This morning came early. Really, *REALLY* early. Yesterday was one of those days when damn near everything that could go wrong did go wrong. It was so hyperbolic that if it were a movie, nobody would have believed it. So by 5:38 o’clock this morning I’d been awake for a couple of hours. And I was rewarded with this disturbing (because of the Canadian wildfires) but spectacular smoky sunrise over Lake Champlain.
Smoky Sunrise Over Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
That photograph above captures most of the drama, but the burning orb ascending from Vermont’s Green Mountains was actually an even crazier color of fluorescent orangey pink. Surreal. And big. And super bright. The entire Champlain Valley was thick with mustard grey-brown haze. Yes, these smoky skies are courtesy of the hundreds of Canadian wildfires burning out of control. And, no, the uncanny twist of fate — we fled Santa Fe a year ago to escape the sooty pollution of out-of-control wildfires only yo be inunda with the same now in Essex, New York — isn’t lost on us. Crazy times.
And yet, the upside of our Adirondack Coast choking on alarming high particulate counts for our typically pristine air is the sunrises and sunsets. They’ve been otherworldly.
Smoky Sunrise Over Lake Champlain (Photo: Geo Davis)
As this morning’s smoky sunrise yielded to the smoke, our environs looked as if a huge storm were overtaking us. But no, in the second photo above, you can see no storm. Just the long lingering aftermath of burning forests.
Today quickly shifted into unseasonably humid and scorching conditions which was challenging for everyone working on the icehouse rehab, but the smoke lifted, and this afternoon’s air quality is considerably improved.
“Today,” as the cool kids say, “I did a thing.” I’ve been lusting after an Adirondack Guideboat, well, probably since the late 1970’s when I enjoyed my first rowed ride in this quintessentially ADK conveyance at the Ausable Club. During the early days of the pandemic my mind returned this timeless watercraft, as elegant today as it was in the 1800s, and somehow inviting wistfuldaydreams of calmer, simpler times. I connected with the good folks at Adirondack Guideboat, and began to educate myself. They tried to convince me that a 14′ Vermont Dory, their most popular boat, was better suited to my location. Three summers later, after a 2022 return visit to revisit consideration with brother owners, Justin and Ian Martin, I decided it was time to commit.
14′ Vermont Dory (Photo: Geo Davis)
That green beauty above is my new skiff, a cherry trimmed Kevlar Vermont dory perfectly suited to ply the early morning and early evening waters of Lake Champlain.
14′ Vermont Dory (Photo: Adirondack Guideboat)
14′ Vermont Dory
This swift ship (of decidedly diminutive but handsomely conceived proportions) appears to be well built, user friendly, and applauded by the vast majority of their clientele. Or so Justin and Ian assure me.
As the current owners of Adirondack Guideboat, brothers Justin and Ian Martin have over 40 years of combined experience building boats. Before buying the company in 2012, the Martin brothers worked for Adirondack Guideboat company founder, Steve Kaulback, and president, David Rosen and Mad River Canoe. While they remain committed to the tradition of building wooden guideboats, Justin and Ian also use contemporary materials and tooling to create composite guideboats. (Source: Meet the crew of Adirondack Guideboat, Custom Row Boat Craftspeople)
I liked the brothers from our first encounter. Understated. Confident. Enthusiastic and confident.
And soon they’ll be arriving to deliver my new Vermont Dory to Rosslyn’s waterfront. I’m looking forward to an early morning outing with Carley to enjoy sunrise, a cup of tea, and a content canine companion.
And, there’s an additional perk. When they deliver my new green skiff, they’ll pick up our old hand-me-down canoe for midwinter replacement of the rotten wood gunnels. Win, win!
So many sweet moments as I re-enter our Adirondack Coast orbit, and this one is less verbal than visual rumination. I’m thinking of the iconic Adirondack chair that appears all around the world.
Iconic Adirondack Chair (Photo: Geo Davis)
And all around the world is not an exaggeration. In fact, the iconic Adirondack chairs in this post were photographed by me a few days ago in Algonquin Provincial Park, a day’s drive away in Canada.
Everywhere you go, Adirondack chairs. At least, everywhere serene, soothing, and inviting!
