Rosslyn boathouse during Adirondack mud season (Source: Geo Davis)
I recently returned to Rosslyn after almost two months away. It was my single longest absence since buying the house in July 2006, and the extended hiatus was a bit surreal. I departed Essex in February and returned in April!
For readers familiar with life in the Adirondacks, you’ll remember that we have the distinction of a fifth season in addition to spring, summer, fall and winter affectionately known as “mud season”. Okay, not so affectionately. Mud season — tied with black flies for least sexy North Country inconveniences — is tolerable for two reasons:
Sugaring: Authentic maple syrup is an Adirondack staple. Remember the smell and flavor of real maple syrup, before corn syrup and artificial flavoring and coloring elbowed their way onto the breakfast table? Sugaring is as much a gourmet delicacy as it is a theme of story lore. Extracting maple sap and concentrating it into syrup or sugar wasn’t just a local sweet source before grocers and box stores. According to Bill Yardley, sugaring provided an occupation for lumberjacks during mud season.
Transformation: Like a rite of passage, the Adirondack mud season is sometimes dreaded, usually messy, often cathartic and almost always revitalizing. Tucked between winter and summer, two of the most glorious North Country seasons (the other two are spring and fall,) mud season is our annual reminder that we aren’t living in paradise, just a near-perfect facsimile of paradise.
This year I was traveling during mud season (not altogether a coincidence, I admit) which meant that I missed almost the only snowfall that the Champlain Valley experienced this winter. The silver lining? I also missed the slush and mud that followed.
Maple Syrup (Source: Wikipedia)
But despite my absence, life at Rosslyn sailed on smoothly. By now you may have realized that my bride runs a tight ship, possibly even more so when I’m away from home. And with Doug and Lorri contributing muscle and follow-through to my bride’s decrees, not much slips between the cracks. Except for the tattered flag…
Upon returning from my travels I discovered that a concerned passerby had stopped to complain about the tattered American flag flapping over Rosslyn boathouse. He spoke with Doug, referenced his years of military service and departed. By all accounts, the passerby was courteous and respectful, and his concern was justified. Old Glory was in a sorry state of neglect.
Doug promptly replaced the tattered flag and assumed that the case was closed.
It wasn’t.
A few days later the same gentleman returned and expressed his gratitude. And then he departed. No name. No way to thank him for his attention. A mysterious stranger with a patriotic soul and a neighborly spirit.
Back for another nival homecoming. Fluttering flurries obscuring sunset, muting day to night, ground mounding, rounding with fresh fallen snow. The sound of no sound, snowflakes silencing, softening contours, and settling scores. Slumber’s siren song swaddled in silver, swirling and whirling, mesmerizing me, mesmerizing us until tomorrow.
Another Nival Homecoming (Photo: Geo Davis)
Nival?!?!
There aren’t too many opportunities to nudge “nival” into conversation even in this northern wonderland. But as a language romantic often employing Spanish for my day-to-day communication, the word “nieve” kept burbling to the surface. In English, naval is about as close as we get, so, it was simply irresistible. Or perhaps the snowy sirens are to blame.
That said, it’s worth noting that naval is more metaphorically than literally appropriate in this context. Despite the fact that midwinter — and, yes, late February is still midwinter along the Adirondack Coast — may suggest perpetual snow and ice, spring is only a month (or two) away. Snow and ice will yield, grass will green, snowdrops and hyacinth and daffodils and jonquils (Narcissus jonquilla) will once again awaken springtime from her beauty sleep…
More. Snow. Ahead… (Source: Apple Weather)
And better yet, the snow continues to fall. Certainly cross-country skiing will be woven into tomorrow’s itinerary between icehouse rehab meetings and hands-on problem solving, carpentry, etc. Perhaps even some sunshine to enjoy the swoosh and glide of a mud-day skiing adventure.
Boathouse Bonfire, September 27, 2014 (Source: Geo Davis)
If September poems sound overly sentimental to you or if you’re inclined to a grittier observance of the almost-upon-us Autumn Equinox, I’ve got you covered. Soon. Stay tuned.
But if you’re comfortable lingering briefly — and these poems are, if nothing else, brief — in the seasonality and liminality of the present moment, then I’d like to offer you a few September poems. After all, sometimes the singing underneath doesn’t translate to images or longform exposition. So I’ve bundled a tidy bundle of verse celebrating my one of my four favorite seasons.
