Building a drystack stone wall at Rosslyn, Essex on Lake Champlain
Yesterday, Thursday, May 15, 2009 was windier than a subway median at rush hour. Lake Champlain wind blasts reached 50 mph. The forecast had threatened gusts up to 90 mph. The rain drizzled off and on all day, but the fellow building the stone wall near the mud room stuck it out and got the job done.
This morning my bride interrupted me, frantic. She could only see one wind surfer on the on the boathouse dock. There had been two. Could the wind have blown it away? Possible, I supposed aloud, but unlikely.
I headed down and discovered that the older, larger Mistral sailboard was gone. Scanning the shoreline I spied it some two hundred feet north of the boathouse smashing against the rocks in heavy waves.
I couldn’t believe it. The wind had lifted it off the pier and deposited in the lake where it drifted until washing ashore. The wind! It’s a “vintage” sailboard at least a decade old. Huge. Heavy. A veritable aircraft carrier…
Yet there it was, getting splintered against the rocky shoreline.
I made my way north and climbed across the rocks. It was banged up pretty well, but still usable, though I figured it might be time to re-purpose it as a standup paddleboard.
I retrieved the board and made my way precariously back to the dock house, struggling to control the board in the still gusty wind. I was nearly blown off my feet several times before making it to the lawn.
Susan met me at the waterfront, and together we stored the Adirondack chairs inside the boathouse. I lashed the louvered doors shut because they’d blown open and wedged the sailboards in beside the chairs. The building moaned and the windows rattled against the wind gusts.
We headed back up to the house holding hands. The internet/television cable dangled from the pole where it had snapped and we counted two immense ash trees that had been knocked down in woods to the north of our front lawn. Leaves and branches were strewn all over the deck, driveway and lawn. An apple bough laden with blossoms lay on the grass.
After 24 hours our internet service was still down so I called the local company again for an update. A day later I showed the technician the dangling line. He’d been looking for about half an hour, walking around and using the hydraulic cherry picker on his van to lift him up for in-air surveillance on both sides of the road.
Photograph of Essex artist Bill Amadon (and his dog) walking/photographing on frozen Lake Champlain.
I spied Bill Amadon,(billamadon.com) an Essex artist and good friend, walking around on the frozen lake in front of our boathouse a few days ago. The lighting and distance made identification a little dodgy but the dog was hint #1 and a conversation with Bill the day prior (at the Essex Post Office where so many mid-winter encounters occur) was hint #2.
Bill mentioned that he was working on a series of three commissioned paintings, and that he was hoping to make it out onto Lake Champlain early the following morning to capture the waterfront in early morning light. He needed the photos to research the third and final painting in the series.
My suspicions were confirmed when a short while later Bill Amadon posted the following images to his Facebook page. He generously permitted me to showcase the photographs here. Enjoy!
Beggs Point in Essex by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Essex by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Old Dock in Essex (Source: Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015)
Essex ferry dock by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Rosslyn boathouse by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Rosslyn boathouse by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Frozen Lake Champlain by Bill Amadon, March 13, 2015
Let me start by saying that we don’t have a duck pond. We have a lake. Lake Champlain.
And although it pains me slightly to say it, we also don’t have any ducks. Not personally, at least. Lake Champlain, on the other hand, has plenty of ducks. And when the lake freezes and the ducks run out of water to swim and eat, we offer them a small “duck pond” in front of Rosslyn boathouse to tide them over until spring. Or at least that’s our current practice.
In the Beginning…
The origin of our “duck pond” is less duck-centric. When we purchased Rosslyn in the summer of 2006 the boathouse perilously teetering on a failing timber and stone crib. The whole peninsular folly was one ice flow away from the grave. In fact, all four buildings were suffering the advanced stages of disrepair. We had to prioritize our attentions that first winter, and the house won out. In the hopes of preserving the boathouse until we could begin rehabilitation, we purchased an Ice Eater to reduce ice damage. It was a long shot. But it worked. The Ice Eater agitated the water at the end of Rosslyn boathouse, preventing ice from forming. It also created a perfect refugee for the ducks. (And the hawks and eagles, but that story for another day…)
The following winter my bride (and many of our new neighbors) insisted that we install the Ice Eater again to ensure that the ducks would have open water. I obliged. Despite the fact that the boathouse now how a solid foundation and is [hopefully] less likely to succumb to ice damage, we continue to maintain a winter “duck pond” each year.
