Modern Primitive

 

I’m reaching you by means of a computer balanced on top of a garbage can located on the Camp Tuffit Roadway, just off Lake Mary Ronan. It’s early-morning dark here, and my computer screen and keyboard glow with an insistence uncommon to the off-shore forest understory.

We get neither cell nor internet service at our cabin. To access the internet, I had to walk down the camp roadway to this garbage can stuffed partway under an overhanging bush. The cabins all around me, though fully occupied, remain dark.

Modern primitive, this.

We have been spending most of our time “princess fishing,” which entails me baiting the hook and removing fish while Princess Desiree does the actual fishing. But before we make any judgments about these arrangements, be advised that Desiree cleans and fully processes the fish once we get back to the cabin.

I drink a Cold Smoke beer and watch on in admiration.

Desiree With a Small Perch

Desiree Cleaning a Perch

—Mitchell Hegman

Gone West

Desiree and I drove nearly four hours west. The rivers here flow to a different ocean than those outside the doors of our house. We are staying at Camp Tuffit on Lake Mary Ronan. Tall fir, pine, and Tamarack grow right down to the water’s edge and communication services are sketchy.

The idea is to fish for perch while we are here. I will post when and if I can.

Cheers!

—Mitchell Hegman

Stovetop Art

Cooking is one thing; preparing fine cuisine is something else entirely.

It’s art.

By that measure, Desiree is an artist. Day after day, she creates fine meals and serves them with a sense of presentation. Even the preparations carry an artistry of their own—onions and garlic diced to uniform size, a sprig of color here, a dash of spice there, stirring with grace rather than abandon.

Yesterday, while making fried rice, she set about pan-frying sausage, garlic, and onions. Each demands its own balance of heat and time. Yet with one pan on a single burner, she handled it with ease—lightly searing the sausage first, then sliding the pan just so to divide the burner into zones of heat.

Simple, effective, and unexpectedly beautiful.

“I like the look of that,” I told her as she worked the pan, and I reached for my phone to capture the moment.

Desiree’s Stovetop Artwork

—Mitchell Hegman

Shooting Cattle

I’ve taken to shooting my neighbor’s cattle.

Don’t press the panic button just yet. I’m not using my hunting rifle. I’m shooting them with my Red Ryder BB rifle, and the BBs bounce right off the cattle without harm. But the landed shots annoy them enough that they move on. I also tell the cattle I don’t like them while carefully placing shots.

“And stay away,” I yell after the cattle when they finally rumble off.

The idea here, plainly enough, is to keep these coarse, poop-as-they-go invaders a fair distance from my good stuff. Cattle, in addition to grazing greenery down to nubs, are destructive in their oafishness. They stomp too hard when plodding around. They rub and lean against most anything upright. And then we have the cowpies.

I’ll admit, I probably enjoy shooting cattle more than I should. It’s far more satisfying than peppering cans and bottles. Plus, I get a kick out of how the little ones sometimes let out a surprised “murp” when I land a good shot.

This is some official Montana living I’m doing right here.

Me and My Trusty Red Ryder BB Rifle

Drawing Down on Cattle at My Solar PV Array

—Mitchell Hegman

Sun Sticks

Two conversions have taken place here at what I’m now calling the Hegman Ungulate Animal Resort. The first, mentioned in a blog just a couple of days ago, came courtesy of a marauding herd of longhorn cattle. Over the weekend, they plodded into the yard and transformed broad patches of native grass into random displays of squishy cowpies.

Not exactly an improvement.

Today’s conversion brought us “sun sticks.”

Yesterday, a group of deer pranced into the yard and neatly nipped the flowerheads off a line of sunflowers at the front drive—leaving behind a stand of sun sticks.

Whether this qualifies as any kind of upgrade is still up for debate, though it seems unlikely.

I’ll spare you the cowpie photos, but here’s a look at one of our new sun sticks.

A Sun Stick

—Mitchell Hegman

The Long Trail

The cover for my hot tub measures a bit over six feet across. That may not strike some of us as a particularly great distance to cross, but distance is relative. If you’re a ¼-inch-long moth, that’s a pretty substantial jaunt. If early-morning dew has collected on the cover, it’s downright treacherous.