Susan in Carriage Barn, September 12, 2006 (Source: Geo Davis)
Haiku September Poems
Short and sweet, sometimes bittersweet, is the name of the game when trying to put your finger on something as poignant and humbling as the shift from summer to autumn (with the omnipresent reminder that autumn too will soon yield, and winter will shroud the colors and flavors and aromas away beneath a snowy blanket). But that can be an elusive errand.
There’s something ineffable about Septembering, but anyone who’s dwelled a spell in the North Country is familiar with this shift. (Source: Seasonality: Septembering)
Haiku’s economy offers a bold if foolhardy effort, so let’s start there.
•:•
Dusky zinnias,
harvest-ready to welcome
arriving houseguests.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Bountiful beans,
red-podded asparagus,
climbing the teepee.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Seasonal surreal:
autumnal art, alchemy,
tart transformation.
— Geo Davis
Sunset, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Longer September Poem
I’m struck by the concurrently lavish spoils and humbling caution of September. In so many respects the bounty of an entire summer’s worth of gardening and orcharding comes due in September. Sure, we’ve been enjoying the gardens since May, but the this month full of contrasts is without doubt the most abundant harvest. And yet, even as we indulge to excess, the crisp nights and the sunlight’s increasingly anemic illumination remind us to prepare for winter.
When Septembering
honor abundance
as autumn will soon
yield to the drum roll
of hale and hoarfrost,
bitter wind, and snow.
— Geo Davis
This might be the first verse to a longer look at the point-counterpoint of this intoxicating yet sobering marvel of a month. It might also have reached its end. A little hibernation should help decide.
Cider Pressing, September 6, 2015 (Source: Geo Davis)
Sing-song Along
I’ve made no secret of the fact that this 2022 summer and autumn have been pivotal for Susan and for me. We’re surfing some seismic transformations in our lives, finally confronting inevitabilities and incongruities that have been evolving for a long time, and fortifying one another for significant choices and changes ahead. In all probability the liminal space we’re navigating underlies the vibrance and drama I’m noticing in everyday events. But I’m unable to disregard the rhymes, rituals, harmonies, and auspicious signs (cairns, buoys, vade mecums,…) as I immerse myself in the texture and artifacts of a decade and a half with Rosslyn, as Susan and I revise and remap and re-plot our next chapters.
So many friends and acquaintances have contributed to this new adventure we’re embarking on, often without even realizing it or intending to effect our trajectory. Influences have an uncanny habit of popping up at just the right time! And so I close this post with an invitation to you. We welcome you to join and participate in our quest. As fellow sojourners we’ll better bridge the valleys and better celebrate the lofty summits ahead. Grateful to be traveling together!
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)
We survived 2022, friends, and in some fortunate cases, we even thrived. Cheers to surviving and thriving an occasionally challenging year!
New Year’s Day: Writer’s Garret (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
That means it’s time for a meandering year-ender…
Retrospective
I’d like to jumpstart my retrospective with a positive personal milestone.
Yesterday’s post, “New Year’s Eve”, was my 153rd post in a row, completing a 5-month streak of daily updates without missing a single day. It’s an impartial victory at this point with seven months still on the to-do side of the ledger, but it’s an accomplishment that underpins my optimism — indeed my confidence — that I can achieve my goal of 365 days of uninterrupted Rosslyn updates. (Wondering why one year is a significant benchmark? I’ll explain soon, I promise.) In broad strokes, this is beginning to feel like actual, believable progress toward resuscitating Rosslyn Redux, my multidisciplinary meditation on the *art of homing*. There are so many reasons why this is important to me, and I’ve poked at a bunch on them in recent months, but for now I hope you’ll just allow that this exploration, this inside-out creative experiment, this quasi crowdsourced inquiry, and the resulting nexus of artifacts and stories and visuals and poems and all of the esoteric marginalia that has accreted over the last seventeen years since Susan and I bought Rosslyn is meaningful. Heck, to be 100% candid, for me it’s not just meaningful; it’s vital.
But enough heavy handed me-centrism. I’m flirting dangerously close to catharsis, so it’s time to lighten up. Time to imbue the balance of this post with effervescent toast-worthy bullet points like champagne bubbles rising giddily. Time for levity.