2015 Ice Eater Foibles
Unfortunately in late January pack ice was blown into shore clogging the Ice Eater and eventually sheering both of the propeller blades that agitate the water to prevent freezing. Temperatures were bitterly cold and the lake froze sans “duck pond”. My bride and I were out of town at the time, but concerned messages began to fill my email account.
“Since George has not installed his bubbler this year the Essex ducks are cooperating to keep a pond churned with 100 constantly circling webbed feet. Their pond is a few hundred feet north of George’s boathouse…” ~ S. B.
“Greetings from ‘cool’ Essex. All those mallards are hoping you will turn on your bubbler as the ice is closing in on them and they really don’t want to leave. I was surprised to find them in my yard under the oak tree eating acorns a couple of afternoons. Never knew that could be part of their diet…” ~ D. L.
Reopening the Duck Pond
2015 Duck Pond
I ordered a replacement propeller for the Ice Eater and hustled home to make repairs. By the time I arrived the lake had tightened up (regional expression for frozen solidly) except for the ferry channel where the ducks were congregating, flying up with the comings and goings of the ferry, and then settling back down into the frigid water.
Doug assisted me in repairing the Ice Eater and breaking a small hole in the ice, not much larger than those used by ice fishermen. We suspended the Ice Eater in the hole and plugged it it. It whirred to life, pumping a steady stream of warmer water from the bottom up onto the ice. Within hours the hole had grown large enough to attract some of the ducks. Over the next few days the churning water swelled the hole larger and larger, finally expanding the open water enough to once again qualify as our “duck pond”. As I write this post, literally hundreds of ducks are bobbing wing to wing, beaks into the wind.
I’ve been back in the Adirondacks for a week after a six week “walkabout” with my bride and beast (Griffin, a 5 year old Labrador Retriever). And today is the first day that it hasn’t rained since we our return.
The sky is blue. The sun is warm. Robins are plucking worms from the soggy lawn. The purple lilacs are blooming. Spinach, radishes (French Breakfast Radish… Yum!), arugula and lettuce are reaching toward the sunny heavens. And Lake Champlain is wavy but not choppy. A postcard perfect day. But all is not perfect…
Remember these Lake Champlain water level graphs that I shared frequently during the 2011 Lake Champlain flood? Well, they’re back! And not because I love wonky diagrams.
Unfortunately I’m once again preoccupied with Lake Champlain’s rapidly rising waters. As you can see, the Lake Champlain water level is approaching 98 feet. While this isn’t an unusually high water level for spring, the rate at which the level is increasing concerns me.
You see how the lake gradually dropped a foot and a half over the last month? At the low, everyone was a little worried. Too low. Starting out the boating season with such low water levels would have been a concern in August and September. Boats find reefs and sandbars when the lake gets sooo low. Which isn’t fun for boat owners. Though full-service marinas tend to fare rather well…
Of course, low water levels are no longer a concern. We arrived home last Tuesday, and since then the rain has been falling and the lake level has been raising. Lake Champlain’s jumped almost two feet in a week. At 10:00 AM the current USGS Lake Champlain water level is 97.94 feet. And it’s continuing to go up, up, up.
And our dock is already at water level. Exactly. And while the boat lift still has almost a foot of reserve if we need to jack the runabout higher, the batteries are sitting on the dock. And they need to stay dry.
We might resort to putting the batteries in the boat to keep them dry. Especially if the water level continues to rise. Which I’m hoping it wont. I’m hoping that it’s cresting. That it’s about to start falling. Precipitously!
But hope and Mother Nature don’t always collaborate. Today, perhaps they will.
“George, uh, when you get a chance, can you give me a call? A, uh, a turkey hit your door last night and, um, it knocked the door off its hinges…”
A turkey? What? The voicemail had popped up on my mobile while I was riding to the airport in Antigua following ten days of sun soaked family relaxation. I wasn’t ready to go home much less hear that our house had been broken into by a wild turkey.
The connection was poor, the roads were bumpy, and the suspension was complaining.
I replayed the message.
Doug’s voice was tired and faltering, but it was the unlikely message, not the connection or his delivery which stumped me. A turkey broke down our door? What?!?!
Turkey Tale with Fishy Facts
I called Doug back as we bumped along. He answered and dilated the unlikely facts. The story was even more perplexing in long form.