Starting in late spring and stretching through the fall, dew gathered on the hot tub becomes a death trap for all manner of moths and no-name whizbots. On some dewy mornings, I will find dozens of insects helplessly stuck in place on the cover, their wings pinned tight by the surface tension of the water.

Having been tainted by some sort of moron gene, I often try to save the insects by tabbing them up with my finger and depositing them on my brick ledge. I have my reasons. My cover folds back on itself when I open it. If I did this with the insects stuck in place, I would squash them.

Some mornings I find moths with trails behind them where they dragged themselves forward across the wet expanse.

Big efforts, those.

Noteworthy.

Yesterday, I found evidence of a single, wholly inspiring slog across the entire cover. And the moth had obviously escaped on the far side.

Great stuff, that.

I have posted photographic evidence of the great escape—including a Cold Smoke beer for proper scale.

The Long Trail

—Mitchell Hegman

Incidental Ranching

Montana is classified as “open range” territory. In the Western United States, open range is rangeland where cattle roam freely regardless of land ownership. When governed by "open range" laws, those wanting to keep animals off their property must erect a fence to keep animals out. This applies to public roads as well.

Plainly enough, this applies to both of our properties.

Over the weekend, while we were at the cabin, my neighbor’s cattle plowed through their haphazard fence and took up temporary residence on our property. We came home to find our drive and yard looking rather frazzled from grazing and littered with cow pies. The cattle, by then, had been pushed back onto their proper grazing land.

I shoveled up and carted off the most egregious pies and watered down the rest. Incidental ranching is a lot of work, but not particularly rewarding. I’ve posted a photograph of the longhorns at my drive—sent to me by a friend who happened to catch them there.

Cattle at the Drive

—Mitchell Hegman

An Electrician’s Tell

You are likely familiar with a gambler’s tell. At the poker table, a player may reveal in some way that they are holding either a good or bad hand. Truth leaks out in small ways: a twitch of the jaw, a particular fuss with the chips, a silence stretched one breath too long, a sidelong glance. An observant opponent might catch this.

Electricians have tells, too. Mine show in the way I use electrical parts for things they were never meant for. At the cabin, they’re easy to spot. Cross the bridge over the creek and you’ll see copper-clad ground rods for rails. Step inside the cabin and you’ll see the lights are cusrom-built from conduit and junction boxes. Down at the fire pit, my poker stick is a length of ¾-inch conduit.

Luckily, I don’t have electrical supplies at the card table. My tells there are the of the more conventional kind.

Skywalk Lights

Kitchen Lights

An Electrician’s Fire Poker

—Mitchell Hegman

Summer Wildfire 2025

Every summer, at some hot and windblown moment, I find myself standing on my back deck, watching an arm of smoke lift from the mountains—a wildfire burning somewhere close by. Yesterday was that day for this summer. Only this time, the fire flared to life on the ridge directly across the lake from me.

Close.

The closest one yet.

The smoke was white—thankfully—an indication the fire was just getting started, feeding only on grass and small shrubs.

Dark smoke is solidly ungood.

Firefighters swarmed the ridge within minutes. Rigs and crews rolled in from the far side while, above them, helicopters wheeled and swooped, dropping loads of water onto the flames. From my deck, I could see the choreography unfold.

And within a couple of hours, they had the fire tamped down.

I even managed a few photographs of the helicopters at work—a sobering thing to witness from my deck.

Smoke on the Ridge

A Chopper Dropping Water on the Fire

—Mitchell Hegman

This and That (The Sky Is My Garden)

I launched my first blog on January 3, 2010. As of today (August 16, 2025), it’s been 15 years, 7 months, 1 week, and 6 days since that date. For reference, that’s 5,704 days in total—814 weeks and 6 days. Following the passing of Uyen, my first wife, in May of 2011, I began posting daily. In all, I’ve posted 5,195 individual blogs.

I write about this and that. I repeat myself. I’ve littered the space with typos, dangling participles, and likely violated rules without proper names. I’ve wept while writing some blogs. I’ve guffawed. I’ve cursed.

