Henry Rollins is the intense, iconic frontman of the hardcore punk band Black Flag who built a multifaceted career as a spoken-word artist, author, actor, and cultural commentator. Here are three of his quotes:
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“My optimism wears heavy boots and is loud.”
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“The truth is an anti-war statement in itself.”
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“Why do you think the old stories tell of men who set out on great journeys to
impress the gods? Because trying to impress people just isn't worth the time
and effort.”
—Mitchell
Hegman
If metal is good for making trains, planes, and automobiles, why not try making an insect out of the stuff? Or at least make a bee that looks as though it were made from metal. Enter the metallic green sweat bee, a tiny native and super-efficient pollinator that looks like it was fashioned from emerald-colored steel.
Yesterday,
I captured a crisp photograph of a metallic green sweat bee putting in a shift
on a sunflower near my house. The image is clear enough to reveal its
pollen-covered legs. Those yellow clumps are the bee's cargo, gathered from the
sunflower's tiny disk florets.
Sweat
bees have adopted the single life, forgoing the crowded social arrangements of
a honeybee hive. Most live solitary lives in little underground nests, although
some species will make their homes in the soft, decaying wood of a punky log.
Each bee has her own nest and provisions her own young.
The
fascinating part is what happens to the pollen they collect. The bee carries it
back to its underground nest, mixes it with nectar, and stocks a little pantry
for its offspring. Those pollen-covered legs are carrying groceries for the
kids.
Metallic
Green Sweat Bee on a Sunflower
—Mitchell
Hegman
Today I am posting a photograph of my woodshop and a tabletop I am finishing. The shop is quite spacious. Air is constantly exchanged to keep it free of sawdust. Additionally, the floor is self-sweeping, and the lighting is perfectly even and bright throughout the entire space.
—Mitchell
Hegman
Over the weekend, Desiree and I made a trip to the cabin. Soon after arriving there, we gathered cards from our three game cameras, as is always our wont, to see what critters have been tip-toeing about in our absence.
We
captured the requisite number of deer and a standard-issue image of a fox at
night. But, most impressively, a mountain lion triggered images on the camera
facing the cabin and then sauntered in front of a second camera I recently set
just north of the cabin.
Even
though I have been living in the mountains of Montana for my entire life, I
have yet to see a mountain lion in person. They are simply too stealthy. This
is the second time I have captured one on a game camera. The first camera
offered up a fairly ghostly image. The second is pretty clear.
I am
also sharing the capture of a bull elk from a third camera in the meadow south
of the cabin.
All
good stuff.
—Mitchell
Hegman
I’ve got orthotic shoe inserts to placate my feet and crowns on my teeth to hold them together, but the middle of me is holding out pretty well, although it is expanding a bit.
—Mitchell HegmanProblem #1: Those damned ravens keep landing in a tree near my back door to “grunk” and “caw” at me.
Problem
#2: The
stuff they are saying to me is starting to make sense, and I agree. The mice
have been total ass-wipes this summer, and I need to leave more raven treats on
the top of my fence posts.
—Mitchell
Hegman
In our love we grow soft and quiet. Our cheeks silk. Our elbows soft and delicious as marshmallow. Our hands rose petals. Our voices have trickled down to clear rainwater and soaked back inside us.
It’s
not that words have failed us.
We
simply don’t need them.
—Mitchell
Hegman
I got stuck staring at a red ant pile.
When
you’re Mitch Hegman, these things happen.
But
I wasn’t thinking about the ants. I got to thinking about dirt. Topsoil,
according to the touchy folks at the local plant nursery.
We
tend to think of topsoil as something that has always been there, just hanging
out and waiting for something exciting to happen. But topsoil is not quite as
passive as it looks. It is continually being built, moved, mixed, and modified
by some remarkably small construction crews. Ants are among the most
industrious of these soil engineers. They excavate their nests, haul soil
ingredients from below to the surface, mix mineral particles, create
passageways for air and water, and carry bits of organic material into their
underground colonies.
