A Single Feather

I’m incapable of passing up a feather. If I chance upon a feather lying on the ground, I feel compelled to sweep it up and examine the colors and patterns, and then drag it like a soft file against my wrist. Feathers are invariably pretty. The standards iridescent. The structures impeccable, sometimes otherworldly.

Interestingly, a feather grows the opposite manner to a tree. A tree grows new at the top, while a feather grows new at the bottom. Trees add height and reach through their tips, where buds at the ends of branches and the crown extend upward into the light. Feathers, by contrast, push out from follicles in the skin, with fresh cells forming at the base and older material carried upward until the feather unfurls to full length. One reaches higher by stretching at its topmost points, the other by building steadily from its root.

Yesterday, I found a feather near my back door—a northern flicker feather, by my best estimation. That’s a woodpecker, for those of you from my lovely smelterite-filled neighborhood in East Helena, Montana.

Northern flickers are strikingly attired and sure to catch your eye. They also overwinter in our rumpled swath of Montana. For that, I give them due credit. At the same time, they can prove a pest. They are not opposed to pecking away at the exterior of a house if they appreciate the sound it makes or suspect dinner is someplace inside. A few years ago, one of our local flickers took to hanging out with a rowdy band of magpies that regularly descended upon my yard.

Interesting stuff, that. And the feather I picked up is interesting enough that I placed it on a shelf in my den.

The Feather

Northern Flicker (Photo: Audubon)

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Sitting Bull Said

Sitting Bull (c. 1831–1890) was a Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux leader, warrior, and spiritual figure best known for uniting the Plains tribes against U.S. government policies that threatened their land and way of life. Revered for his wisdom and courage, he played a central role in the resistance leading to the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876, where Lakota and Cheyenne forces defeated General George Custer’s troops. Though later forced to surrender, Sitting Bull remained a symbol of Native American resilience and dignity, even touring briefly with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He was killed in 1890 during an attempted arrest at Standing Rock Reservation, but his legacy endures as a powerful voice of defiance and cultural pride.

Following are three quotes from Sitting Bull:

— "It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.”

—"Let us put our minds together and see what life we can make for our children.”

—"Is it wrong for me to love my own? Is it wicked for me because my skin is red? Because I am Sioux? Because I was born where my father lived? Because I would die for my people and my country?

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Observation

In my limited experience, mean people make decent electricians, but they don’t make for good cashiers at the local grocery.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Noise Deep in the Night

My house, like all wood-framed houses, makes noises from time to time—all the usual stuff. The floor occasionally creaks or groans under weight. The wind may elicit a whistle or cry at the windows. When confronted with bitterly cold weather, the exterior walls and roof framing might even crack their knuckles.

Late last night, though, my house issued a new, bigger thing. It flung a body against a wall—or dropped it to the floor in another room. The sound had no precise location. It was big but not exactly loud.

After hearing the noise, I lay in bed blinking at the dark, wondering what might account for it. Neither wind nor cold weather could be held to blame. After several slightly uneasy minutes of listening for a repeat, I twisted into my blanket and drifted back to sleep.

Years ago, a similar odd sound in the night later proved to be a tripod I had leaned against a closet wall that had fallen over of its own accord. Early this morning, I swept through the entire house looking for “a body.”

Nothing turned up, leaving the mystery to rattle around with the pipes and beams.

—Mitchell Hegman

Exiting September

Welp, we are on the verge of exiting September, the first of our four “ber” months. If you are married to a woman from the Philippines, as I am, you quickly learn that September through December aren’t just months on the calendar—they’re one long Christmas season.

In the Philippines, Christmas sneaks in the moment the page flips to September—because, well, it ends in “ber,” just like December. By the time the rest of the world is still arguing over Halloween costumes, Filipinos already have lights strung, decorations dangling, and “Silent Night” echoing through the malls. Four whole months of yuletide cheer—it’s basically an endurance sport.

Christmas is serious business there. And pulling a Filipina off her island and plunking her down in Montana is not going to tone down that Christmas spirit—it just means she swaps palm trees for pine.