A 23 pound wild turkey smashed through our mudroom door at around 8:30pm on Saturday night. Literally knocked the door right out of the wall, shredding the doorjamb and trim in the process. The alarm went off and New York State police responded to the call, immediately dispatching a trooper to the house. He was so surprised to discover the door blasted off the hinges and a dead turkey sitting on the threshold that he called in the police sergeant. Neither of them had ever experienced a break-in quite this bizarre before, so before long two troopers and one sergeant (plus an investigator by telephone) collectively unraveled the most likely circumstances and documented the incident. Photos were taken. Our caretaker, Doug, and our housekeeper, Lorri, witnessed and brainstormed the incident with the police and then the entire house was searched for evidence of any foul play. They found none. Apparently the turkey smashed the door down but didn’t manage to get into the loot. Or even the bar!
Doug confirmed that he had repaired the door temporarily to secure the house, and he had kept the turkey to show me when I returned. Did he want me to cut it open?
“Why?”
“I heard shots in the back meadows the day before. And the next day. Maybe somebody shot the turkey?”
I had my doubts. “At night? Who hunts turkey at night?”
“So get rid of the turkey?”
“No. Not yet. Let me talk this through with Susan on the flight home. I’ll call you when we land.”
When I hung up my bride who had been listening intently barraged me with questions. Chief among them — and reiterated in several different manners before I had a chance to respond — was the same question that loomed ominously for me too. How in the world could a turkey knock a robust exterior door right off its hinges?
I failed to adequately answer her questions or assuage her concerns. We fussed and worried, allowing our imaginations to inflate the surreal scenario nearly to bursting. By the time we landed in Newark I had decided to hightail it north to Essex the next day by train rather than driving north a couple of days later after my bride completed work commitments in Manhattan and New Jersey. I’d also decided that Doug’s idea about the wild turkey being shot might make a strange sort of sense. I couldn’t wrap my mind around a turkey, no matter how large, breaking and entering. And Doug’s mention of shots distressed me. Foul play?
At the very least this wild turkey tale smelled fishy.
Training to Scene of the Crime
I called Doug from the train to let him know I was on my way north and then followed up via email with a few people who’d already gotten wind of the turkey mystery.
DL: How is the turkey soup?
KS: I heard about your turkey burglar…
TD: Wow, I think that turkey was flying fast and hard… Sorry about your door! There must be a bad joke here somewhere?
DW: What?? Why would a turkey even do that? Truly stranger than fiction!
MD: A turkey??! Literally? That’s a hell of a turkey!
Me: Turns out the guajolote was 23 pounds. Literally knocked an exterior door right out of the jamb… the alarm was tripped and the artillery arrived to sort through the giblets. NYS Troopers consider it one of the most unique break-ins they could remember.
NH: Shock Horror! Was turkey acting under its own volition or was it being wielded? Was turkey cold? Is house on the site of an old turkey burial ground?
JK: Did you and Susan eat it, doorkill, housekill, randomkill, however it is labelled? Fricasseed, à la king, roasted, curried? Or did you just throw it out… Please do answer my query about the guajolote (wonderful Mexican word) so I can sleep in peace.
Wild Turkey Evidence
Needless to say, the old bird was beyond eating condition by the time I arrived in Essex. I snapped some photos and asked Doug if he were really willing to cut the carcass open to look for shot. He was. And he did, but found none.
This confirmed the original hypothesis. The wild turkey had most likely been ambushed by coyotes in one of our back meadows. Most of the feathers had been pulled off of his legs and a large wound in his breast suggested a coyote attack. The turkey escaped despite his wounds. But his adrenaline ran out (or his injuries simply got the best of him), and he crashed into the door, striking at precisely the spot where the top hinge attached the door to the jamb. We discovered that the contractor had failed to adequately secure the jamb to the surrounding frame, and the combination of sloppy construction and a heavy, rapidly moving projectile had been adequate to shatter the jamb and knock the door in.
Incredible.
But true.
Eastern Wild Turkey
It’s time to learn about the Eastern Wild Turkey (Meleagris gallopavo silvestris) which is a familiar critter in the Adirondacks and one of the most abundant examples of wildlife in Rosslyn’s meadows and woods.