Let’s revisit an earlier look at the iconic Adirondack chair.
Adirondack Chairs, originally invented by Thomas Lee in 1903… copied and adapted by countless carpenters since… [and patented by] Harry C. Bunnel… without his [Lee’s] permission… Lee seems to have been gracious and let the matter go, permitting his friend to produce the Adirondack chairs for profit for a quarter century. (Source: Adirondack Chairs Revisited)
As we wound down our 2-week adventure between Santa Fe and Essex — by way of Colorado, Wyoming, South Dakota, North Dakota, Manitoba, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Ontario, and Quebec — we came upon these familiar recliners while staying at Killarney Lodge in Algonquin Park. And despite the fact that we were still a 6 1/2 hour drive from Essex, we began to feel like we were almost home.
Iconic Adirondack Chair (Photo: Geo Davis)
And, now that we’re once again installed in our Adirondack Coast oasis, lolling in our comfy lakeside recliners we realize that these iconic Adirondack chairs have become a sort of metaphorical umbilical cord, no matter where we wander, to the lifestyle we love at Rosslyn.
It’s time for a follow-up to my Organic Orcharding post, specifically a detailed look at how to use Tanglefoot for non-toxic pest control in a holistic fruit tree orchard. For readers wondering about zone compatibility and looking for a regional reference to help you evaluate the relevance of this post to your individual growing conditions, our orchard is located in Essex, New York along the Adirondack Coast of the Champlain Valley. We are purists when it comes to holistic orcharding and gardening (despite challenges unique to growing fruits and vegetables in the North Country) and we have come to rely on Tanglefoot summer after summer. (You may also want to check out my post, “How to Apply Tanglefoot to Trees“ for a simple, straightforward how-to video. Your holistic orchard will thank you in abundance!)
Pre-Goo & Post-Goo
Here’s a glimpse at the first two phases of Tanglefoot installation, documented in Rosslyn’s 100% organic orchard. This first photo was taken just before the sticky goo was lathered onto the corrugated paper.
Tanglefoot Installation: wrap trunk with corrugated paper (Source: Geo Davis)
So tidy, right? Not for long! Here’s what it looks like after the sticky Tanglefoot is installed.
Tanglefoot Installation: lather ultra gooey Tanglefoot on the corrugated paper wrapped around tree trunk. (Source: Geo Davis)
Yuck! Hopefully the noisome critters that like to climb up the trunks of fruit trees agree.
It’s a messy installation process, but it seems to work pretty well.
How to Use Tanglefoot
I’ll prologue the most important part of this post by saying two things:
Applying Tanglefoot to fruit trees a messy but relatively straightforward task.
Better instructors have already explained application, so I’ll defer to their able guidance rather than overlook something important.
One of the best step-by-step Tanglefoot installation videos was made by San Diego master gardeners Carol Graham (unfortunately no longer available online). Similarly thorough written instructions are provided by the products’s manufacturer, Contech-Inc:
We recommend using 4” wide wrap of waterproof paper or tape on the trunk of the tree and applying Tree Tanglefoot over the wrap. Tree Tanglefoot is oil-based and the oils will soak into the bark. Banding material eliminates staining of the tree and offers quick, complete removal of the sticky material. In addition, Tree Tanglefoot will remain sticky longer when applied on top of a surface resistant to oil. For rough bark trees it may be necessary to plug the gaps between the tree trunk and the banding, this can be done by using insulation or other materials.
Apply Tree Tanglefoot Insect barrier in a uniform fashion. It can be applied in a heavy or light coat. Heavy coats are approximately 3” wide and 3/32” thick. A heavy coat is used when the insects to kept from the tree foliage are large or numerous, or when there is little time available to maintain the band. Light coats are 3” wide and 1/16” thick. A light coat is good as a general barrier against smaller or less numerous insects, or when the band can be maintained regularly.