But first, an aside. I’m trying to distill my year-ender into a positive, celebratory retrospective without slipping into a post-mortem review of some of the less celebratory events. For this reason I started with a little victory dance celebrating the Rosslyn Redux momentum. My re-immersion has been stimulating and it’s catalyzing all sorts of overdue transformation. For this I’m profoundly grateful. And I’m doubling down on my commitment to see this challenge through to its conclusion.
There’s actually much more to celebrate, but to avoid overburdening this retrospective I’ll streamline my recap by simply listing and linking some of the most notable highlights. That way you can follow the links to more specific updates if you’re interested. And I’ll add a coming-soon placeholder in lieu of a link for those I haven’t yet covered. I’m hoping that this will keep things as lean as possible, because isn’t that always on our New Year‘s resolutions?!?!
High on the happy news is the ongoing icehouse rehab. It’s been a looong fantasized vision (and an almost equally long unrealized vision) that involves rehabilitating the last of the four buildings we set out to revitalize back in 2006. And, in this case, there’s a self-serving motive fueling my push. I perennially pine for a writer’s “garret”, and at last the icehouse loft will become that sanctuary just far enough removed to allow me to spread my stacks and sink into my writing projects. I. Can’t. Wait.
In addition to the icehouse rehab (and a writer’s hideaway), another biggy on the decade plus wishlist came tyre. In late winter off 2022 we finally invested in a high tunnel for the Rosslyn vegetable garden. It’s been a fascinating learning curve, and in a couple of months we’ll be getting it ready for another growing season with the benefit of one year already under our belts. Totally unrelated to gardening but similarly braided into the lakeside lifestyle that draws us to this remarkable property, we’ve made a change in our aquatic locomotion. You may recall that Errant, our 31′ sloop was sold in the hopes of replacing it with a slightly larger sailboat. Well, that plan was impacted by the attenuated pandemic which distorted the boat market and compelled us to stall long enough to deep-think our wants/needs. In short, our plans evolved significantly. Last summer we took delivery of a new 28′ Chris Craft launch that has become our entertaining and “picnic boat”, allowing our ski/surf boat to serve it’s proper purpose despite serving as our “everything boat” for years. This decision was part of sailboat shift as well. In a pretty significant reorientation we’ve been exploring the possibility of our future sailing adventures happening along the California, initially, and then possibly further north and south. This spring we’ll again sail on the west coast and continue to experiment with different iterations for our future sailing plans.
But I’m drifting of course, so I’d better tack back toward Rosslyn.
New Year’s Day: Writer’s Garret (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
Despite a disheartening debacle a year or so ago during our first foray into repairs on the Rosslyn’s boathouse gangway, the summer of 2022 marked a turning point. First came Patrick McAuliff‘s monumental transformation of Rosslyn’s front yard, replacing the overgrown, toppling arborvitae hedge with a handsome hemlock hedge. This quick summary oversimplifies (and leapfrogs a mysterious discovery), but I’ll unravel this yearn soon enough, I promise.
And then there was Rosslyn’s deck rebuild. This story had been evolving for a while (all the way back to TimberSIL). Most recently the same OPUD who cost us dearly on the boathouse gangway effectively hamstrung us on the deck as well. We retreated to Essex from Santa Fe earlier than normal to escape the worst forest fires in New Mexico history. With boathouse and deck in unsafe and unusable condition we began cancelling summer guests and plans…
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m sidestepping into the post-mortem that I intended to keep separate. Back to the deck rebuild which is complete, sturdy as can be, and stunningly beautiful (Hurrah, garapa decking!). And better yet, the ingredients for this rebuild included an outstanding team of friends and family and former collaborators on projects like the ADK Oasis Lakeside renovation who coalesced at the last minute and quickly became a skilled, collegial, productive, and fun loving team. In fact, much of this team is what has now evolved into the icehouse team.
After the boathouse gangway’s false start, there’s good news on Rosslyn’s waterfront as well. After the deeply discouraging setback inherited from the OPUD, after dismantling much of their work in order to rebuild correctly (the verdict of every single contractor who evaluated the miscarried first attempt), and after painstakingly recreating the original conditions instead of perpetuating the errors inherited from the OPUD, we’re back on track with a capable, experienced team. Fingers crossed that the boathouse gangway will be good as new next spring!
And there’s sooo much more. But I’ve waxed wordy, and my update has gotten too long. So I’ll abbreviate boldly with that list I promised earlier. Better late than never.
