fruit glowing like lanterns in the sun, and announce that, actually, I was not done, because it was just Wrong, to squander a chance to preserve all that goodness. What if there are no cherries next year?!

One of the problems brought about by the Great Plague to plague dragons hoarders preservers, has been disruptions in the supply chain, including the supply of canning jar lids, which have been nigh unto impossible to get hold of for the past year. Not to be thwarted, however, I besought me a supply of the things late last winter, from an E-bay merchant who marked them up to an appalling degree.

I handed over my gold nonetheless, lest the long-promised arrival in the stores never materialize, and was glad that I had done so, when indeed it did not.

As mentioned, we have two kinds of cherries: Bright red pie cherries and tiny, dark sweet cherries that are about half pit. Both are stunningly beautiful. We could not reach them all, given the height of the trees, and so there were plenty left for the birds and for the squirrels, who leave little mounds of cracked cherry pits all over the woods. This may have something to do with the surprising number of cherry trees occupying our mixed oak and Doug fir wood.

Having taken note, I’ve decided that what we need is more cherry trees, and so I took to tossing handfuls of the pits along the hedgerows. With luck, we’ll end with an entire forest row of cherries — some of which I’ll prune, so we can stay off ladders in our rapidly-encroaching old age. At least, for harvesting purposes.

We have no orchard ladder, so like any self-respecting pair of lunatics foragers, we carried a regular ladder through the woods into the far field where the cherries dwell, balanced it as best we could among the blackberry vines covering the uneven earth, and clambered up with our baskets, hoping the adventure wouldn’t end with broken bones, and picked bowls full of glowing red pie cherries.

On the way back home with our loot one day, we saw a baby western tanager sitting motionless on the forest floor under a bush, while its father chirped and fluttered in the branches above, doing his best to distract us. Another day, we watched a Steller’s Jay tuck an acorn into a hollow in a fir branch, to hold the nut securely while the bird hammered at it with its bill. Sadly, we had no camera with us either time. We did, however, get a picture of the porcupine we saw one morning, sleeping the top of the biggest cherry tree. 

We gave pie cherries away, we froze them, canned them, dried them, baked a pie, made a small batch of jam. We admired the porcupine we found occupying a high branch of the biggest cherry tree, and we left the seeds out for the mice and squirrels (they thanked me by storing them in — already occupied — pots all over my greenhouse. It is possible I’m going to have a bumper crop of baby cherry trees at some point).

We then began turning more and more of our attention to the little black cherries, which glow, on the tree, and in bowls, like marbles or cranberries or jewels. They also taste divine — and for the first few pickings, we could reach them from the ground.

The pie cherries were relatively easy to pit; we possess a device that pits six at a time, although you have to double check its work. But the little black cherries are too small for it; they must be tediously and repetitively pitted by hand, which gets hard on the wrists after a while. But it’s worth it.

Oh, so worth it.

They were astonishingly delicious when dried, so we picked and dried some more. And then I made a batch of fruit cheese, little dark squares of exquisite, tangy sweet fruit candy.

And then, with the very last picking, a batch of jam.

And then I gathered all those glowing jars of goodness into the center of my lair, and coiled around them, and if you need me, I’ll be here, counting them.

Although, the blackberries are ripe and our dear friend up the road tells me she has yellow plums begging to be picked …

The raptor pole

 Nearly a year now, since I have written on this blog. My apologies for that. The Year the Plague Struck was challenging, in many strange ways. And it was a year of so many things, both personal and societal ... the Year of the Great Black Lives Matter Protests; the year we moved into our house, the Year of the Great Wildfires (four Oregon towns destroyed, 11 people killed); The Year of the Insurrection, the year, I am saddened to report, that our beloved, elderly little terrier died, last fall. We remain in mourning. 

The fires spread smoke across the entire state for a week last September. Here's what it looked like on the hill: 

Strange times. We were supposed to stay indoors not breathing the smoke, but we were frantically working on the house, so our lungs had some unfortunate exposure. We finally bought a couple of furnace filters and taped them to a box fan to try to at least get some clean air in the house. Everyone else had the same idea, and furnace filters joined the list of shortages.