Generally, Tree Tanglefoot will remain sticky and effective until it is covered with insects, dust or other debris. A build-up of debris or insects will create a bridge for other insect to cross. This debris requires removal and possible re-application in spots. If an area is unusually dusty or the surface of the barrier is stiffened, Tree Tanglefoot can be rubbed around to expose a new sticky layer beneath. Remove bands at end of season. (Source: Tree Tanglefoot Insect Barrier Products – Contech Inc)
Still a little uncertain? (Or just procrastinating to avoid making a gooey-sticky mess?) Here’s another resource I’ve also relied upon for amazing step-by-step Tanglefoot guide with photographs. Here are the simple, straightforward instructions.
Using a putty knife or a cake decorating spatula. If you choose a putty knife be very careful with the edges and corners as they are very sharp and can easily damage the bark of the tree. I recommend using a cake decorating spatula because they have rounded edges at the tip.
1. Wrap your tree in plastic film
2. Soften up a glob of Tanglefoot with the spatula
3. Work it into a smooth lump without strings back to the bucket
4. Apply the product in a thin 1″ wide band a few inches from the top of the plastic all the way around the tree creating a complete circle
5. Drag your spatula in the same direction that you wrapped the tree with the plastic. If you go the other way you’ll just pull the plastic right off
6.Make another band of Tanglefoot a few inches down from the first band. This creates 2 barriers that work together to stop the pests from walking up your tree (Source: How to Use Tanglefoot – Backyard Food Growing)
I use the paper “tape” version and have not yet tried the plastic film, but I’m intrigued. However this post made me wary.
I got some Tanglefoot this year for my apple trees, had a lot of problems with ants last year. I tried attaching bands of saran wrap around the tree trunks and applying the Tanglefoot that way. That was a complete disaster/mess, so I called the Tanglefoot manufacturer and asked if it would harm my trees to apply their product directly to the bark. They said that other than a dark ring/stain around the tree, no, it should not harm the tree at all to be directly applied. So, that is what I did. Did it about a month ago. No signs of any tree trouble yet. (Source: Putting tanglefoot on trees directly – GardenWeb)
I decided to ask the author, Stacy, the about plastic wrap vs. paper banding.
Great post, and the photo play-by-play is the best resource I’ve found online! Thank you. This is my first foray into fruit tree pest tangling (wrangling?), and I’m curious about your preference for plastic wrap instead of the paper/cardboard option proposed by the manufacturer. I’m guessing you’ve tried both and decided that the plastic wrap works better? Would you be willing to explain the pros and cons of plastic instead of paper? Hoping to get this right the first time! Thanks.
Stacy answered my question the very same day (Wow! Thanks, Stacy.) as follows:
Thank you! I’m happy the pictures are helpful for you. You’ll do just fine, the hardest part is keeping it off of yourself and your clothes! I have a few reasons for the plastic.
The method that I show here (with the two stripes/plastic/cotton balls) was the way I was taught during my first experience with Tanglefoot, I didn’t even know about the cardboard at that point. It wasn’t until I started working in a retail nursery a few years later that I found out about the cardboard wrap.
I think the cardboard wrap could be good if your tree is perfectly smooth, as it leaves gaps that the bugs can walk under unobstructed. It might work ok if you put cotton balls under it and secure it tightly to close those gaps though.
Also, I don’t choose the cardboard because I live in a very rainy climate and the cardboard would disintegrate in no time at all. If your area is less rainy then it would probably be ok. I prefer the plastic too because it holds tight to the bark and stays put for the month or two that it’s on there.
I’ve just continued to use the plastic/cotton balls method because it was simple and used items I already had at home, there wasn’t an additional product that I needed to buy.
It’s just important to get the plastic off when the season is done or when the Tanglefoot becomes ineffective, the plastic allows no airflow for the bark. This would be a benefit to using the cardboard. (Source: backyardfoodgrowing.com)
Thanks again, Stacy.
Needless to say, I still haven’t tried the plastic film. Three years of installation with paper wraps, and the approach seems to be working. So, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it!
Happy Easter to you from the Adirondack Coast where our seasonalreawakening is picking up pace with each passing day. And since spring is synonymous with the reemergence of vibrant lizard-like amphibians — most notably the red eft and the yellow-spotted salamander — it feels appropriate to substitute creatively died Easter eggs for a watercolor tribute to these brilliant wild neighbors brightening our day with their own unique Easter color if we take the time to observe them.