Wild turkeys have excellent vision during the day but don’t see as well at night. They are also very mobile. Turkeys can run at speeds up to 25 mph, and they can fly up to 55 mph. (National Wild Turkey Federation)
When mating season arrives, anywhere from February to April, courtship usually begins while turkeys are still flocked together in wintering areas. (National Wild Turkey Federation)
Two major characteristics distinguish males from females: spurs and beards… Soon after birth, a male’s spur starts growing pointed and curved and can grow to about two inches. Most hen’s spurs do not grow. Gobblers also have beards, which are tufts of filaments, or modified feathers, growing out from the chest. Beards can grow to an average of 9 inches (though they can grow much longer). It must also be noted that 10 to 20 percent of hens have beards. (National Wild Turkey Federation)
Kamikazes and Banana Republics
Our kamikaze wild turkey had apparently sported an 18″ long beard (removed by Doug’s son by the time I took the photo), and his spurs were at least an inch long. Whether or not the old boy enjoyed a final mating ritual before crashing into Rosslyn’s mudroom door will remain a mystery, but I’d like to believe that he did. The love of his life, the real deal…
The next day the shots rang out behind our carriage barn, but I realized that they were coming from Essex Farm, an adjoining property where gunshots are about as common as a cinematic banana republic. My concerns about wild turkey “jackers” evaporated as I settled in to accept the latest chapter of our Rosslyn safari.
And lest you need a visual jumpstart to help you imagine coyotes’ appetites for wild turkeys, I’ll close with this short video from a stranger who would probably sympathize with our Gallopavo imbroglio.
What’s your verdict? Can you believe that a kamikaze wild turkey was behind this Rosslyn breaking-and-entering scenario? Dubious? Share your hypothesis below!
With September and October skulking away and November slithering in, I’m dishing up a photographic retrospective, a parade of annotated images gathered “on the fly” over the last few months.
Timber Rattlesnake killed on Lakeshore Road in Essex, NY on August 22, 2012.
This first photo was actually taken in August, but I couldn’t resist including this unsettling image. I came across this freshly killed three foot long Adirondack timber rattlesnake while cycling along Lakeshore Road near Essex. The blood was fresh and the rattle had been cut off.
Although I want to believe this near-black Crotalus horridus was accidentally hit and killed by a car, it prompted a serpentless September rattlesnake safari, and catalyzed much conversation with friends about our local population of timber rattlesnakes. How can we protect them?
I’ll share rattlesnake news if/when relevant. For now I’ll move over to the autumn harvest. Given our hot, dry summer it was been a phenomenal year for most locally grown produce.
While we began flirting with frost most nights in September (earlier than the previous two years), tender vegetables like tomatoes were still coming out of our own garden and our local CSA, Full and By Farm, owned by Sara Kurak and James Graves.
These “ugly but delicious” heirloom tomatoes from Full and By Farm tempted me despite the fact that we’d been giving away and composting excess tomatoes since August. Too many, too fast. I’d been eating 2-3 tomatoes every day for lunch and dinner. Literally. I’m not exaggerating.
When I posted the picture of these yellowish orange tomatoes on Twitter and Facebook, several friends insisted that these tomatoes weren’t ugly. True. They were voluptuous and vibrant and even a quick glance discloses the explosion of flavor they pack.
But many of the heirloom varieties that we grow in our vegetable garden and the Full and By farmers grow are often referred to as “ugly” simply because they lack the uniformity of color and the blemish-free skin of the hybrid varieties usually sold in stores. In fact, the “uglier” the variety, the better they usually taste. One of my favorites, Black Krim is a perfect example. I wish I had posted a photo when they were still producing…
These hot, hot, hot peppers (early Adirondack autumn colors?) were part of our farm share pickup for several weeks.
I don’t tend to use many hot peppers in my cooking (and I grow several varieties in our own garden) so I haven’t been loading up on these, but I find them beautiful. Beautiful! I’m always amazed how naturally glossy and polished peppers and eggplant are. And the green/red mottling is exquisite.
If you scratch and sniff the photo, you just might understand why the farmers remind us again and again, “Those are hot!”
And what better complement to those exotic peppers than a not often witnessed artichoke blossom.
We grew Imperial Star Artichokes for the second time this summer. Last year we successfully propagated and matured a half dozen plants. But the result was only a few smallish artichokes. Lots of effort for negligible reward, but I was encouraged to try again. I’d never even known that we could successfully grow artichokes in the Adirondacks.
The discovery was made in the fall of 2010 while visiting the gardens of Château Ramezay in Montreal. I was astonished to see the thriving plants, and immediately began researching. It turned out that Imperial Star Artichokes are productively grown as annuals in Maine and other parts of the Northeast. We vowed to try to our luck.