Now it's May and the entire West is in drought, ranging from severe to exceptional, and so there are fears for another severe wildfire season. Possibly in perpetuity.

The February ice storms did not help with that issue.

The fires were so severe, in part, because of rare hot, dry east winds; the same winds that drove the great Tillamook Burn back in the day. One exceptional weather event being insufficient for the Interesting Times in which we live, in February, we had a rare series of severe ice storms that knocked out power to most of the Willamette Valley for a week. 

Here's what it looked like on the hill: 

They also knocked over trees and broke branches and generally left the state littered with debris that will be ripe for burning in the coming months. Our little forest is no exception; we lost some big cherry and oak trees, and suddenly there's a lot more light coming through. But it's hard to walk because the ground is quite a mess. 

Just before the storms hit, my orders of bare root trees started coming in, and I spent a frantic few days planting my new little orchard. 

I'm gradually working on putting in a hedgerow around it, to, I hope, keep out the deer. A work in progress.

We also put up a little greenhouse, and it is filled with starts. The garden, alas, is filled with weeds, grass, cover crops, and gophers.

Which brings me to the titular raptor pole.

As you know, rodent populations live in a perpetual boom and bust cycle. Lots of predators, few rodents. No food, predators die off, rodents boom, predators increase with all the food, etc.

We're in a rodent boom, and the gophers have decided they are entitled to the whole garden, not a mere tithe. (The mice also got into my greenhouse and helped themselves to my tender young starts, the furry little bastards. Hardware cloth boxtops made by R have helped with that problem). 

We don't like killing creatures, but I'm fine with encouraging the natural order of things, so we hauled a dead tree up to the garden and installed it. (In point of fact, the same tree featured in the ice storm photo, above.) It was hair-raising and back-breaking — dead trees are heavy, who knew! — but now the hawks have a place to sit and watch for gophers in the garden. At least I hope they focus on the gophers, and not on snakes. I need the snakes to eat the slugs. And gophers.

R chainsawed a couple of large chunks from the end of the trunk, to lighten the weight, and shaved the sides down a bit. I used a post hole digger to excavate a hole to put it in. For some reason, I decided to post-hole dig a few tomato holes in the garden on the same day. My muscles are sore now. 

Yesterday, we hauled the tree the 300 feet or so up to the garden by balancing the trunk on a barrel, which I sort of pushed along, holding the trunk up to take some of the weight off, while R walked ahead, carrying the narrow end. It took quite a long time and did not feel like quite as smooth a process as the description implies. But eventually, we got it up there. And left it overnight while R "cogitated" about how the dickens we were going to get it installed in its hole without killing ourselves in the process. As usual, he came up with a clever solution. 

Here's how it went: 

 

Two by fours nailed to the tree helped hold it up, and we "walked" them forward, a few inches at a time, while desperately keeping the tree from rolling to either side.

Taking an idea from a television show on theories about the building of Stonehenge, R dug a trench at the side of the hole, to guide the log in.

More walking it up. This part went on for a long time. R also nailed a cross piece onto the tree, to give large birds a place to perch. 

Eventually, we had to add more two-by-fours.

Almost there!

Is that cool or what?

So. There you are, all caught up. Let's chat again soon.

Mid-August garden

 

Mid-June

I keep thinking words are going to manifest but they haven't, so enjoy these photos of mid-June, instead.

Kitchen desk now installed.

Rainbow out the kitchen window

Rainbow of irises

Tomatoes and potatoes in the garden

More vegetables

Counterwaffling

So much has happened in the month since I last wrote that it feels as if it's been a year. The pandemic, the brutal killings of more black Americans, the massive protests. It's a little hard to breathe, and it's hard to find words.

This accounting of our humble smallholding in the hills has felt trivial. And it is. But our lives here continue, and friends have been asking, and so herewith is the next installment.

DH has built and installed this lovely set of kitchen cabinets and a countertop to top them with. We like wooden countertops, and I am thrilled with his work, and with the overall look of the house. Later, there will also be a wooden backsplash.