Easter Color: Red Eft & Yellow-Spotted Salamander
If you do any hiking or biking in our area this time of year, you’re quite likely to come across fluorescent orange-red salamanders making their way across roads and trails. Although most of us refer to them as red efts, they are actually adolescent eastern newts.
The eastern newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) is a common newt of eastern North America. It frequents small lakes, ponds, and streams or nearby wet forests… The striking bright orange juvenile stage, which is land-dwelling, is known as a red eft. –Wikipedia
I assist them across roadways during my bike rides to ensure that they don’t meet an untimely end in transit from shoulder to shoulder.
Dissimilar in appearance but similarly vibrant in Easter color and pattern, the yellow-spotted salamander is another startlingly, beautiful amphibian that you just might spot on a damp afternoon.
The spotted salamander or yellow-spotted salamander (Ambystoma maculatum) is a mole salamander common in eastern United States and Canada. –Wikipedia
So, in lieu of an Easter egg hunt I bid you a happy, healthy holiday (with a basket full of good fortune in your wildlife wanderings.) I hope you spot some Easter color, whether salamanders or otherwise!
Call it a 184-day streak. Or call it dogged determination. Either way I have 181 days to go until I reach my goal. And with each new post, each small victory, I am growing more and more confident that I will accomplish my mission of 365 posts, one complete year of daily updates beginning on August 1, 2022 and concluding on July 31, 2023.
So how to commemorate this midpoint milestone? With 6 months down and 6 months to go, it feels momentous enough to pause and praise my good fortune. But should this benchmark be acknowledged with a celebratory salute? A solemn ceremony? A toast, my first spirited sip after 31 days of teetotaling? (Yesterday marked the conclusion of my 7th or 8th, maybe even my 9th “dry January”.) Or perhaps a decadent dessert after a sugar free month? (For some sadomasochistic reason I’ve decided in recent years to add a sugar fast to alcohol abstention during the month of January, a timely recovery after the excesses of Thanksgiving-through-New Years…) A new month (ie. rabbit-rabbit) ritual transcending the delicious dinner I shared with Jim and Mark two nights ago at Juniper?
Slow Cooked Whole Rabbit: cumin, blood orange and smoked paprika glazed, corn tortillas, chimichurri, salsa fresca, refried beans (Source: Juniper at Hotel Vermont)
Maybe a romantic romp with my bride who suggested, upon retrieving me from the airport yesterday, that we celebrate a belated anniversary to compensate for the one we missed this past autumn when she was unwell. 17 years of marriage and 21 years together. I’m incredulous even as I type these numbers. Neither seems remotely possible. But my 50th birthday seemed similarly inaccurate this past spring, and I’m obliged to accept it.
Or how about we honor the 200th anniversary of Rosslyn’s front façade, ostensibly completed in 1823? (Apparently 3/5 of the building — the two window portion to the north of the entrance, as well as the entrance itself — was completed in 1820. The remaining 2/5, including the two windows to the south of the entrance and comprising the dining room downstairs, a guest bedroom and Susan’s study on the second floor, and another guest bedroom on the third floor, was most likely finished three years later in 1823, fulfilling the the architectural promise of this classic Federal home with Georgian and Greek Revival elements.
An auspicious confluence of milestones and anniversaries. I’m choosing to interpret this is a good omen even as I nevertheless acknowledge that I’ve meandered from my original mark, hoisting the flag at my halfway point, mid-journey in my post-a-day quest. I recall an earlier waypoint in this quest, an update I published on October 10, 2022 when I was still just shy of halfway to where I am today.
Yesterday marked ten weeks of old house journaling. Every. Single. Day. Two months and ten days back at the helm of this wayward, meandering, sometimes unruly experiment I call Rosslyn Redux. I emphasize the daily component of this benchmark because it’s been an important part of the goal I committed to at the end of July. (Source: Old House Journaling)
Then as now my emphasis on everyday journaling remains a top priority.
Over the last few years, Susan and I have scrutinized our hopes and expectations with Rosslyn. We have reevaluated our plans as they originally were in 2006 when we embarked on this adventure and as those plans evolved during the decade and a half since. It’s been an extended period of introspection, evaluating our current wants and needs, endeavoring to align our future expectations and goals with respect to one another and with respect to Rosslyn, and challenging one another to brainstorm beyond the present.