I’ve also printed out every one of my blogs and collected them in three-ring binders. Today, I’m sharing a photograph of the binders documenting my journey from 2010 until now. I placed a Cold Smoke beer on one of the shelves as a size reference. The beer is incidental—the writing is what truly measures the years.

The Sky Is My Garden

—Mitchell Hegman

A Range in the Woods

Yesterday, I installed the electric range in the kitchen at our cabin.

The day started with meeting a couple of delivery men and a big truck, then guiding them across the creek. They had to wheel the range by hand truck for the last five hundred feet or so.

Interesting story—the delivery men were both from Kandahar in Afghanistan. They had worked with American soldiers during our time in the country. One has been here for five years, the other for five months.

Once they had deposited the range in the cabin, I was able to properly locate and wire the receptacle and install the pigtail cord. I did a pretty good job and managed to energize the range and set the clock to the proper time of day.

After finishing my electrical work (brilliant and exhausting stuff, that), I watered a few this-and-thats Desiree planted around the cabin. Then I climbed to the loft for a catnap—which quickly became a proper nap. The loft is a great, faraway place for an uninterrupted rest.

I’ve posted a photograph of the range pushed into place, along with one of my view from my napping spot in the loft.

Cabin Range

The Loft

—Mitchell Hegman

Lemon Tree Update: Montana Tough

Late this spring, our lemon tree became something of a frustration. Well, not so much the tree—more the ebb and flourish of a spider mite infestation. As the days lengthened and warmed, the mites made a pretty good run at things.

One evening, after a wee dram of Scotch, I said to Desiree, “Maybe we need to drag the lemon tree outside. It needs to toughen up.”

She gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a mite spreader. We need to move it out for a while.”

So, we hauled it from the sunroom to a spot off the back deck. Since then, the tree has had a full taste of Montana. Temperatures have dropped close to freezing. Windstorms have slapped it silly. A fierce hailstorm pummeled it mercilessly. Hot, dry days have baked it. And for the last few weeks, it’s been hosting a big cat-faced spider.

Frankly, the lemon tree has taken a beating. Many leaves are tattered and discolored.

But it’s hanging in there.

I suspect it’ll try a little harder when we bring it back inside for the winter.

The Lemon Tree Today

Closeup Revealing Hail Damage

—Mitchell Hegman

Morning Report, August 13, 2025

The sun has yet to find firm footing on the day. I’ve opened a half-dozen windows in my house and stationed fans near three of them to draw in cool air in preparation for another mid-90s summer day.

The much-anticipated Perseid meteor shower—sparked when Earth slices into trails of debris scattered by the passing of Comet Swift-Tuttle—was to peak last night and into this morning. I stood on my back deck soon after waking and scanned the caerulean firmament, hoping I might witness a flash of something extraterrestrial. Instead, a dime-sized moth flapped into orbit around my head, seeking a mate.

The moth was not my type.

In the broader view, The Revenge of Alice Cooper, his latest album, recently launched at the No. 6 position on the Vinyl Albums chart, becoming Cooper’s first top 10 on the tally. And, finally, midway between that and me standing on the deck, one of my neighbors has released long-horned cattle onto his grazing. Their lowing calls fill the early-morning spaces once occupied by songbirds.

End of morning report.

—Mitchell Hegman

Where Water Slithers

They came at length to a deep swale. Water slithered dark and silent over smooth stones, and the first full light of day blinked only now and then through the dense timber.

“Is this the place?” asked the woman.

“It is,” said the man. He was older, laconic at all times.

“Will there be birds?”

“This is not a place for birds.”

Somewhere beyond, trees parted and a sword of light cleaved briefly through the liquefied shadows. Only then did she see the glowing thing in his hands.

“What do we do now?”

“We bury that which has led us astray.”

The ground proved spongy. The man ripped a hole in it, dropped the glowing thing into the dark opening, then swept soft detritus and threads of green grass overtop to seal it.

“It will slowly die in there,” he said.

“So, we can go find some birds in the forest now?”

“Yes. Birds.”

“Good.”

“And good riddance to that damned smartphone,” said the man. “It’s always led us in the wrong direction.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #3

 Never underestimate the importance of having toilet paper—or a suitable equivalent.