Desiree was a little slow off the starting line this year, but she made up ground fast over the last couple of days. We are now officially in Christmas mode. Baubles dangle here and there, a wreath hangs over the electric fireplace, and most importantly, the tree is up and fully decorated.

I’ll admit, the tree looks pretty spiffy. I’m sharing a photograph of Desiree placing the star on top—smiling like she just won Christmas gold.

Merry Christmas!

And, oh yeah, have a nice Thanksgiving somewhere along the way.

—Mitchell Hegman

Not Litter

I disdain litter and will readily collect it when confronted with it. But at some point, cans and bottles stop being litter and become relics. Some even elevate to collectables.

The transition isn’t precise, but several decades must pass at a minimum. Vintage motor oil cans provide a perfect example. Collectors will pay over $1,000 for “rare,” well-preserved cans from the early 1900s. Antique purple bottles, in my estimation, qualify as beautiful. They were produced between the 1880s and 1914.

In the buckled hills surrounding my house, relics from bygone eras lie exposed amid splays of sagebrush, gnarls of juniper, and sun-bleached bunchgrass. Iron tidbits. Shards of brown and purple glass. Twists of wire. Occasionally, a can rusted to fragility. I chance upon these things now and then on my walkabouts and rarely disturb them.

Yesterday at midday, I paused over an old rusting beer can a few yards below my house. I’ve passed it many times in my life. I’ve never picked it up, nor ever thought to. I believe it belongs there now—weathered into place, a quiet marker of the past.

It is not litter.

I’ve posted a photograph of the old rusty beer can.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Aging Thing

I’ve reached that stage of life where a host of changes in my person and attitudes are becoming apparent. Here is a list of a few of those:

• My belly has struck out on a path of its own.
• My name recall app is often in failure mode.
• I get urges to kick the kids off the grass, but I don’t really have grass, and, actually, there aren’t any kids around.
• Tying my shoes qualifies as exercise.
• I’ve gone far beyond the point of ever learning to appreciate opera.
• Every day is a hearing test.
• I actually want to organize my garage.
• My body no longer rids itself of aches and pains. It recycles them.
• I’m finding beauty in smaller things—like the slow stretch of morning light across our valley floor.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Mathematician’s Limit

I was but half a man

until you rose from infinite possibility.

Your converging lines, your incalculable curves,

a symmetry that once held me whole.

At a single touch we became a singularity—

centered, fleeting as a fragile mean.

But before me now unravel broken domains and shattered fractals,

approaching the limit, where nothing remains.

—Mitchell Hegman

Lemon Tree Update

I have an important lemon tree update.

To begin, we’ve moved the lemon tree back inside the house after several months of residing alongside the back deck.

Some three weeks ago, our weather began moderating, and our tree—having nearly stripped itself bare of leaves during the hot, sun-scoured Montana summer—initiated a vigorous growth stage. Lush new leaves spurted forth in all directions.

Honestly, this is the fullest I’ve seen the tree since we started growing it.

Citrons, lemons, and limes are the least cold-hardy of the citrus trees. Given our present descent into long, cool nights, with frost soon to bejewel the entire landscape, I carried the lemon tree back into the sunroom and plunked it down below the south-facing glass wall.

I’m sharing a photograph of the lemon tree alongside a Cold Smoke beer, which provides both scale and color contrast to balance the composition.

I’m still awaiting my first lemon.

The Lemon Tree

—Mitchell Hegman

21:48: Violently Making the Bed

Given the size of our bed (a California King) and the fact that the bottom half of the mattress rests tightly inside a wooden box, stripping and replacing the fitted sheet is difficult. Desiree and I need to tag-team this chore. A lot of lifting, shouldering, pulling, stretching, and stuffing is involved. We get a little “western” with it, using a somewhat local euphemism for getting wild or violent. Typically, I need to hoist each end of the mattress high while Desiree wrestles the fitted sheet into place.

The last time we changed the bedding, our skirmishing produced a bit of collateral damage. After we finished with the fitted sheet and dropped the mattress back down into the box, I walked over to the nightstand on my side of the bed to inspect the tautness of the sheet.