There’s no question but that our impromptu quarantine at Rosslyn during the spring and summer of 2021 catalyzed some of this soul-searching. But so too have the many life changes in recent years. Our gradual shift toward Santa Fe as our base and Essex as our getaway rather than the other way around. The loss of Susan’s mother. My parents’ retirement near us in Santa Fe. Our nephews and nieces growing up and expanding their orbits far beyond Rosslyn. A perennially postponed but driving desire to collaborate on a smaller, efficient, creative lakeside home of a different DNA altogether, an unrepressable will to imagine into existence the sort of slow cooked (albeit shapeshifting) and highly experimental homestead we originally envisioned in 2003-5 when we first began to explore our Adirondack Coast homecoming. And there is that hiccup in our 2006 original timeline, our 2-4 year vision for homing at Rosslyn until we’d managed to reboot and reground, until we were ready for our next adventure. Those naive expectations were eclipsed — willingly and joyfully — within the first year or two.
So what does this have to do with my daily Rosslyn updates?
Everything.
In committing to this daily practice last summer I was acknowledging that I had some serious work to do. In order for us to constructively sort through out collective vision for the future, to determine whether we’re too fond of Rosslyn to proceed with plans for designing and building the lakeside retreat we’ve conjured over the years, to honestly assess our willingness and our readiness to hand this sanctuary over to another family, both Susan and I are undertaking the sort of “deep work” that will hopefully enable us to make some decisions. I’m talking about 100% honest, prolonged consideration. Rosslyn has quite literally been a part of our family, and not just our nuclear family. Can we untangle her? Are we willing to let her go? Can we joyfully pass the privilege on to new custodians? Or are we not yet ready?
For me this daily practice, digging deep into sixteen and a half years of living and loving Rosslyn, is my time and place to work through these questions. To sort it all out. To find peace and confidence in my convictions. And six months in, I believe that I’m on the right path. Not all the time. There have certainly been some tangles and tangents that got away from me before I realized what was happening and reined them in. But the constant conversation — *internal* as I study, reflect, and compose these installments as well as *external* as I share these updates and then interact with many of you — is reinvigorating and reawakening Rosslyn from her comfortable slumber (and me from mine!)
So this midpoint milestone is a profoundly significant benchmark for me personally. It’s the tangible representation of my germinating confidence and clarity. It’s the measurable mean between a conflicted outlook and the conviction I’m hoping to discover over the next six months. In a real sense, it’s a halfway point toward the sort of rehabilitation that we’ve been undertaking with Rosslyn’s buildings and grounds since 2006, only in this case the journey is profoundly personal. Instead of historic architectural rehabilitation, it is restoration of my innermost wonder, my romantic dreams, and my idealistic hopes. With passion reawakened and a map forward becoming more apparent each day, I’m tempted to see this benchmark as the sort of celebration enjoyed upon finally reaching a base camp, a lofty peak viewable in the distance foreshadows the ambitious ascent ahead but also offers a majestic affirmation of the reachability and proximity of the summit. Today marks just such a halfway point, an opportunity to appreciate the accomplishments so far, and an incentive to forge ahead.
High on my Adirondack Coast lifestyle list — my mental “Aren’t we lucky to live here?!?!” database of people, perks, and activities that add incalculable value to my existence — is bicycling backroads and byways from the shores of Lake Champlain to the Adirondack High Peaks. Sometimes solitary, sometimes accompanied by a friend, these pedal-power adventures through the Boquet Valley and rolling foothills, are like mini vacations, adventures concurrently familiar and exotic. From adrenaline pumping thrills to mellow meanders, shaded forests to bucolic farmland, breezy lakeside routes to stream and river crossings, the diversity of conditions, terrain, and landscape is captivating.