Trail building was advanced significantly with the hard work of Tony Foster, the guidance of John Davis, and the oversight of Pam Murphy. Rewilding progress was made, and thriving wildlife population documented. Tile and grout maintenance underway in bathrooms and kitchen by Clay Belzile. Stone wall reveal and landscaping at ADK Oasis Highlawn, and orchard restoration and stone wall rebuilding at ADK Oasis Lakeside. Too many contributors to these projects to list them all, but some notables were Bob Kaleita, Phil Valachovic, Patrick McAuliff, Roger King, Aaron Valachovic, and Tony Foster.
Other highlights include excellent gardening assistance on all three properties by our incredibly hardworking Amish neighbors, re-homing the zero-turn and the truckling, and one of our best apple and pear seasons in the orchard.
I’ll close with an admission that I didn’t succeed 100% in restricting my retrospective to the celebratory highlights. I drifted into post-mortem territory a couple of times. But, for now at least, I’ve edited out our unfortunate encounter with Covid, my father’s health upset, and Susan’s miraculous recovery from a life threatening tragedy this autumn. Today is a day to embrace success and optimism. And from the vantage point of January 1st even the most difficult challenges of the last year give me cause for celebrating success and renewing optimism.
Autumn Landscape, October 27, 2015 (Photo: Geo Davis)
TGIF… time to put another log on the fire, pour yourself something refreshing, and unwind for a moment together. Busy-ness and a continuous cascade of commitments can gradually hypnotize us during the weekly hurly-burly, so let’s take a few minutes to exhale and redirect our attention at this dramatic time of year. Transformation all around us. Breathtaking beauty all around us. I invite you to round out your week by contemplating the autumn landscape.
As another week of icehouse rehab draws to a close, I’m shifted gears a little. I’ll post an update soon, however there’ve been several compelling-but-competing intrigues to pursue. Yesterday’s post about rehoming the “truckling” in exchange for an inspiring reuse/recycling story has elicited several compelling possibilities. (Hoping to make a decision soon, and I’ll share the winning story!) I’ve also been crowdsourcing (albeit quite limitedly among friends and family) perspectives on what makes a house a home. Can’t wait to share the riches tomorrow! For now, with this pair of jolly Jack-in-the-box updates about to spring out into the open, I’m recalibrating and refocusing on autumn landscape.
Autumn Streamscape
As wildlife crisscross
these riparian byways
scents, tracks, graffiti.
— Geo Davis
This haiku takes as its seed the layered narrative along Library Brook which meanders the western margin of Rosslyn’s back forests and fields. So much wildlife trafficking this vital corridor, and all of them communicating, carrying on a distributed dialogue, and creating artistic artifacts.
I spent some time flail mowing near a small portion of this riparian region last summer, eliminating some invasive that have clogged the stream, and encouraging native flora to thrive, ensuring a healthy habitat for our wild neighbors. I thought that I had taken photographs of a mesmerizingly beautiful glade thick with stream-side wildflowers, but I’m unable to find them. Perhaps these images were meant to remain wild, earned quietly on foot, cross country skies, snowshoes.
These contemplative places abound at Rosslyn. And my haiku doesn’t offer a sufficient snapshot. Perhaps I’ll be able to update this page with another poem that offers the scents and sounds of this this wild autumn landscape. For now I’d like to offer you a potent portrait by a Vietnamese poet, Hồ Xuân Hương (1772–1822), that hints at the intoxication I’m alluding to. If “the banana leaves” are overlooked, her poem feels as if it might be leaning against a stump beside burbling Library Brook.
Autumn Landscape
Drop by drop rain slaps the banana leaves.
Praise whoever sketched this desolate scene:
the lush, dark canopies of the gnarled trees,
the long river, sliding smooth and white.
I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.
My backpack, breathing moonlight, sags with poems.
Look, and love everyone.
Whoever sees this landscape is stunned.
— Hồ Xuân Hương (Source: Narrative Magazine)
Let us all breathe some moonlight tonight, and let us all let go the of the week just lived and look at the autumn landscape, allow it to stun us, to remind us how to love. Everyone.
Bald eagle perches along Essex waterfront watching ducks.
I saw a young bald eagle recently flying over the lake just off from the hamlet. The ducks by the ferry dock ignored him but I bet they were keeping a close watch nevertheless. ~ Rob Ivy (Essex Column, Feb. 5, 2014)
I bundled up this morning – thermals and lots of fleecy layers – to brace against the subzero temperatures. After almost 24 hours of continuous snowfall I was excited with the prospect of an early morning skiing the fresh powder at Whiteface. But an even greater gift surprised me as I finished scraping the car and climbed in.