“Where’s the clock?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” she responded.

“It’s not on the table.” On closer inspection, I found the thin cord trailing down under the mattress. “Guess what? I think the clock is under the mattress.”

Somewhere in all of our swinging and shifting about, we had knocked the table clock off the stand. With Desiree stationed near the cord, I hoisted up the corner of the mattress and she fished the clock out from underneath.

Interestingly enough, the clock popped out having changed to displaying the time in a 24-hour format. The time was 21:48.

The Clock Cord Trailing Away

The Clock After Pulling It Free

—Mitchell Hegman

The Autumnal Equinox

At exactly 12:19 yesterday afternoon, the sun crossed the celestial equator on its way south. That instant marked the start of autumn. It’s not a date we simply penciled in on the calendar—it’s a real event in the sky, measurable down to the minute.

The word equinox means “equal night,” and though day and night are not perfectly balanced, they are close. From here, the tilt of the Earth gives Montana shorter days and longer nights until winter solstice.

On the ground, changes are already underway. Bull elk have started to bugle, their high, fluting calls echoing through mountain valleys and carrying across the prairie as they gather harems of cows. And, of course, some trees have started blushing with colors.

Desiree, having lived on islands where the sun holds high in the sky and seasons exist in name only, finds autumn dazzling. She’s particularly enamored with trees that blush red before shedding their leaves wholesale. Last year, we planted an autumn splendor buckeye near the front drive to provide us with a splash of red in the fall. Over the last week or so, the tree has flushed through with warm red colors.

Desiree is not disappointed.

Buckeye Tree

Desiree Admiring from the Porch

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Big in the Back Yard

Shortly after arriving home from the cabin, Desiree drifted out the back door to check on a small garden she’s been tending throughout the summer. After only a minute or two, she popped the door open, leaned in, and called to me:

“There is a big vole or something out back.”

“What?”

“There is something big back here. Come look at it.”

Intrigued, I trotted to the door and followed Desiree across the deck toward the east end of the house. There, under the chokecherry bush, I saw what she was talking about.

“That’s a beaver. A giant beaver!” We were not confronted with a real beaver, but rather an artistic relief rendition of one. We both started laughing.

“And I think I know where it came from,” I added as we drew close. “It’s from the old Montana Historical Society Museum. This is Tad’s work.”

Our friend Tad has been working on the new Montana Historical Society Heritage Center, and this looked suspiciously like something from the old museum. A flurry of texts, followed by a phone call, confirmed my hunch—Tad had been tasked with disposing of the beaver, a life-sized representation of prehistoric beavers that once inhabited our Montana spaces.

The beaver will eventually find permanent residence near the lakeshore on the property adjoining ours. I’m sharing a photograph of Desiree with the giant beaver as we found it near our house.

Desiree and the Giant Beaver

—Mitchell Hegman

The Privilege of Fire

Pursed within a natural bowl in the conifer timberlands, our cabin cools quickly after the last light of day dissolves into the long shadows. Waking in the predawn this morning, I started a warming fire to ward off a district chill.

Starting a fire is not an imposition; it is a privilege. I also enjoy the constant challenge of building the perfect kindling stack to grasp the first flame and hand it off to the split rounds needed for righteous heat.

I used paraffin-infused chunks of sawdust to start fires in the woodstove. They are not as greedy as paper. Rather, they hold the flame once ignited, then gradually intensify and feed the kindling.

There is a solid gratification in tending the woodstove in the early morning hours and bringing warmth to the pink, shadowy beginning of a blue-sky day.

A Paraffin Fire Starter

Fire Inside the Stove

—Mitchell Hegman

Furrows

 

We live under the pink bellies of roving clouds.

At our flanks, silver waters uncoil and pull into winding rivers.

In neat furrows and raised beds, we sow bits and seeds of things.

We’ve penned the softer animals.

And our shelters are solid as bollards.

 

We have a problem.

A god problem.

 

The rains come when they please, not when needed.

Our seeds sprout crooked, and the starts wither.

The river now teems with bony and unpalatable crawlers.