Often something catches my eye, and I stop to observe. An industrious beaver engineering a dam. A bald eagle breakfasting on a landlocked salmon. A team of draft horses pulling a blue shirted, straw hatted farmer through rows of crops, leaving a wake of disinterred weeds. A pair of young women, braids bouncing, executing a perfect jibe in stiff winds on Whallons Bay…
The bovine beauties above, photographed on July 22, 2021 (but visited frequently during my summer bicycle rides), are a poem unwritten. These gentle ruminants are a pair of wordless couplets, perhaps a hay chewing haiku, or a black and white ode to a sylvan sea. I suspect that, for each of us, the meter and matter of these roadside verses differ. We arrive at a moment like this with our own distinct experiential lens that distills our perception, that provokes our feelings, and that underpins our aesthetics. Each of us possesses a totally unique way of seeing. Sui generis. As distinct as our fingerprints. As our irises.
In the image below — the same photograph as above, albeit with color removed — the poetry is transformed. Same subject. Same context, background, composition, and framing. But the tone is not the same. The mood and the focus have shifted. Textures and tonal contrasts have replaced the richness and depth and vibrancy of color. The stark black and white figures in the middle no longer pop against a wide spectrum of greens and blues. They’re in harmony with the near infinite shades of grey that envelope them. The clouds have emerged from the chorus to deliver a spellbinding aria.
Bovine Beauties (Photo: Geo Davis)
Are you scratching your head and rolling your eyes? “Stick with cows in a field beneath overcast skies, please.” I understand the urge. There’s a comfortable ease in assuming that we’re all appreciating the same thing when we look at the photo, in allowing nuance to fall outside our frame of reference. Comfortable. Easy. But potentially misleading. Rosslyn reminds me time and again that reality isn’t as comfortable or easy. She has invited me, encouraged me, supported me in seeing that no matter how universal or congruent our perceptions, our ways of seeing are subtly (and often not so subtly) dissimilar.
One person’s bovine beauties might be another person’s dairy bar. Or they might be unnoticed altogether, just another blur on the periphery. A metaphorical garnish.
With Saint Patrick’s Day upon us it strikes me as the perfect opportunity to update my venison green chile stew recipe with new stick-to-your-ribs dish that I prepared for friends last weekend. Why? Is today’s recipe Irish-influenced? Slow cooked in Guinness Stout? Neither! And the flavor profile is decidedly southwestern, not Irish. But how many opportunities are there to trot out an exceedingly *green* stew? And what better booze-buffer than Elk Green Chile Stew?!
Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Here’s how I introduced my venison green chili stew (aka “green chili stew”) recipe back February 25, 2014.
This time of year, green chile stew is an ideal core-warning, vitamin rich comfort food. If you’re only familiar with red chile, it’s time to try something new. The flavor is totally different, and you just might change your chile preferences. (Source: Venison Green Chile Stew)
My 25+ year connection to Santa Fe underpins a hankering for green chile stew whenever conditions call for comfort food. This St. Patrick’s Day — cold and blustery with intermittent rain and a surplus of snow, slush, ice, and mid — is precisely when I crave a steaming bowl! Fortunately, I had just enough leftover to sate my appetite. The recipe below, like all stars really, gets better each day!
Hatch Green Chile (Photo: Geo Davis)
Elk Green Chile Stew Recipe
Consider the following recipe a rough guide, not a set of rules. (Ditto for all recipes, mine or otherwise!)
Ingredients
4 tbsp. olive oil
3 medium/large onions, diced
6 garlic cloves, minced
3 lbs. elk, ground
16 fl. oz. chicken or beef stock
2-4 bay leaves
4-6 cups green chiles, fire roasted/peeled/chopped
4-5 medium potatoes, chopped
salt and pepper
Preparation
[I prepared this elk green chile stew recipe in an Instant Pot pressure cooker, but these directions can be adapted to crock and range cooking.]
Heat olive oil in pressure cooker with lid off on low sauté setting. Add onions and garlic, stirring over low heat until the onions become soft and translucent. Add venison, and break up any large lumps of meat. Continue stirring and heating until ground meat is fully cooked and mixed with onions and garlic. Add remaining ingredients (except salt and pepper) and mix thoroughly. Secure pressure cooker lid, and cook under high pressure for 20 minutes. Allow pressure to release slowly, and change to slow cooker mode. Set temperature and timer for three hours (high) or five hours (low). Stir and check for adequate moisture from time to time. Salt and pepper to taste. Enjoy!