Bald Eagle Breakfasting?
My mobile phone buzzed to tell me a Facebook message had arrived.
“Bald eagle out there this morning!”
It was Willsboro neighbor, Beatrice Disogra, a daily Essex ferry commuter with a gift of spying bald eagles (and spectacular Lake Champlain views!) I parked at the end of our driveway, craning my neck to survey the trees. I didn’t see him at first. Our digital dialogue continued.
Look to the left of the boathouse up in the tall trees on the WATER’S EDGE. It came down and plucked a fish out between the boathouse and ferry dock last week. I’m at the ferry dock watching it right now. There’s a young one without white feathers that hangs out in front of your house. Should be easy to spot when the sun comes out.
I got out of my car and walked north, inspecting ash, maple, locust and cottonwood. Then I noticed a likely suspect.
Just walked toward Sandy Pt. Saw large blackish mass high in tree. Not certain it was eagle, but now gone.
It was. It flew past me at ferry dock. It will come back.
“Sitting ducks” enjoying the boathouse bubbler (while bald eagle watches.)
I had snapped the blurry photo above with my mobile phone in order to zoom in and take a closer look once I was back in the warmth of my car. And the eagle must have flown off as soon as I turned to walk away.
Bald Eagle and “Sitting Ducks”
I verified with Ms. Disogra that she’d witnessed the eagle catching a fish, not a duck. She assured me that she had been close enough to see it.
But bald eagles are also fond of ducks, and the area we keep bubbled in front of Rosslyn’s boathouse inevitably offers an inviting smorgasbord for hungry eagles. So far no photos of an eagle flying away with a duck in its talons!
It is worth noting, I am conflicted about this bald eagle and “sitting duck” situation. I am a big fan of the ducks. In fact, I want to raise a few ducklings myself one day, if only my bride would relent. And I am also awed by the magnificent bald eagles which frequent the Adirondack Coast in winter. But one could argue that we are effectively manipulating nature by creating open water which attracts the wild ducks, causing atypically high concentration which favors the bald eagles.
Waterfront Winterization: Pulling out the boat lift on September 22, 2016.
There comes a time each autumn when summer has faded and winter is whispering over the waves. Or when work, travel, something eclipses the languid stretch of fall boating and watersports. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, and as inevitable and bittersweet as fall foliage, waterfront winterization is an annual ritual that braces us practically and emotionally for the North Country’s frosty November through February.
The photo above chronicles the slow process of dragging the boat lift ashore. We use an electric winch and plenty of manpower. The aluminum dock is next. Rolling it in is the easy part. Lifting it up the stone terracing to higher ground is our version of crossfit.
Special thanks to Doug Decker, Erick Decker, Matt Smith, Alex Shepard, and Jeff Bigelow for making today’s waterfront winterization the smoothest and most efficient to date.
Boats on the Hard
Waterfront Winterization: Pulling the ski boat on September 21, 2016.
Usually in October, we haul Errant, our 31′ sailboat and Racy Rosslyn, our ski boat. This year we had to advance our haul dates to accommodate a busy fall schedule. In the photo above Racy Rosslyn is being towed away for winterization and storage.
Waterfront Winterization 2016: Errant is on the hard at a nearby shipyard.
La Vie en Rose: Rosslyn boathouse during a late February sunset. (Credit: Kristen Eden)
Je vois la vie en rose
I see life through rose-colored glasses — Édith Piaf
Édith Piaf’s “La Vie En Rose” – usually translated as “Life Through Rose-Colored Glasses” – inevitably, joyfully came to mind when this sexy photograph was shared with me on Facebook by an Essex friend and neighbor, Janice Koenig. It turns out the photographer, Kristen Eden, is also an Essex neighbor and, if Facebook counts, a new friend.
Kristen’s photographs (see gallery below for a few more) capture warmth and tenderness, unusual characteristics for mid-winter images of icy Lake Champlain. Even on sunny days our North Country light in February tends to by harsh and severe, so these unlikely photos were a welcome sight. They lit up Facebook prompting “likes” and comments from many local and distant fans. My downsized, watermarked versions of her photos don’t fairly do the originals justice, but you can enjoy the image above, “Ducks swimmin’ in pink lemonade” (in larger, better format) on Kristen Eden Fine Art and Photography.