 

Clearly, someone among us—or all of us—has offended our gods.

 

Some whisper we must plant squirming things.

Some suggest we stamp in dry ground

and lift our own clouds of gray dust.

The elders speak of freeing the soft animals,

but their eyes do not meet ours.

For now, our furrows lie open, hungry as mouths.

 

—Mitchell Hegman

Gone Gray

While at a public function, I chanced to see a fellow construction worker I’d not seen in something approaching twenty years. As it so happens, these last few years are also the ones where people of my generation have seen their hair fade to gray. I must admit, my friend’s ashen hair knocked me sideways in the saddle when it came to recognizing him, but we quickly fell into a warm conversation once I approached him.

I’m an exception to the turning-gray regime. My hair washed itself gray more than twenty years early. Partway into the conversation with my old workmate, he said to me: “You haven’t changed. You look just the same as you did before.”

After our conversation, I considered what he’d said. Maybe turning gray prematurely advantaged me. I pre-aged in that regard.

—Mitchell Hegman

If Keys Were Bowling Balls

Here is a list of things I want to know:

• Who decided hot was a flavor?
• Why do people keep selling me “deer-proof” plants that deer munch down to sticks within days of me planting them?
• When is the best time to do something you shouldn’t do?
• If keys were the size of bowling balls, how would we carry them—and where would we hide them?
• Why do I keep buying so-called “deer-proof” plants?
• How different would my life be if my parents had named me Paul, their runner-up choice?
• If you can’t dance worth a damn, is being an excellent hugger a viable alternative?
• Is there any occasion when confusion is the optimal response?

—Mitchell Hegman

The Tomato Fight

Normally, throwing a tomato at a friend or, especially, a stranger is considered rude at a minimum. But exceptions do apply. Once a year, for example, the quiet town of Buñol, Spain, encourages — in fact, promotes — full-on tomato fights. On the last Wednesday of August, tens of thousands of people gather in the streets to take part in La Tomatina — a festival born from the whimsy of children back in 1945.

For the festival, trucks roll in with 120 tons of overripe tomatoes, grown only for this event. Not for slicing into salads. Not for simmering into sauces. These tomatoes exist for one purpose: to be hurled.

There are no teams. No overall strategies. Only one rule must be abided by — squash before you throw. After an hour of relentless fire, the cannon sounds, and the battle ends.

By then, the cobbled streets are rivers of puree. Participants stand ankle-deep in tomato mash, exhausted and stained.

No doubt I would have reveled in such an event as a boy, but even now, as a chronological adult, I find myself smiling at the thought of pitching a squashed tomato at someone — especially knowing I can apply a vivid red stain.

That’s good stuff.

Here in Montana, I’ve “bapped” a few apples across the street with a baseball bat and tossed raw eggs on occasion. But 120 tons of tomatoes is the stuff dreams are made of.

La Tomatina

A Splash of Tomato Sauce

—Mitchell Hegman

Jefferson River Rocks

Desiree and I have been staying in Three Forks for the past two nights. Yesterday, just for fun, we stopped at a Jefferson River fishing access to see the water up close. Named by Lewis and Clark in 1805 for President Thomas Jefferson, the river joins the Madison and Gallatin here to give birth to the Missouri. At that spot it stretched calmly over a wide bed of stones and pebbles, sweeping bare alluvial shoulders at most bends. Naturally, our stop turned into a rock-hunting expedition along the water’s edge. As I plodded across the stony flats, I picked up only three small, river-polished stones. Still, in my way of thinking, three Jefferson River rocks are far better than none.

The Jefferson River

Jefferson River Rocks

—Mitchell Hegman

The Interesting Side of Messy

We sometimes experience heavy concentrations of algae in late summer after hot spells. Algae blooms on the lake fall somewhere between messy and ugly, for the most part. But on occasion, they present striking images when influenced by the elements—or even critters.

I am sharing images I captured along the lake shore. The first shows algae “swirls” that emerged from under my dock when a slight breeze eased across the surface of the water. The next two reveal a trail left in a mat of algae after a muskrat swam along the shore.