The
red ants I observed have created a huge mound of mostly organic material, two
feet tall and nearly twice that in width.
In
either scenario, ants redistribute nutrients and alter the structure of the
soil around them. Scientists call this activity bioturbation, which is a rather
impressive word for what amounts to ants digging holes and moving dirt around.
My
kind of work.
—Mitchell
Hegman
A surprising number of us crave a healthy dose of pain for dinner. I’m talking about adding hot peppers to our dishes. While some may claim hot peppers are adding a “taste” of heat to dinner, from a physiological standpoint, capsaicin, the chemical compound responsible for the heat, binds to a specific protein on your nerve endings called the TRPV1 receptor, creating pain.
While
this reaction to capsaicin is essentially a false alarm on a receptor that is
supposed to trigger at real temperatures above 106°F, the pain feels absolutely
genuine.
Again,
hot is not flavor; it’s pain. And, sincerely, I don’t enjoy eating pain. I
prefer my tacos merely warm and a good old mild comfort food such as macaroni
and cheese. Apparently, I’m just not wired for fire.
—Mitchell
Hegman
I know quite a few Midwesterners who have transplanted themselves here in Montana. They don’t seem terribly confused and have adapted well. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the buckeye tree (of Midwestern origins) Desiree and I planted in front of our house. Even though fall is not scheduled to arrive until September 22, the muddled, out-of-its-element tree pulled the pin, as the saying goes, and turned autumn red this week.
Apparently,
buckeye trees are known for being somewhat rash when charged with prepping for
fall. Still, it’s pretty weird to see the blush of colors when the apples on a
nearby tree have yet to fully ripen and our first frost is not yet knocking at
the door.
—Mitchell
Hegman
There was a tattered woman, too.
She wore shawls with so many colors
they were like a season in themselves,
or a remembrance of curious times and old money.
Each day, she strode to the post office,
and glided echoless down the marbled walls.
Perhaps she didn't believe in time,
or distrusted randomness and dreams.
Each day she posted a scented letter to herself
and picked up the letter from the day previous,
smelling,
oh, engulfed in the roseate sweetness
and
certainty of yesterday.
—Mitchell
Hegman
In case you’ve ever wondered what a bullsnake would look like on the front stoop of your house, I’m sharing a photograph of one on mine as an example. I first spotted the snake when it poked its head inside after I opened the garage door to walk outside.
I’m
hoping this snake is a good mouser. I could use the help.
Following is a list of my dumb ideas (not in any particular order):
—Mitchell
Hegman
At the moment, I don’t have a particular beef if you are a yellowjacket. And I’ve more or less forgiven a pair of them for that time they stung me when I startled them by hammering on a fascia board near their nest under the eave of my lake storage shed.
While
I have no immediate issue of concern with yellowjackets, I remain wary. And
just yesterday, I found one attempting to hide under a sunflower alongside my
back deck. I don’t know what this solitary yellowjacket was up to, but I want all yellowjackets to know I am wise to their ways, and I’m posting a photograph to
prove it.
—Mitchell
Hegman
I thought I was done with the cabin after finishing the kitchen on the main floor, but I soon realized I have plenty of finish work I can do on the basement level. A couple of weeks ago, to that end, I ordered some metal panels and custom trim pieces to accommodate the odd structure of the daylight wall there. The framing became complicated where the foam blocks and concrete met the dimensional lumber framing. The end result, in simple terms, is an unholy stack of corners.
Posted are two photographs showing my progress after about ten hours of work. I really like the clean, bright look of the metal. Additionally, I managed to wrestle all this sharp-edged material into place with only three minor cuts to my person, none of which required a visit to Doctor Desiree.
—Mitchell
Hegman
While poking around in the meadows near my cabin, I found a walking mohawk. Not a Mohawk people. I mean, I found a mohawk haircut climbing up the stem of a desiccated angelica plant.