This summer we had nine plants of which two never produced artichokes but the other seven each produced multiple artichokes. Several plants produced five to ten artichokes apiece. We’ve felt truly fortunate each time we’ve harvested artichokes for lunch or dinner. Can believe that artichokes are yet another highlight of Adirondack autumn?
In fact, so abundant were the artichokes during August and September that several began to bloom before we could harvest them. The photograph above nicely conveys the part-sea-anemone-part-fireworks blossom of an Imperial Star Artichoke. A favorite of our Rosslyn honeybees.
Adirondack autumn is also the perfect time for sailing on Lake Champlain. Although my bride and I have mostly concentrated on windsurfing in recent years, I often find myself gazing longingly at larger sailboats gliding gracefully across the water.
For most of my life I’ve dreamed of a swift sailing vessel large enough to live aboard and wander from port to port, slowly gunkholing my way around the world with occasional blue water crossings between continents. I even have a name for my ship. And her dinghy. But I’ll keep them under wraps until the time is right.
This handsome navy blue sloop was in the neighborhood for a few days, repeatedly cautching my eye because of its minimalist but handsome design. Elegant when drifting in a light breeze and even more so when scudding through whitecaps riding a stiff blow!
Although I’m aware that my critics may justifiably accuse me of bellybutton gazing each time I post a new image of Rosslyn’s boathouse, I simply can’t resist it. This architectural folly has enchanted me since childhood, and now that I have the opportunity (and responsibility) to care for her, I’m all the more smitten.
This photo was taken at dawn after a forceful windstorm (an unwelcome hand-me-down from Hurricane Isaac) that loosed one of the Adirondack chairs from the deck and dumped it into the shallow water of the beach. We were relieved to recover the chair because it was a handmade wedding gift from a close friend. Though one armrest was shattered, we will repair and repaint it this winter so that it will be ready to enjoy again next spring.
And, as if hurricanes weren’t enough, a short time later we were warned that a tornado threatened! A tornado? It does seem that extreme weather is becoming more and more common.
Only a couple of days before, Camp Dudley, a boys camp in Westport, NY where I spent a couple of memorable summers as a boy, was hit by an destructive windstorm that damaged roofs and snapped trees.
This moody black and white photo of the dockhouse was taken in the hours awaiting the tornado. Anxious hours.
Fortunately we were spared the worst of the tornado, but our good friends who own a home north of us near Valcour Island were not so lucky. They lost a towering old growth tree and their boat docks were tossed and somersaulted out into Lake Champlain. Fortunately nobody was hurt and the docks were able to be recovered.
In a similarly ominous vein, this photograph of Rosslyn’s waterfront not only conveys the foreboding of stormy weather but also of summer passing. Or at least that was my hope. You’ll have to be the judge.
The lighting and the shading suggest an antique photograph (thanks to a handy iPhone app which allows limitless technical control over the image elements) while the angle and unpopulated Adirondack chairs and beach add an eerie, abandoned feel. As if a seasonal camp or resort is about to be mothballed for the winter.
There’s irony in this, of course, because Rosslyn is our home. Once our summer guests depart and Essex village slows down, we experience a second wind. We are revitalized. But that story for another day…
Although we have several times hunkered down in anticipation of severe weather this fall, we’ve been been spared each time. And each time the skies have cleared to reveal blue skies and sunshine enough to warm our optimism. And even the occasional wild turkey feather. Check out this bumpy but fun video of twenty turkeys in Rosslyn orchard.
I’ve walked the property after these storms to survey fallen limbs and other damage. Each time I’ve been relieved with the minimal damage. We’ve lost many branches and leaves, but few trees. Perhaps this is due to some sort of cosmic payback for the damage to our fruit trees this spring when a powerful hailstorm destroyed an ancient crab apple and killed seven young fruit trees in our orchard.
Chief among my concerns when the winds howl (or the snowstorms dump, dump, dump) is our carriage barn which is overdue for a new roof.
When an old barn collapsed at Full and By Farm a couple of winters ago I started looking more critically at our historic carriage barn. Although it is in surprisingly good shape for its 100-200 years, the structural elements of the post and beam construction are under-built by modern standards. There are several areas where settling and sagging cause concern, and we’ve been moving forward with plans to secure the building and replace the roof.
If all goes as planned, construction will begin soon and we will be spared another anxious winter worrying that the snow load will overcome the proud old building. I will post updates if/when this project advances.