I find the photos pleasing on some level. I like how they tell a tale.

Algae Swirls

Muskrat Trail

Muskrat Trail

—Mitchell Hegman

Fade Into You

Once in a great while, a cover song doesn’t just echo the original — it bends the light, reshaping it into something equally beautiful. That’s why I’ve collected three renditions of Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen’s immortal hymn — and two versions each of a half-dozen other songs. Today, I’ve shared a sparse but soothing rendition of Fade Into You, first written and recorded by Mazzy Star.

This song drifts and lulls. It lingers in the more thoughtful corners of my mind.

Take a moment. Let this song haunt you.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bmh_WmcpCpo&list=RDBmh_WmcpCpo&start_radio=1

Sacred Duty

My house rests on the rim of a dry ravine. Ponderosa pines stand dominant on the scrubby slope below. These are hardy specimens. Ponderosas thrive where water runs sparse and winter comes at them with sharp elbows and knees. They’ve also developed a savvy way to resist wildfires. First, they shed low-hanging branches as they mature—allowing grass fires to race past rather than climbing into the tree. Additionally, their thick, puzzle-piece bark tends to flake away when exposed to flames, denying the fire a foothold

This time of year, ponderosas perform their most sacred duty: opening their cones and releasing seeds to propagate. Each seed comes attached to a close cousin of a helicopter blade. Brushed by a rush of wind, they pop free of the cone and twirl into the expanse.

The other morning, I found seeds scattered across my back deck—released from trees standing some 100 feet away.

Impressive.

I gathered a few and posed them with a Cold Smoke beer for scale. In the background, you can see the ponderosa trees themselves.

Seeds and Cold Smoke

Puzzle-Piece Bark

—Mitchell Hegman

A Functional Idiot

I’m not a recovering idiot. I’m more a full-on functional idiot. As proof, take a look at the two tubes I posted below. The tube featured on top is an ointment I apply to my skin if psoriasis flares. The other is toothpaste.

Note the caps. The ointment tube cap screws on at the small end. The toothpaste tube—as with most—screws down on the bigger, flared end. As a functional idiot, the ointment cap throws me off. Not just once in a while, but every time I replace the cap on the ointment, I try screwing on the wrong end first. You would think I might figure this out after a dozen or so times, but apparently, I’m committed to keeping the idiot part fully functional.

—Mitchell Hegman

A New House for Snowball

Let’s begin with this: Snowball is a cat. A coal-black cat. She is small in stature but solid in spirit, having spent eighteen years braving the Montana seasons on or near my neighbor Kevin’s porch. That’s a long journey for any outdoor feline, and though she carries a few scars of survival, she remains steady. Last winter, the tip of her tail—once battered in a spat with a roaming feral—succumbed to frostbite and finally let go.

Years ago, I set out to improve on a “nest” of blankets she used for shelter during cold weather. I cobbled together a little house for her from a cardboard box. It wasn’t much, but she loved it, especially after Kevin tucked a blanket and heating pad inside. That simple shelter kept her safe and warm through our most frigid spells. But this summer, yellowjackets moved in and claimed it, leaving Kevin no choice but to drag it away.

The other day, I spotted a box at Costco that seemed ideal for a new home. Back home, I cut a doorway, reinforced the walls with cardboard and duct tape, and did my best to strengthen it. It’s not pretty, but it promises warmth and dryness.

I delivered the box to Snowball once it was ready. She acknowledged it and peered inside. For now, she hasn’t settled in. But once Kevin stuffs a blanket and heating pad inside, she’ll be set for another winter.

Snowball

New House

—Mitchell Hegman

Weird Averages

I asked ChatGPT to help me compile some “weird” averages—items most people would not consider. I have not attempted to confirm the veracity of the following list, but here it is:

• The average person unintentionally eats 1–2 pounds of insects per year, mostly through fragments in processed food.
• Humans shed an average of 50–100 hairs a day.
• A TV remote is pressed an average of 1,500 times per year per household.
• Over a lifetime, the average person walks the equivalent of three times around the Earth.
• In a typical office setting, the average person who encounters bubble wrap will pop 4–6 bubbles before stopping.
• Humans share about 60% of their DNA with bananas (an average across species comparisons).
• The average home houses about 30 spiders at any given time, whether you notice them or not.
• The average person spends about six months of their life waiting at red lights.
• Office workers spend an average of 1.5 hours per day searching for misplaced documents, emails, or files.