Sensuous & Harsh: La Vie En Rose
Piaf, France’s “Little Sparrow”, similarly blends the sensuous and the harsh. Perhaps it’s the scratchy old recordings. Or her crushed velvet sound. Or her swooping transitions and confident refrains. Who knows? A siren’s mystery. Listen and decide for yourself.
Piaf’s song wove itself inextricably into my already Pollyanna-prone psyche during my college years, and despite the lyrics’s unlikely resonance, they remain evocative and hypnotic half a lifetime later. Piaf’s sensuous sound makes me nostalgic for the years I lived in Paris even now as I type these words about photographs that remind me how much I am enchanted with Essex, a world away from The City of Light.
Thanks for your Rose-colored Glasses
Thanks, Kristen, for your stunning photographs. And thanks, Janice, for bringing them to my attention.
Pink Green Mountain sunset (Credit: Kristen Eden)
Lake Champlain sunset in February (Credit: Kristen Eden)
Essex-Charlotte ferry dock during late February sunset (Credit: Kristen Eden)
Undocking 2022: ready to remove the docks (Source: Geo Davis)
Once upon a time undocking referred to a boat pulling away from a dock, a ship disembarking from a pier. At Rosslyn we also use the term to describe the annual autumn removal of docks (and boat lift) from Lake Champlain once the boats have been hauled and we begin to prepare for the North Country wintry. There’s also a more modern conotation in recent decades that summons grainy video footage of a spaceship uncoupling from the space station, or in a more quotidian context disconnecting technological devices or applications. For me today, in this post, undocking is all of these and more, a sort of metaphorical undocking, uncoupling, disconnecting as well.
Undocking 2022: docks removed (Source: Geo Davis)
Undocking v1.0
Let’s start with those first two photos above. Before and after autumn dock removal. In the first, an early morning photo, I sent the drone up for an end-of-season portrait of Rosslyn’s waterfront. A moody moment as if the lake and sky and the forces of nature were brooding, perhaps wavering, second guessing this seasonal transition. Less than a couple of hours later the boatlift sits high and dry (just barely visible north of the cottonwoods and west the multi stem maple) and the docks are lined up on the beach, their temporary home until late fall / early winter when they’ll be moved up onto the grassy terrace.
Undocking 2022: ready to remove the docks (Source: Geo Davis)
This third image, an aerial view directly above the boathouse, dock, and boatlift, offers a better perspective of the waterfront before undocking. And the photograph below offers virtually the same view except that the docks and boatlift have been stored on shore.
Undocking 2022: docks removed (Source: Geo Davis)
Of course, before proceeding with dock and boatlift removal, there’s an important prologue, disembarking in the Nautique ski/surf boat and the Chris Craft picnic boat for the final time of the season. So last Friday we hauled both boats for the winter, and today we removed the boatlift and the docks. Undocking complete, we’re —metaphorically speaking, at least — one step closer to our big seasonal transit. We’re temporarily unmoored. Unvesselled.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CiCnGSnAgab/
Undocking v2.0
In the spring of 2021 I sold a 31’ sloop that I’d sailed around Lake Champlain for seven seasons. In retrospect, I suppose it was one of my pandemic pivots. Although I’d been considering selling it sooner rather than later, I had expected to hold onto the sailboat for at least another year or two. I was contemplating a move to a larger boat, and I was beginning to wonder aloud with Susan if it might be time to start thinking about coastal sailing, a step toward blue water sailing that has long beckoned me. I’ve explored my rather sudden decision to sell Errant elsewhere, so I’ll curtail that narrative here. But I’ve brought it up for two reasons.
For starters, selling Errant was part and parcel of an ongoing period of transition with roots well before — but catalyzed during — the pandemic. But there’s something more germane to the present context.
Usually when I headed out to sail it was for a span of hours. Maybe half a day. If lucky, maybe a day. But sometimes, when opportunity allowed, I would depart for days instead of hours. On occasion Susan would join me. More often I sailed solo. And whether heading out for a few hours of wind chasing or setting off on a multi day sailing adventure, I would experience a euphoric wave as I hoisted the sails. An exhilarating wave simultaneously deep in my gut, high in my heart, and even higher in my head would sweep over me. A sort of high that would fill me with enthusiasm and hope and a profound feeling of freedom.