This
is not something I see every day, so I captured a photograph with my smartphone
and marched off to the next weird thing.
Once
I got back into service, I submitted my photo to my Google Lens app to identify
the mohawk. Apparently, I captured the image of the caterpillar stage of a
banded tussock moth.
—Mitchell
Hegman
Between sundown and sunrise, all manner of critters emerge in the notch valleys of the Northern Rockies to go about making their living. This includes predators, scavengers, and all the hapless nibblers in the timberlands and open parks.
Strange
things can happen in the darkness. My cabin and all that surrounds it are not
immune to either the associated wonders or treacheries.
I
mentioned how I battled with weeds on Sunday. In doing so, I filled one trash
bag with spotted knapweed and another with thistle. I lugged the two bags back
from the wilds and pitched them alongside the cabin.
When
I woke the following morning, the bags had been dragged off to near the fire
pit, and something had torn them open for inspection.
Definitely
not the work of a mouse. At the same time, I don’t suspect the raid was the
work of a bear. A bear would have shredded the bags to bits and made a big mess
on the spot. Other than what happened to the bags, I didn’t see any other
clues.
I
would hazard a guess at what critter is responsible.
I
hauled the bags back to the cabin and then double-bagged them for a trip to my
trash bin at home.
—Mitchell
Hegman
My shirt went rogue on me yesterday.
Early
in the morning, I stepped outside my cabin in the cool mountain air wearing a
long-sleeve button-up over a t-shirt. I immediately hiked out to pull and bag a
small patch of knapweed I found about 100 yards from the cabin. Following that,
I walked around the lower ten acres of my parcel to survey for other weeds.
Somewhere
during this hour-plus excursion, conditions warmed and my button-up shirt went
rogue and abandoned me. You might think I would have paid more attention to my
shirt, but I tend to hyper-focus when it comes to warring with invasive weeds
on my property.
Much
later in the day, I wanted a long-sleeved shirt for another excursion. After
ransacking the cabin to find the shirt, it dawned on me that I wore it earlier
in the day on my weed mission. Before long, I found myself retracing my steps
from the morning. Sure enough, at the heavily forested edge of my property, I
found my shirt sprawled out in the boughs of a tree and sunning itself.
—Mitchell
Hegman
Yesterday afternoon, we spotted a couple banded woolly bears in a willow near the cabin. These are particular favorites of mine. A banded woolly bear is the caterpillar stage of the Isabella Tiger Moth. Here in Montana, the caterpillars emerge from eggs in late summer and early fall. They remain active and feed on broadleaf plants until cold weather sets in. When the weather begins to cool, the woolly bears seek out protected places in the understory: under deadfall, under leaves, or in root tangles. The woolly bears overwinter by curling into a coil and more or less freezing solid. Even the heart of the caterpillar stops beating. In the spring, the caterpillar emerges and pupates before becoming a moth.
Interestingly,
in the Arctic, due to the short growing season for vegetation, the woolly bear
must feed for several summers and freeze again each winter before becoming a
moth.
Folklore
holds that the thickness of the dark middle color band is a predictor of
winter. If the dark band is thin, the winter will be severe; if the band is
thick, the winter will be mild. The middle band, as a matter of fact, grows
wider as the caterpillar ages.
I’ve
written about them in two previous blogs, but don’t mind sharing again.
—Mitchell
Hegman
Ho. Let us stop for the night. The better angels, the burning ones, have agreed to ascend to the treetops and watch over us. The lesser angels will tend to the animals and then care for the cherubs.
Those
from the third sphere will remain close to the ground. The archangels will
stand watch at the edges of the camp, while the ordinary angels will see to the
small things: distributing blankets, brushing and calming the restless horses,
and feeding sticks to the fires.
And
the cherubs? They have been told to stay out of trouble, although no one
expects them to listen. So let us sleep. The angels have their duties, the
animals will soon be bedded, and the stars have been set free to wander through
the night.
—Mitchell
Hegman