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #2

There is no advantage to participating in a cash economy if you’ve run out of cash.

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #1

Working for a small family-owned business has its advantages—although working for a small family-owned business is not one of them.

—Mitchell Hegman

Silence Taking the Stage

While drifting about in our hot tub late in the evening, Desiree asked, “Is that crickets I’m hearing?”

Like a dog set out to hunt, I cocked my head in several directions. “It might be crickets, but I don’t hear a thing.”

Fact: the world is going quiet on me. As part of the normal aging process, my ears are tuning out higher frequencies. Essentially, my mechanical parts are wearing out. And now, species by species, insects are falling into silence around me. This summer, the chirping crickets and singing whiz-by whatnots have taken the stage to an audience now deaf to them.

Some songbirds are likely to join them onstage in the future—singing the sounds of silence.

The show goes on, whether I can hear it or not.

—Mitchell Hegman

Something James Thurber Said

—"Progress was all right. Only it went on too long.”

—"Sixty minutes of thinking of any kind is bound to lead to confusion and unhappiness.”

—"He who hesitates is sometimes saved.”

Another Weird World Record

I recently read the story of Anya Bannasch, a California woman who set a Guinness World Record by fitting 711 golf tees into her hair. It’s an impressive feat, to be sure—but I tend to prefer some of the more outlandish records.

Here are a couple of my favorites:

 

Most Canned Drinks Opened by a Parrot in One Minute

Record: 35 cans

Holder: Zac the Macaw (San Jose, USA)

Zac used his powerful beak to pop open 35 drink cans in just 60 seconds.

 

Most Toilet Seats Broken by the Head in One Minute

Record: 46 toilet seats

Holder: Kevin Shelley (Germany)

Armed with his forehead and a questionable sense of self-preservation, Shelley smashed 46 toilet seats in 60 seconds.

Tee Hair (Anya Bannasch)

—Mitchell Hegman

Deflated

I found Desiree’s trio of whatchacallit plants fully deflated in their pot. I rather panicked when I saw that the plants had utterly collapsed down to the potting soil. Usually, this kind of thing is the result of something I’ve done.

Had I unwittingly harmed the whatchacallits? Had I accidentally squashed them while checking out the nearby tomato plant? Could my allowing the wind to slam the front door account for this? Were the plants reacting to my choice of music? What had I done this time?

Staring at the plants, I found myself drawing blanks.

Eventually, I asked Desiree about the plants.

“I pushed them over,” she said.

“You did? It wasn’t something I did?” I scratched at my cheek for a moment. “Why did you do that?”

“They were done.”

“Oh. Good to know.”

I was happy to find out this was not a result of my music.

Whatchacallit Plants

—Mitchell Hegman

The Eveningstar

One of the largest native flowers to blossom in Montana is also one of the easiest to miss. It’s a ghost of sorts—blooming only at night and closing up shop by day.

This time of year, Mentzelia decapetala, a large, pale wildflower more commonly known as Eveningstar, enters its blooming cycle. The flowers open only as daylight wanes and the fruit-basket colors of sunset spill forth from where the sun has cleaved the horizon. Then, like paper lanterns, the Eveningstar’s creamy petals unfurl in full—sometimes measuring five inches across.

By morning, they’re gone again—folded in on themselves, invisible to the casual eye. You could walk by a whole hillside of them and never know they were there.

Eveningstar doesn’t want rich soil or coddled garden beds. It thrives where other things fail here in Montana—on gravel slopes, cracked clay, exposed roadside embankments, and hardpan prairie. Its roots go deep, its stems grow bristly, and its blooms rise from a tangle of angular, gray-green leaves. It’s not trying to be pretty—by location or by day.

The plant doesn’t last long in any one place, and it never begs to be noticed. Eveningstar is primarily pollinated by nocturnal moths, especially hawkmoths, which are active at dusk and throughout the night.

Some late evenings, I catch Eveningstars blooming on a particular roadside cut through a shale bench in the ranchlands near my house. More often than not, I stop to admire these jewels of the night. We are the lucky few who find them on our way to midnight.