We've put in the sink, a wonderful enameled porcelain one we found secondhand at one of the local Habitat for Humanity Restores last year.
And, thanks to the awesome Amanda Whatley, we've enjoyed waffles in this beautiful kitchen.
Here they are:

No, we're not moved in yet. But after Amanda thoughtfully provided information about her antique waffle iron, we too were able to locate and purchase one, for use on an induction stove. And having procured it, we couldn't wait to use it. So one morning over the weekend I made a batch of our favorite sourdough waffle batter and we carried it down to the house, along with plates, forks, a ladle, and other important breakfast paraphernalia, and we made a divine batch of waffles, for the inaugural use of the induction stove.

They were delicious.

DH did the honors; he is the official waffle chef of the household, because only he has the iron nerve required to wait until they are actually done before opening the iron. When I get involved, we have undercooked waffles. He is also in charge of cooking fish. And oatmeal. I handle the

rest.

Here is a sample of my contributions:

And a green quiche, just because I happen to have a picture of it:

So, meanwhile in house news, there are more kitchen counters to build, and they need doors, and DH is presently installing a built-in desk, and working on the stairs, and when he finishes with all of that, there's … still more to do.

Here is another view of the kitchen, which I cannot wait to inhabit:

And here is a trailer cat, just chillin':

Until next time. Be well, be safe, be fierce.

Photos of spring

Nothing much to report at the moment, so enjoy these photos of spring on the homestead:

The house on a sunny day.

Gopher snake asking why I'm disturbing its cozy napping spot under one of my tarps. (I had some questions for it, too. Like, why are there still so many gophers in my garden? Snake pointed out that it was not in the garden; it was in the hedgerow. And also, it doesn't care if the gophers eat my potatoes; that just fattens them up nicely.)

Bees, discussing the enormous pollen load bee on the left brought in.

Wild rose blooming, with visiting bee.

Close-up of a tulip.

Squirreltopia

I don't know where they've been hiding until now -- well, I do; they've been in the treetops -- but at any rate, a veritable army of silver gray squirrels appears to inhabit our little patch of woods.

We'd caught an occasional glimpse of one now and again, but they have now, apparently, grown comfortable with our presence. Being able to watch out the windows of the house no doubt helps. Between rain showers on Saturday, we spent some 30 minutes or more watching at least half a dozen of them chasing each other around the forest floor and up and down the fir trees, leaping between branches some 20 and 30 feet up, like circus acrobats.

They explored the pump jacks still lying next to the woods at the edge of the meadow, checked out the front porch, did laps around the driveway, and amused themselves by racing in opposite directions up and down trees until they met nose to nose in the middle.

Even the little Douglas squirrel who lives in the tree outside the front door got into the act at one point, joining the silver grays racing up the tree trunk.

The window in the stair landing, and one in the living room look directly out at a massive fir tree just outside the front door. It is the tree of life, inhabited by the charming and often quite chatty little Douglas squirrel, chipmunks, chickadees, and, evidently, silver gray squirrels. There are probably flying squirrels somewhere high up in the branches, too, but we've yet to catch a glimpse of them. There were Stellar's jays, but I haven't seen them lately. I hope they're still in residence.

At night we hear great horned owls and tiny saw whet owls calling. Coyotes sing from nearby fields.

The pretty little Douglas squirrel often sits in the branches and chirps at us, and one day, when I caught it near the house and stood very still, it grew bold enough to return to finish its business, darting back under the eaves a few feet away and digging busily until it finished retrieving its prize. It had quite a hole going, half as deep as its little body, and every now and again it would sit up to check and make sure I wasn't moving, before returning to its busy digging. Finally, it pulled out -- something -- and darted back to its tree.

There are chipmunks flashing across the ground constantly, providing a constant source of entertainment and frustration to the terrier they easily outrun and outclimb.

Silver grays, described by state Fish & Wildlife as wary and secretive, are an Oregon Conservation Strategy Species, and their presence here is one more in a litany of reasons to cherish this very special place.

It also makes sense; the wood is Douglas-fir up near the house, but there are plenty of oaks nearby -- just the sort of territory they like. Paradise, in a word. Paradise with troupes of squirrel acrobats performing in the tree tops.