The perils and challenges of severe weather for homeowners with aging property are plenty, but there’s little pleasure in fretting. And there’s ample pleasure in celebrating the harvest, so I’d like to return to the topic of harvesting, preparing and preserving the vegetables of our labors.
But I’ve already droned on ad nauseum, so I’ll save further harvest updates for your next installment… Stay tuned for Adirondack Autumn 2012: Part II.
With some Champlain Valley residents being evacuated by boat and the Wesport Marina totally flooded, we’re feeling fortunate that a submerged boathouse and waterfront is the extent of our flooding problems.
Although we have our work cut our for us when Lake Champlain water levels drop, another short-term challenge is the super saturated soil. Tilling the vegetable garden has been out of the question, planting more grape vines, fruit trees and shrubs likewise has been suspended lest we drown the roots. Last year, I planted spinach and French Breakfast Radishes in the garden in mid-March, and my bride and I had been gorging on succulent baby spinach for weeks by this point. Not so this year. Some onions and leeks wintered over, but nothing new has been planted in the vegetable garden yet.
I received a call from Mr. Murphy, the gentleman who — with his son and sometimes his grandson — has done an unbelievable job of maintaining our lawns for the last two years. He wanted to know when to start mowing lawns for the season. He agreed that the ground was far too saturated and suggested we wait a couple of weeks. I agreed.
Frankly, I’ve agreed with almost every decision Mr. Murphy has made over the last two years. He’s a lawn master. And a weather master. He keeps track of the forecast and works around it, advancing or pushing back our lawn mowing each week per the rain forecast. And so far we’ve never once had an unmowed lawn for the weekend! And he’s nice as can be, always smiling, always ready to let me in on an amusing story or anecdote. He’s famous in these parts for his tomato plants. He raises many hundreds of plants and then sells them to friends and neighbors, donating the profits to the local animal shelter.
In short, I’m a big fan of Mr. Murphy, and when he told me that his greenhouse was flooded, I was sympathetic as only a sunken boathouse owner could be.
Water, water everywhere! We’re all ready for a drought…
Hyacinth perfume the air outside our breakfast room
Actually, today I took matters into my own hands. Despite the notion that a couple of dry weeks would be needed to till and plant, I jumped the gun. Rising lake water had gotten its talons into my spirit, so I decided to ignore the flood and enjoy the first balmy spring day in a while gardening, pruning, landscaping. And you know what? It worked! I only wish I’d tried this approach a few days ago. Maybe Lake Champlain wouldn’t have risen so high.
Doug and I spent part of the morning changing over the tractor from snow plow to backhoe, and then proceeded to rip out a lumber retaining wall at the southeast corner of the old clay tennis court. I suspected that the area contained objectionable refuse (a battery and part of a garden hose had floated to the surface) and the wall had been built altogether too close to the carriage barn resulting in sill and framing rot. I’ll tell the story of what we discovered in another post.
Then we tilled the garden under for the second time, adding plenty of sphagnum moss to help lighten the soil. We were premature. The tines clogged repeatedly, but we made it through which will help the soil dry out. Tomorrow I’m hoping to make another pass and possibly — I dare not pronounce my wish lest I tempt the rain fates — just possibly I’ll be able to plant some spinach and kale. I’d hoped to have the vegetable garden so much further along by now because of some ambitious plans. We’re relocating the asparagus patch from south of the carriage barn to back by the vegetable garden. The strawberry beds will also be moved. And the rhubarb. And blueberries, raspberries and blackberries are arriving in a couple of weeks to be planted. None of these beds have been prepared yet.
But today marked the first major step forward in preparing the vegetable and fruit gardens. And tomorrow, weather permitting, I intend to continue full steam ahead! Fingers crossed…
Rosslyn’s boathouse was flooded and severely damaged in 1983. (Source: Dianne Lansing)
You may have noticed that my blog posts are sporadic. Sometimes a post almost writes itself, exploding into the blogosphere as if channeled from the universe itself. Other times lengthy lapses betray my distracted dithering. Today’s soggy sentiments fall into the latter category.
Nevertheless, it’s a shame that more than two years have come and gone since Essex neighbor and friend Dianne Lansing sent me that sorrowful photograph of our boathouse succumbing to Lake Champlain‘s bullying. Shame on me!
Here are a few excerpts from my exchange with Dianne during the 2015 winter/spring.