Helming 6-tons of home, vessel, food, and plans into a stiff chop and a swift blow is one of my “happy places”, as the saying goes. A plan and an itinerary but also a comfortable awareness that circumstances and conditions could shift unexpectedly, that sailing by definition presupposes a state of fluidity and flux from undocking (or untethering) to setting anchor or returning to harbor.
To some degree this euphoric state is present every time I set out in any boat, any journey, any transition. Our seasonal migration between the lush shores of Lake Champlain and the high desert southwest is one of these undocking rituals. A setting out. An ending. A beginning. Closure. A fresh start. A new adventure. Another chapter. Seasonality writ large…
But I’m digressing and meandering. Back to the present, to removing the boats and storing them for the winter, to removing the docks and storing them for the winter, to winterizing the waterfront for the coming cold, the snow, the ice…
The present undocking is even more significant for us than usual. Or at least I have the sense that it is more significant. As we navigate a period of curated liminality, I am especially conscious of the uncoupling. The untethering. Sometimes a simple, familiar seasonal ritual — falling out of summer and into autumn, undocking vessels and the temporary means by which we secure them — turns out to be an integral constituent part of a larger, more profound transformation.
This is what I see when I look at the aerial photographs above. It is an awareness, a conscious yielding to the change(s) underway. I’m confident that Susan and I are both attuned to this liminality, that we’re aware and willing to embrace the shift, to immerse ourselves fully into what is feeling like a monumental shift in the proverbial seasons. I believe that we’re in the flow in a way that has eluded us in recent years. In many years really. This present undocking and its various rhizomic permutations feels more significant than its predecessors. In fact, this undocking is increasingly reminiscent of our transition from Manhattan to Essex 16 years ago. It’s still early. And it’s still unclear what exactly were moving through, moving toward. But we are journeying toward greater clarity each day.
Lately I’ve been reflecting on all the trees I wish I’d planted in the fall of 2006 and the spring of 2007. We’ve been adding new trees for a year now — a half dozen or so each spring and fall — and yet I can’t help but imagine what might be today if I’d started earlier. Fruit trees ten or twelve feet tall would still be blooming. We would have been harvesting apples and pears and plums and apricots and peaches for a couple of seasons by now.
In fact, we have harvested some apples and pears during the last two years, but they didn’t come from newly planted trees. I’ve been restoring a couple dozen gnarly, long neglected apple trees (and two pear trees) scattered throughout the meadows behind our barns. Whittling a third of their old growth away each season, I’ve begun to nurse the old trees back to health, and several have begun to produce palatable fruit.
I’ve wiled away many beautiful hours lopping and sawing from the top of a ladder or winding my way through the limbs like a monkey. I’ve loved every minute of it and not just for the promise of future fruit.
It’s a funny thing, an orchard. So many functions wrapped up in one little plot of land, one little grid of fruit trees. Obviously one of the most important is also the most self evident: an orchard is a neighborhood “market”, if you will. A fresh fruit grocery less than a minute from the kitchen. An organic grocery where I can be 100% confident that no pesticide and no unwholesome ripening techniques have sullied the fresh fruit.
Doug carrying orchard ladder
And then there are the flowers. Gardeners, landscapers, poets and painters have romanced the seasonal blossoms of fruit trees for hundreds of years. I am no exception despite my utilitarian, upcountry ways. An orchard is a geometric bouquet of blooms, an annual riot against leafless canopies and gray, drizzly spring days. And even when blossoms flutter earthward and the boughs fill with thick plumes of adolescent foliage, there remains a subtle nobility in the orchard’s orderly procession.
During hot summer days the orchard becomes contemplative, concentrating on nurturing promises into bounty. The fruit trees reach deep into the cool earth for water and high into the sky for sunshine. They brace their increasingly heavy load against winds and thunderstorms.
And then it’s time for the harvest. Whether a crisp apple plucked during a mid-day walk with Griffin or a pear sauce cooked down with vanilla, cloves and a jigger of maple syrup, I’ve already begun to enjoy the fruits of my labors. This August through October should offer up an even more robust crop of apples and pears. And someday soon I hope to acquire a cider press and invite friends and neighbors for a weekend of fruit gathering and cidering. A potluck. Music in the meadows. And by then, with luck, the apricots and peaches and plums will have begun to produce as well. What fruity feasting we’ll do!