Eveningstar (With My Hand for Reference to Size)

A Pair of Eveningstar

—Mitchell Hegman

In a Bottle

At one level, we are simply living in a bottle. Inside the bottle, freight trains thread across mountain passes, restless seas grasp at rocky coasts, and clouds range lazily above beasts in the field. At night, cities glow like circuitry, and voices bounce invisibly between towers. We plant flower gardens. We wage wars. We send postcards and text messages.

Outside the bottle, the Moon endlessly circles, comets streak through flexing stars, and tiny bottles we’ve ejected from our big bottle are only now reaching out to explore what lies beyond. Out there, no one knows our names. No one waits for us. And yet, we keep sending.

Exploration is our naming song.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Rendering

On July 26, a married couple, Cristen Amanda Brink and her husband, Clinton David Brink, were attacked and stabbed to death while hiking with their two daughters at Devil's Den State Park in Arkansas. The girls, aged 7 and 9, managed to flee and seek help at a visitors’ center.

The attack seemed utterly random, but a possible male suspect caught the attention of other park visitors, who worked with a forensic sketch artist to create a composite image of the man.

Five days after the murders, police arrested a man named Andrew James McGann at Lupita’s Beauty Salon in Springdale, Arkansas, while he was in the middle of getting a haircut. He reportedly admitted to the murders once taken into custody, though no motive has yet been revealed.

What I find most incredible is the accuracy of the sketch produced by the forensic artist based on witness descriptions—the sharp chin and the too-deep, dead eyes. The sketch captured what arresting officers described as the murderer’s “soulless” look.

I’ve posted a photo of McGann and the forensic artist’s rendering for comparison.

The Artist's Sketch

Photo of Andrew James McGann

—Mitchell Hegman

Proper Care of Your Moon Orchid

Desiree has a gift for the nurture and care of orchids. Her moon orchid, in particular, has thrived. I’ve been paying attention and thought I might offer others a helpful list of tips for proper orchid care. Here is my list of things to know when caring for your own orchid:

• Give your orchid plenty of sunlight.
• Water your orchid once a week. Placing a large ice cube at the plant's base and allowing it to melt is efficient and root-friendly. A word of caution: don’t short yourself on ice for Scotch when using ice as a watering method.
• Don’t use a wire brush or industrial-strength cleaning agents when “washing” your orchid.
• Refrain from swimming with your orchid—especially in the deep end of the pool. They’re not strong swimmers.
• Don’t use your orchid as a pry bar.
• Feed your plant orchid food every two weeks when it is actively growing. Never feed it dill pickles.
• Avoid exposing your orchid to country music for extended periods of time.
• Don’t baby-talk your orchid.
• Your moon orchid is hermaphroditic, meaning the flowers have both boy and girl parts. For this reason, giving your plant a unisex name is helpful. Names such as Hank or Brock are not recommended.

Desiree’s Moon Orchid

—Mitchell Hegman

A Handsome Malady

The two most beautiful women are—in descending order—my wife and Salma Hayek. Here’s the thing: neither of them would look more striking if wrung out from battling a case of influenza or afflicted with a discoloring rash.

Plants, to the contrary, may strike a more gorgeous pose when stricken by sickness or the end of a growing cycle.

Consider a temperate-zone autumn: maples igniting in red and orange before shedding bare for winter; aspens fluttering gold in the light breeze; rushes swept into bronze by the season’s chill breath.

And then there is chlorosis—the yellowing of leaves due to a lack of chlorophyll. This condition is usually triggered by nutrient deficiencies, particularly iron, though nitrogen, manganese, and zinc may also be to blame. Poor drainage, compacted soil, root damage, or an overly alkaline pH can further complicate a plant’s ability to draw in what it needs.

Yet the result is often arresting.

While spiraling down a high mountain road, Desiree and I spotted a thimbleberry whorl suffering from chlorosis. The effect was striking—like seeing the plant rendered into a living x-ray. The entire network of its hydraulic system glowed bright green, while the leaf edges faded into soft yellow.

I felt compelled to take a photograph.