Beck & Bulow Elk for Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Saint Patrick’s Day Stew
Let’s dedicate this special Saint Patrick’s day twist on traditional, New Mexican green chili stew to the legendary Irish elk (Megaloceros giganteus). Sadly, no longer with us, this handsome specimen seems an appropriate subject of celebration on this holiday. I have relied upon a unique Santa Fe butcher, Beck & Bulow, to source this 100% free range grass fed and grass finished ground elk that was quickly and conveniently shipped to me in Essex.
I should also mention that the Hatch green chile in the photograph above also originates in New Mexico. Although canned and jarred roasted green chile wouldn’t be our first choice if we were in Santa Fe right now, it certainly is convenient when we’re on the Adirondack Coast.
Here are some snapshots from my preparation of the ultimate Saint Patrick’s Day feast: elk green chile stew. Bon appétit. Buen provecho. Bain sult as do bhia. (Apparently Irish…)
Warming Olive Oil for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Onions for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Chopped Onions for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Garlic for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Garlic for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Chop Garlic for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Sautéing Chopped Onions for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Beck & Bulow Elk for Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Sautéing Elk for Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Potatoes for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Add Chopped Potatoes to Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Add Chopped Potatoes to Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Dried Bay Leaves for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Add Bay Leaves to Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Hatch Green Chile for Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Add Green Chile! (Photo: Geo Davis)
Add Chicken Broth to Elk Green Chile Stew (Photo: Geo Davis)
Essex, NY in 1876 (Source: OW Gray Atlas of Essex County)
Where in the world is Rosslyn? If you’re not too terribly averse to a verse, here’s an introduction writ small (wrapped up in a tidy micropoem.)
Up in the Adirondacks
at the foot of the foothills,
where Champlain's sweet waters
refresh, render respite,
and sooth worldweary souls,
a sanctuary sings
welcoming melodies.
(Source: Where's Rosslyn?)
Poetry not your preference? Pity! 😉 Let’s try this.
Beginning to zero in on where in the world Rosslyn is? If neither the poetics of place nor encyclopedic brevity are helping much, let’s try a map or two. Maybe I can narrow your focus a little further with this line drawing that I created with Katie Shepard for our community blog, Essex on Lake Champlain back in 2015. (If you click on the map it’ll open a window where you can download the unfuzzy PDF complete with a key explaining each of the numbers in the map.)
Essex Architecture Map, July 2015 (Source: Essex on Lake Champlain)
Enough with the old school black and white (and sepia with faint rose highlighting). It’s time for technicolor!
So, where in the world is Rosslyn? Train your eyes on the three docks/piers extending out into Lake Champlain. The middle one is the ferry dock. (See the ferry heading to Vermont?) The smallest of the three man made peninsula’s is Rosslyn’s dock house (aka “boathouse”). Armed with that little insight, perhaps you can find the same property on the two maps above? (Hint: the boathouse wasn’t yet constructed in 1876 when the map at the top of this post was made.)
Heck, it still enchants us despite constant maintenance and seasonal flood worries. And the boathouse hammock is a mini vacation!
Head inland from the boathouse and you’ll discover Rosslyn itself, tucked next to two massive trees, a ginkgo and what I believe is a silver maple (Acer saccharinum). In fact, I’m sitting in the top right room on the second floor right now. Perhaps if you swoop in a little lower you’ll catch me jotting this blog post.
A little further left of the house are the carriage barn (lower) and ice house (upper) which offer up all sorts of mysteries. But those for another day. Unless you remember three curious artifacts I shared with you a while ago… (Source: Essex Aerial View)
Hopefully this helped orient you. Yes, a Google map might be more precise and quicker, but sometimes Rosslyn Redux and the art of homing aren’t particularly precise or quick. Besides, a thin veil of privacy keeps the snoopers away. Or at least adds a little challenge to their quest. But if you’re looking for a little more clarity on where in the world Rosslyn is located, I suggest you check out this hopefully helpful hub: “Where’s Rosslyn?“
Larger than life, or at least most of our avian life, the Pileated Woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus) is a familiar plumage and percussive soundtrack in our Adirondack Coast forest. And often at our suet feeders, even trees in our yard.