Old Apple Tree; New Chapter (Photo credit: virtualDavis)
During the winter months another often overlooked function of the orchard reveals itself. In order to maintain healthy fruit trees while improving their physical architecture and productivity it’s necessary to prune the trees during the period of winter dormancy. This is a chore, and the bigger the orchard grows, the bigger the chore. But unlike most chores, pruning an orchard is far more than a line item on a To Do list.
There’s a creative element, shaping and guiding the trees’ growth habit year after year. And there is a serotonin inducing pick-me-up triggered by dedicating yourself to an activity during the winter doldrums which will increase summer abundance. An investment in future harvests.
But for me, the single greatest reward of fruit tree orcharding occurs during the off-season. My bride is an avid and dedicated practitioner of yoga. Not I. For me it’s fruit tree pruning. I don’t think it’s a reach to suggest that pruning fruit trees in the late winter and early spring is my yoga. It’s my mindfulness meditation.
And then there’s grafting… But that alchemist’s hobby for another day, another post.
Now I’m off to sleep to dream of the orchards we might have had today if we could have initiated our orchard yoga sooner!
Rosslyn boathouse, January 8, 2012 (Photo credit: Glenn Estus)
It’s time for another Rosslyn Roundup to share everything Rosslyn-related that I didn’t get a chance to post over the last few weeks. Champlain Valleysprings are unpredictable and exciting, sometimes arriving early (this year) and other times hiding behind rain, rain, rain (last year).
We’ve been celebrating our good fortune (quietly, with fingers crossed, while chewing on garlic cloves) that Spring 2012 has been considerably drier than Spring 2011. Remember the devastating Lake Champlain floods last year? For the better part of two months we experienced history making high water levels which inundated the Town of Essex and swamped Rosslyn boathouse under three feet of water for weeks on end. But we were lucky. Damage was minimal, and we recovered. Actually… we’re still recovering. Rebuilding the stone walls along the waterfront is ongoing, but that story for another blog post!
It’s a bit hard to believe that I launched the Rosslyn Redux blog just over a year ago. I’ve been finding my feet, trying to decide what goes into the book, what goes into the performance and what goes into the blog. I’m still filtering through artifacts and unadopted stories, but the most everything has fallen into place. The book (books? booklings?) are nearing their inevitable (and looong awaited) right of passage. And the blog, evolving in fits and starts has nevertheless averaged almost one post per week. Expect that rate to increase now that I’m in the homestretch with manuscripts.
Okay, enough bellybutton gazing. Well, almost enough. A couple of other interesting items to relay before plunging into the Rosslyn Roundup.
May Day was the busiest day on the blog ever! In addition to “Reawakening Rosslyn” which drew record readers, there were many people who showed up a day late to read “Old Glory & Mud Season“. The combination of these two posts included a magic elixir… If only I knew what it was! Please don’t hesitate to share your preferences for future posts, and I’ll do my best to honor your wishes.
I have to admit that I was pretty thrilled with the reception that “Reawakening Rosslyn” received. You may have already figured that it’s a central theme in the story of our epic home and property rehabilitation.
Less surprising, my post about cartoonist Sid Couchey was also well received. Proof that whether we all admit it or not, we all love cartoons! And if you ever met my Essex friend and neighbor, you’d love Couchey too. He will remain a local legend for many years to come. I feel fortunate each time I pass Couchey’s painting of Rosslyn boathouse which hangs in our morning room. I’ve decided that the fellow chatting with Champy — the Lake Champlain monster — at the end of the boathouse pier is the cartoonist himself. I’m listening carefully and hoping to hear the joke that they’re sharing.
Okay, about that roundup… Did you see that spooky photograph of Rosslyn boathouse at the top of this post? Spectacular. Eerie. The image is called “Essex, NY Boathouse #3” and it was shot on January 8, 2012 by local photographer, Glenn Estus. We have several of his photographs hanging on the walls at Rosslyn, and you can see plenty more in his Flickr feed if your interested.
Speaking of photographs, check out the new Rosslyn Redux board on Pinterest to see a growing collection of Rosslyn photographs shared by people all over the globe. Add your own photos, and I’ll heap praise and accolades upon you.
And you’ll find more photographs by me and others on the Rosslyn Redux Facebook page which has grown steadily in membership over the last year. If you’re not already a friend of the forthcoming Rosslyn Redux memoir, now’s the time. Please friend the page and feel free to share your thoughts. I look forward to hearing from you.