Chlorosis on Display

A Healthy Thimbleberry

—Mitchell Hegman

Heavy Lies the Good Looks

I have been keeping a personal journal since the 1980s. Today, I am sharing an entry from August of 1996:

Today, Rodney and I were killing some time while awaiting an answer that would allow us to proceed with our work. As we shuffled around with nothing better to do, I spotted a weight scale on the floor nearby. I poked Rodney’s belly. “Let’s see how much we weigh, Fatso.”

I pounced on the scale first, watched the numbers flutter and wag back and forth until settling on 165—pretty close to my normal. Rodney, who stands several inches taller and appears well-constructed, jumped on the scale and watched the numbers fall to almost exactly the same weight.

We both stared at each other, dumbfounded. He’s definitely bigger than me. Probably, the scale is toast. Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I don’t know how to explain it, Pal. I guess good-looking is heavier than ugly.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Looking Down

I recently read an article expressing the possible health issues indicated by always walking with your head down. Psychologists suggest that a lowered gaze can signal low mood, depression, or a lack of confidence. It might also point to fatigue, illness, or even deep thought. In some cases, it's just how we protect ourselves from overstimulation or social awkwardness. Of course, context matters. In some cultures, looking down is a sign of respect. But in general, the way we carry ourselves tends to say something—sometimes more than we realize.

On the other side of this, I can readily identify two practical reasons for always looking down at the ground when walking around the area near my house. First, this is rattlesnake country, and you want to make sure you’re not about to step on one. Secondly, the ground surrounding my house is littered with rocks suitable as specimens in a rock collection.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Dying Tree Outside my Cabin Door

Several years ago, I and some competent—albeit beer-drinking—friends felled a tall fir tree that was dying and potentially a threat to my cabin. Now, another tree is in the process of punching out. This one, having been attacked by spruce budworms several years ago, is dying from the top down. The top perished some time ago.

When the top of a spruce or fir dies back after a spruce budworm attack, it most certainly marks the beginning of the end. The larvae feed heavily on the new growth in the upper crown, stripping needles and killing the tender shoots where a tree muscles skyward. With the crown gone, the tree loses its primary photosynthetic engine and its hormonal compass, throwing off the balance guiding healthy growth. Over the next seasons, weakened and depleted, the tree struggles. It may attempt a few desperate measures—sprouting shoots from lower branches or along its trunk—but the damage is often too deep. Roots begin to die from lack of energy, and the entire system slowly shuts down. This slow collapse sees bark sloughing away, limbs breaking, and finally, an unchecked fall.

A logger recently told me some trees with dead tops may fight on for some fifteen years, but the end is stalking them. Unfortunately, this particular tree is likely to topple in the direction of my cabin following its demise. And the cabin is within reach.

It’s time for me to beer up and call in my qualified felling workforce.

The Tall Dying Tree as Seen from the Cabin Door

—Mitchell Hegman

A Skirmish in the Mountains

Just as the long shadows of late evening stretched across the forest floor, the cabin fell under attack from a motley collection of empty cans and plastic bottles. We had no choice but to fill our hands with firearms and stand in defense.

Fortunately, we had our best Red Ryder BB guns and plenty of ammo on hand.

We quickly set up a firing line at the daylight basement door and began knocking down the array set against us.

I must say, the empty vessels were no match for our Red Ryder rifles. The guns sang out steadily and our aim proved true.

Desiree, Jack, and John in Defense

The Array Set Against Us

—Mitchell Hegman

A Great Idea

I had a dream in which I found myself teaching exam preparation related to the Electrical Code to several dozen electrician apprentices scheduled to take their licensing exam. After finishing up with a service calculation, I suggested to the class that we could either talk about ampacity or do twenty more Code search questions.

A hand shot up.

“I have an idea,” said one student. “Let’s just stand up and clap.”

“That’s a great idea,” I replied, with the kind of decisiveness reserved for dreams.

They leapt from their chairs and the room erupted into applause.

Not polite clapping, but full-bodied, joyful, unstoppable clapping.

Uplifting.

Rolling.

Swelling.

Unceasing.

I woke up smiling. The clapping fading inside me.

Clapping is big medicine.

Far better than Code questions.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Ten-Year-Old Boy

I have not fully grown, in the sense that the ten-year-old boy I once was is really only playing hide and seek inside me. He still steps forward now and again to throw a stick over a tree or kick at an anthill.