—Mitchell Hegman

Computers

 “A computer once beat me at chess, but it was no match for me at kick boxing.”

—Emo Philips

“Never trust a computer you can't throw out a window.”

—Steve Wozniak

“To err is human, but to really foul things up you need a computer.”

—Paul R. Ehrlich

No Forgiveness in Metal

I’ve been applying finish metal to the upper walls in the kitchen at the cabin. This is a particularly tedious project given that the walls have a 45-degree jog and I must also skirt a pair of “floating” shelves

I enjoy working with metal, but there is no forgiveness in metal. It’s not like working with drywall, where you can tape and mud over mistakes. It’s not as friendly as wood, which allows you to putty a misplaced hole or slightly miscut joint. There’s no blending in.

With metal, a misplaced screw hole or a wonky cut forces you to pitch the piece into a recycle pile and start over. To date, I’ve cast aside a half-dozen pieces. Mind you, some of the profile metal sections took me several minutes to fabricate with my snips and shears.

There’s another thing: the metal can cut you. Yesterday, while trying to force a piece into a tight spot, my hand slipped and the metal cut deep into the tip of my finger—deep enough that I looked away as Desiree doctored me.

I’m sharing some photographs documenting work on the project.

The Upper Walls in Process

My Fabrication Area in the Basement

Freshly Bandaged Cut

Finished Upper Walls

—Mitchell Hegman

Sweet Tune, Sweeter Chocolate

Apparently, chocolate tastes even better if you pair it with the right soundtrack. That’s not just me talking — that’s science.

Dr. Natalie Hyacinth, a music-loving mastermind from the University of Bristol, has spent a lifetime studying how sound lulls the brain. Her conclusion: silky piano notes make chocolate taste creamier, lush strings add extra sweetness, and sharp tones crank up the bitter bite. (Fast beats, meanwhile, are best reserved for drive-thru cheeseburgers.)

To prove it, Galaxy Chocolate — a brand of chocolate products made and marketed in the United Kingdom — hired her to compose Sweetest Melody, a 90-second track designed to melt in your ears while the chocolate melts on your tongue. Think piano for sweetness, strings for silkiness, and a harp to keep things smooth.

Turns out the brain does a party trick called “multisensory integration,” where senses mingle. In other words, your ears and your taste buds are willing to clasp hands and skip along together. Music really does mess with your experience. One engineered track (Weightless by Marconi Union) has been proven to drop anxiety by 65%. Meanwhile, neuroscientists swear Bach’s Goldberg Variations can flip your brain into deep-focus mode — like Pavlov’s bell but with harpsichord.

So yes, your playlist matters. Sweet chocolate, sweet song. Bitter chocolate, maybe crank up some Metallica.

Posted below is a brief video featuring the song Sweetest Melody, composed by Dr. Natalie Hyacinth. Grab a bar of chocolate and take a listen.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kIeD03OGPv8

The Last Player on Deck

It’s official. We’ve tipped beyond summer and are sliding into fall. Rabbitbrush is the tell. The bush is just now offering its precious golden blossoms.

Rabbitbrush is the prairie’s last holdout, the last hurrah. In Montana, long after gayfeather have purpled and faded and the blue grama grasses have turned dun, rabbitbrush suddenly flares—the yellow flowers like bright sparks frozen in place where they were struck.

You’ll often find rabbitbrush where the earth looks too tired for anything else—on gravelly presentations of worn earth, populating the hard scrabble between sage and stone. It will tolerate the longest winter and shrug off the sharpest wind.

Early homesteaders named it rabbitbrush because jackrabbits were often seen sheltering beneath its rounded crowns. But rabbitbrush gives more than refuge to hares. Its late flowers are a final feast for bees and butterflies, and the blooming persists long after the fussy, water-loving flowers have flourished and failed—on into the first days fringed white with frost.