Freaky physics notwithstanding, the poise and drama of this sylvan neighbor stand out among our local bird population. And for the first time one of our wildlife cameras documented one, a mature male pileated woodpecker mid flight.
Drilling and darting, my scarlet capped companion drums for his dinner.
Of course, I’ve taken some poetic license, imagined myself into the moment this digital voyeur glimpsed the pileated woodpecker. But it’s a familiar enough sound and sight that I don’t got a moment feel guilty about my imposter poem. Micropoem. Well, maybe a little…
An autumn aura is descending upon the Adirondack Coast. Autumn colors, autumn lighting, autumn sounds (think southward-flying Canada Geese), autumn textures (think crisp leaves eddying and frosted grass underfoot), autumn smells, and autumn flavors…
Autumn Aura: Rosslyn’s shifts into her rustic autumn wardrobe… (Source: Doug Decker)
Thanks, Doug, for snapping that photo above. And for swapping out summer’s lime green sweet potato vines with golden (poetic license?) corn stalks. We’re autumnified! My bride is thrilled.
Here’s a glimpse of the intermediate phase a couple of weeks ago. The pumpkins, freshly harvest from our vegetable garden, complement those practically fluorescent sweet potato vines.
Autumn Aura: Rosslyn’s initial transition from summer to fall wardrobe. (Source: Geo Davis)
Have you noticed that distinctive shift in the North Country atmosphere? It happens every year as the vestiges of summer yield to the advance of winter. There’s a palpable change in the ambience, the mood, the character of the very same facade and yard and early evening that only weeks ago flaunted summery bravado. The tone has shifted. Harvest season. Halloween…
Autumn Aura: Rosslyn’s initial transition from summer to fall wardrobe. (Source: Geo Davis)
Griffin Considers Winter Solstice: December 22, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Welcome to day one of the Adirondack Coast‘s coldest season. Today is the winter solstice, the first official day of winter, and — more importantly for the likes of my mother and others who favor longer days and shorter nights — the threshold between the briefest day and the most prolonged night and imperceptibly-but-steadily lengthening daylight. If you live in the North Country it seems peculiar that winter should only have just begun given several weeks of wintery weather. Seasonality, in these parts, might suggest a slightly earlier autumn-to-winter transition, closer to Thanksgiving than to Christmas.
But the choice is ours to remark and not to make, so we soberly observe this hibernal milestone with tempered optimism that sunnier days await us on the other side. And, for the astronomically exuberant, it’s time to celebrate. Cheers!
If you’re longing for more sunlight, Wednesday is a day to celebrate: Dec. 21 is the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year — and first day of astronomical winter — in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a sign that longer, brighter days are upon us. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
But, as with most tidy transitions, this threshold isn’t actually so tidy. Winter solstice may mark the shortest day and the longest night of the year, but the sunrise and sunset equation is slightly more muddled.
The bottom line: mornings will get a bit darker until early January, but we’ve already gained a few minutes of evening light. On balance, daylight will start to increase after Dec. 21, even as winter’s coldest days still lie ahead. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
So let’s focus on the lengthening days. And, if those increasingly cold days ahead bring snow, then let’s focus on that as well. After all, winter — proper, snowy winter — is one of our four favorite seasons of the year at Rosslyn! It’s a time for dog adventures, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, alpine and telemark skiing, bird feeders flush with avian wildlife, and that unique flavor or crystal clarity that only a subzero morning can catalyze.
Winter Solstice & Onward: December 21, 2022 (Image: Dark Sky)
And speaking of colder days ahead, this screenshot from Dark Sky appears to corroborate the generalization, albeit with a curious exception on Friday. Winter is here, and it looks probably that we’ll be able to enjoy a white Christmas (unless Friday’s warm weather melts the existing snow and delivers rain instead.)
In closing, note that the handsome Labrador retriever atop this post is not Carley, our current dog, but Griffin, a prior pal-o-mine. We lost him just over two years ago, and the ache hasn’t subsided. Maybe with longer, colder days ahead…