Dianne Lansing: All those mallards are hoping you will turn on your bubbler as the ice is closing in on them and they really don’t want to leave. I was surprised to find them in my yard under the oak tree eating acorns a couple of afternoons. Never knew that could be part of their diet…
Geo Davis: What a wonderful (and horrifying) photograph of Rosslyn’s boathouse! Thank you for digging it up and passing it along. Did you take the photograph? Do you recollect the back story? Normal spring flooding? Is this what prompted George McNutly’s mid-1980s boathouse rebuild (when LCT’s crane barge, Miss Piggy) assisted?
Dianne Lansing: Glad you liked the photo… I don’t know if I took the photo or David [Dianne’s husband, David Lansing] did. Probably me but I don’t remember any of it. Don’t recall seeing the boat house in such disrepair. I’m pretty sure, however, that it was ‘normal’ spring flooding as I don’t recall any other event that would have caused the roof to collapse. I’m glad you have restored it to its former glory…
Geo Davis: Thank you! A wonderful gift and ominous warning to always act as responsible stewards of that quirky little building. I’ll credit both of you, and we’ll let posterity sort it out.
While it pains me to see Rosslyn boathouse underwater (and collapsing!), it’s a reminder that we’ve made some headway over the last eleven years. There’s never any guarantee, and I’m well aware that flooding could bring the pretty boathouse to her knees once again. But I’m optimistic. After all, it beats worrying!
Thanks again, Dianne, for this bittersweet illustration of Rosslyn boathouse’s wet-dry-wet-dry heritage. Fingers crossed that we won’t repeat history any time soon.
Can’t do it! Redneck, city slicker, suburbanite, exurbanite, whatever… If you give this energetic summer anthem a second or two you’ll be hooked. Scoff if you need to. Turn up your nose if your tastes are too refined for the Redneck Yacht Club. But I’m gambling that the next time you hear it pumping out the window of a slow-passing pickup truck you’ll smile. And hum the chorus. And admit to yourself that it’s a pretty catchy tune.
Here’s a little taste of the chorus. Try to read it without singing/humming the melody. Just try!
Basstrackers, Bayliners and a party barge, strung together like a floating trailer park, anchored out and gettin loud. All summer long, side by side, there’s five houseboat, front porches astroturf, lawn chairs and tiki torches, regular Joes rocking the boat. That’s us, the redneck yacht club.
(CowboyLyrics.com)
See what I mean? So, your Chris Craft tastes don’t feel comfy with a song about Bayliners and party barges… So what? Stop judging and start bobbing your head!
I did.
You see, for the first year (or two?) that my bride and I were renovating/rehabilitating Rosslyn, Redneck Yacht Club played on always-on WOKO again and again. I don’t remember for sure, but I may have scoffed outwardly (and hummed inwardly) the first time I heard the song. But not the second. I laughed. I sang along. I went out and bought the album! Several years later, WOKO is no longer the default radio channel at Rosslyn, but I still hear the song from time to time. And when I do, it transports me instantly to the days of demolition, of surprises (mold, rot, bad electric, bad plumbing) and a mushrooming scope of work. It also takes me back to a house full of laughing contractors, rambling stories, off-color jokes and meals shared on sawhorses and upturned compound buckets.
I’ve just received a lovely email from local artist and friend Eve Ticknor (aquavisions.me) with four soothing images of our boathouse. Eve’s dreamy boathouse photos last appeared in “Hammock Days of Indian Summer” last September.
Her new series offers a seasonal bookend to the last set. “Spring!” the photos sing soothingly. “Springing into summer. Soon. But for now, still spring…”
What your boathouse porch looks like in my world. (Photo: Eve Ticknor)
You can see your boathouse better here now. (Photo: Eve Ticknor)
Your boathouse on a more glassy day. (Photo: Eve Ticknor)
It’s an incredible gift when I receive artwork inspired by Rosslyn, and I offer my deepest thanks to Eve (and all of the other generous artists who’ve shared their creative visions with me) for allowing Rosslyn to a-muse you.
While I was waiting for the ferry! (Photo: Eve Ticknor)
In addition to the boathouse photos, Eve included this enchanting image of a duckling family paddling along between the Essex ferry dock and the boathouse. They seem to have swum directly out of a patina’ed storybook!
Before I even realize it I’ve counted the ducklings. Today there are twelve remaining, twelve significantly larger and less fluffy adolescent ducks. I imagine a few ducklings fell prey to eagles or snapping turtles. Or perhaps they swapped momma ducks to join a smaller brood? My mind wanders to the the many perils ducklings face on their sprint to duckdom.