That boy in me is impulsive. He regularly does things for no profitable reason, and boredom quickly brings him out to begin fidgeting with anything at hand.

Yesterday, ten-year-old me took after the yucca plants in my yard. One of the stalks bearing seed pods had bent over in a way that annoyed me.

Our Montana variety of yucca is sometimes called soapweed. Native American tribes such as the Lakota, Dakota, and Blackfoot used the mashed or boiled roots of the plant as a natural soap and shampoo, particularly for washing hair and treating scalp conditions. Theoretically, the seed pods can be eaten when still young and green inside. A few years ago, as an adult, I tried eating a green yucca seed pod.

Ungood.

Absolutely bitter. Medicine-tasting stuff.

Anyhow, I whacked down several yucca stalks bearing seed pods and then sliced several pods open just because I could. I like the patterns produced by the seeds. Yucca are proficient producers of seeds—a single plant might produce 600 to 6,000 of them.

Just in case you’re bored right now, I’m sharing photographs of the seed pods—including one featuring the pods alongside a Cold Smoke beer. This will give you some manner of comparison between delicious and yucky.

A Yucca Plant

Pods With a Cold Smoke Beer (For Proper Size Reference)

Pod Slices

—Mitchell Hegman

One of My Favorite Memories

One of my favorite memories, strangely enough, is from a totally mundane morning back in my days of bachelorhood. At the time, I lived with a buddy in a house he’d purchased on the prairie edge of my hometown. I had actually been at a house party until the sun crept over the morning horizon and was driving home past my grandmother’s house. It was a time when she would be awake and sitting at her kitchen table, drinking cold coffee.

I hadn’t been drinking much, and I decided to drop in and see her before continuing home to crash.

Granny was elated to see me so early on a Saturday morning. We chatted a little before I noticed there were dishes in her sink.

“Let me do your dishes while we’re talking,” I said.

“I can do them,” she replied.

“I actually want to do them. And when have you ever heard that from me?”

Grandmother smiled. “Okay.”

I clinked and swished through her dishes as we talked about nothing that lifted any weight or brought daylight to shadows. Just the small things. And the kitchen was warm and brightening with a new day.

All of us alive then.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Squawkfields

While poking around outside the cabin, I met the Squawkfield family.

Three things:

I’m only guessing they were an actual family. I gave them the name Squawkfield. And I’m talking about a mess of ravens.

Technically, a group of ravens can be called a conspiracy, a treachery, a rave, an unkindness, or, more generically, a flock. But for the purposes of this blog, we’re sticking with mess. It fits.

They were loud. And relentless. For hours, they squawked from all directions—left, right, above, behind—almost always high up in the firs and pines. It was like being surrounded by feathery hecklers.

I soon surmised the ravens were likely a mix of relatives and neighborhood busybodies watching over and encouraging a batch of fledglings that had left the nest and were taking wobbly test flights. Ravens are known to be particularly boisterous when watching juveniles fledge.

This is a big time for these birds. Perhaps they even fancy all that squawking is pleasant.

From my perspective, it’s mostly annoying.

—Mitchell Hegman

Weird Bones

I like weird stuff, and I don’t require any particular reason to like it. My cabin is filled with odd things I’ve picked up over the years. Fred the eagle “sculpture” I blogged about a few days ago qualifies in this regard.

I also have the skull of a bison I picked up from a perhaps too-quiet brick mason who, as a “hobby,” raised dermestid beetles for cleaning the tissue off bones. I didn’t ask a lot of questions about his hobby. Regarding the skull, he claimed that someone hired him to clean it and never returned to pick it up. I try my best not to do any math regarding the fact that the man who apparently disappeared was also comprised of some interesting bones.

And, speaking of bones, I have a deer bone I collected near the cabin. I liked the way the bone was broken—perhaps by a mountain lion. I stuffed a handful of grouse feathers I similarly gathered near the cabin inside the bone. And because I’ve also been cursed with the weird habit of naming everything, I call this little charm “a feathered bone.”

Bison Skull

Fred

A Feathered Bone

—Mitchell Hegman