A Rabbitbrush at My Drive

A Bumblebee at Work

—Mitchell Hegman

The Compliment

A little boy unlatched from his father and approached you in the grocery. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “And your hair…”

That’s all he said before he rejoined his father and drifted away. And you’ll likely never see him again.

But understand: little boys are all impulse and entrenched honesty, and this was more than a simple compliment. What he said was foundation enough for grown men to construct golden cities. Great expeditions have been launched on less.

Given the chance, the little boy would fall in love with you.

—Mitchell Hegman

Permission to Scream

I’m just going to throw this out there: I don’t think screaming like a howler monkey is necessarily an overreaction when you suddenly run your face smack into a big spiderweb.

—Mitchell Hegman

Raiding Our Neighbor’s Yard at Midday

 

Desiree and I raided our neighbor’s yard at midday yesterday. Armed with only plastic bags, we swept through an unlocked gate and swarmed—as efficiently as two people can—a plum tree drooping with sweet, ripe plums.

“Jeez, this tree is loaded,” I remarked while lifting a branch sagging down to face level under the purple weight of dozens of plums.

“Where do we begin?” Desiree asked.

“Just dig in, I guess.”

After a little assessment, I plucked a larger plum from a cluster of fruit within reach and then tore into the soft flesh with my mouth. A lovely, complex flavor profile, this: sweet, with a tart flag wavering at the fruit’s outer skin.

The tree was not tall—maybe twelve feet at the top—and virtual explosions of plums were within our reach. Within only a few minutes, we filled two plastic bags with a season of full sunlight and sweet water.

Amazing how much a modest tree can produce.

I’m sharing a few photographs of our raid, including a final shot of our plunder posed with a Cold Smoke beer as proper scale for size reference.

Reaching In

Desiree Picking Plums

Desiree’s Face in the Tree

Our Plunder with a Cold Smoke

—Mitchell Hegman

Thank you, Carmen and Jim, for letting us harvest plums (and more).

Red Ants

We’re not finished with our discussion about our ants. The red ants near my lakefront are thatched mound ants, and they are way more impressive than most of us imagine.

Formica obscuripes, the western thatching ant, is a native species of ant in the family Formicidae. It produces large mounds covered by small pieces of plant material. I have several such mounds on my property. One of them is nearly two feet in height. The number of adult workers per colony may reach up to 40,000. Most remarkable, some colonies can survive 50 years or more. This happens because they often have multiple queens (a polygynous system) and, over time, their mounds can expand, split, or even merge with nearby colonies. In this sense, a single mound can remain “alive” for generations.

The colony I mentioned in my blog yesterday is something near 20 years old. I believe it is actually the continuation of a mound that existed only ten or twelve feet away and thrived through the 1980s and 1990s. I recall on several occasions having to shoo away young boys who were pestering that colony with sticks.

Bit by bit, the ants raise their thatched mounds, weaving needles and twigs into a fortress. Within, they tend the queen, while workers spill out to forage the nearby earth. They survive our long, harsh winters cozy within their compound and then march on again in the warmer months, ignoring any and all turmoil around them.

Thatch Detail at My Anthill

Red Ant (Wikipedia)

—Mitchell Hegman

The Dead Bird Problem

What do you do with a dead bird that rolls in from the waves onto your lakefront, tangled among the requisite blunted sticks and plastic whatnots?

In this case, the bird was pretty ripe.

So—what to do?

About fifty yards up from my lakefront, there’s an interesting red anthill. Some fifteen or twenty years ago, the ants started their pile alongside a prickly pear cactus. All these years later, the cactus has grown freakishly healthy within the anthill. Me being me, I regularly walk up the hill just to watch the ants teeming over the pile.

What if I could give nature a boost in a strange way? What if I scooped up the bird with a shovel and placed it beside the anthill? Would the ants—along with flies and beetles—scavenge and repurpose the bird?

I’ve posted photographs of the bird and the anthill.

Let’s see what happens.

—Mitchell Hegman