Morning Meander, June 12, 2018 (Source: Geo Davis)
My best days at Rosslyn start with a mellow morning meander to the waterfront to watch the sun rise up out of the Green Mountains. Or to the vegetable gardens and orchard to pick fresh fruit while sipping my tea. Or around the property inspecting flower beds and deadheading peonies or whatever else has bloomed and withered.
And by my side, my Labrador Retriever. In our early days at Rosslyn, our dog (and my early-morning companion) was Tasha, an almost snow white Lab who passed away as we neared the final significant phase of Rosslyn’s rehabilitation. Tasha was buried beneath a maple tree that she frequented for, well, shall we say, her morning and evening rituals.
Griffin joined our family after Tasha, and he turned ten years old this spring. It hardly seems possible. How did a puppy who so recently chewed up the trim (just as soon as the finish carpenters and painters finished) rocket into the early weeks of his second decade?!?!
Griffin was with me during my morning meander this past Tuesday, June 12. He too loves early morning but for different reasons than I, so my sunrise saunter was brief enough for me to get back inside and make his breakfast before he fainted from starvation…
I’ll change gears from Rosslyn boathouse and waterfront snapshots to a few garden harvest memories.
We had enormous luck with melons this season despite a slow start. Actually, our luck was mixed. We grew about thirty medium sized cantaloups, but the squirrels (and raccoons?) devoured them as they ripened, successfully gobbling up every fruit before we could harvest it.
We had better luck with watermelons which either enticed the wild critters less or were better protected by virtue of their hard, thick rinds.
And a half dozen heirloom varieties of eggplant (eighteen plants) produced a bumper crop. Although we’ve grown eggplant for three or four years with decent luck, this summer was something else. The plants exploded up out of the drought cracked soil, quickly rising above my knees and in many cases reaching all the way to my waist.
We harvested literally hundreds of huge, glossy, delicious eggplant for over three months. We ate them every day. We gave them away. We even learned how to preserve them for mid-winer enjoyment.
I grilled and froze eggplant and blanched and froze tomatoes. I even cooked up (and froze) a sizable batch of Khoresht-e Bademjan, a Persian eggplant stew which we’ll devour this winter when the garden is three feet deep in snow!
The “skinny eggplant” photo was taken before slicing and baking them for the Khoresht-e Bademjan. In addition to several long, slender varieties, we grew several large purplish black varieties and pale purple striped varieties. (I’ve previously grown white eggplants, but skipped them this year.)
The eggplant were added to the tomato sauce which I stewed down from these yellow tomatoes, white wine, garlic and minced onion. The house smelled divine!
It was a challenging exercise in restraint to prepare Khoresht-e Bademjan to freeze and eat several months later without allowing “taste tests” to become “chow time”! But most of the eggplant stew is now frozen and ready for a snowy day.
During the same post-workshop burst of enthusiasm for food preservation I explored preparing and freezing stuffed peppers. Turns out they’re better eaten right away. So I picked a half dozen of the biggest sweet peppers; stuffed them with minced chopped/sauteed mushrooms, onions, garlic, piñon nuts and quinoa; and slow-baked them for a delicious dinner. Ah, the harvest…
Of course, Adirondack Autumn isn’t all stormy weather and culinary experimentation. The same chill which revitalizes the heat-stupored mind and sweetens the apples, pears and grapes chills the ankles.
That’s right, fall is marked by a return to socks.
For the first time in months the end of September found me sliding my paws into foot mittens each morning, a subtle reminder, day after day, that retrains the brain into cold weather survival mode after a summer of wild abandon. A small detail you say?
Perhaps.
For you. But not for me.
This Adirondack autumn has remained relatively mild and dry, though we did have a rainy stretch in October that caused Lake Champlain‘s water level to rise rapidly. The rising water posed some challenges for the stone retaining wall we’ve been rebuilding along the northern half of our waterfront, ongoing repairs to damage caused by the 2011 spring floods. We raced to complete the most critical stone and mortar work while the water was still low enough for the tractor to operate on the beach. Given the massive stones used to build the stone wall in the 1800s, a tractor loader and backhoe are a big help! Unfortunately the rapidly rising water reduced the time we could rely on the tractor, and the crew finished the work by hand, relying on levers and pulleys and winches instead of steel and hydraulics and diesel to perform the feats of brawn.
Next week I’ll feature a few snapshots that capture the natural lighting change that is part of Adirondack autumn.
