A Cascade of Flowers

The Southeast Valley Honeybees, after several years of absence, have laid claim to our Mayday tree, now in full bloom. The entire tree hums and vibrates with the sound of dozens upon dozens of bees.

Nothing in my northland world outdoes a Mayday tree in the production of pearly white flowers. It doesn’t scatter its blossoms like loose change; it gathers them into long, crowded tassels, turning each branch into a chandelier, if not a floral waterfall, of small blooms. Mayday trees also bloom early and produce a sweet, beckoning scent, boosting the odds of pollination before other trees and ground flowers even get off the starting line to compete.

Yesterday, at midday, I wandered out and stood beneath the Mayday, a halo of blossoms and bees above me.

If not heaven, close.

Desiree and the Mayday Tree in Bloom

A Bee at Work

—Mitchell Hegman

The Holding Pen

Almost every plant-eating critter loves to munch on quaking aspen. The tender leaves and emerging buds are especially tasty. And in the snow-swirled depths of winter, when forage is scarce, these four-legged customers will strip bark for a meal. Additionally, aspen make excellent antler-rubbing posts. If you intend to plant a sapling in deer, elk, or moose country, you need to provide fencing around it.

Yesterday, Desiree and I purchased two super tall, skinny quaking aspen saplings. One will eventually find a home near our cabin; the other will be planted near our hot tub just outside our back door. Read “deer country” here.

To protect the saplings before planting, we placed them in a protective holding pen. During the summer, the pen serves as a fenced-in garden spot. I should note that I have a sketchy record with aspen trees. Throughout their range, aspen are attractive targets for pathogens and insects. Two aspens I previously planted at the cabin succumbed to blight.

Still, aspen have a hushed stubbornness about them. They send up new shoots, try again, and then try once more. With a bit of luck and a little protection, perhaps these two will grasp the earth where I plant them and decide to stay.

Desiree Pushing the Trees Toward Our Truck.

Aspen in the Holding Pen

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Requirements for Survival

Desiree and I watched a couple of episodes of Naked and Afraid. In one, the male survivalist tapped out after only three days of the 21-day challenge, leaving a young woman on her own. Thankfully, she thrived and made it to extraction day.

Desiree and I discussed what it would take for us to make it past three days. For me, survival would hinge on two non-negotiables: footwear and coffee. I would need to fashion a respectable pair of shoes out of bark or hide, and then, somehow, locate a coffee bush in whatever uncooperative corner of the planet I’d been dropped into.

Desiree’s requirements are, if anything, more exacting. She would need to successfully forage and assemble all the necessary ingredients to prepare a proper dish of pancit noodles.

We have our needs.

—Mitchell Hegman

Roughing It

My late wife and I purchased our mountain property in 2000. Over the next few years, we worked out plans and finances for a cabin, and began building in phases.

The key word here is “cabin.” I had in mind something small and simple. Maybe even rustic. I briefly considered an A-frame, then let that idea wander off into the trees.

“Simple” never made it onto the final prints. Before long, we had something that looks suspiciously like a second home. Just last year, Desiree and I finished the loft. Yesterday, we wired up a big-screen TV to fiber internet, better than what I get at home, and spent the afternoon in the loft watching music videos on YouTube.

So this, apparently, is our version of roughing it.

I’m posting a photograph of Desiree from our time in the loft.

Desiree “Roughing It”

—Mitchell Hegman

My Place in the World

When I was a kid, my mother had to drag me, squirming and sniveling, to the bath or shower. In my reckoning, it was a waste of time. Besides, I earned every speck of dirt I wore.

Welp, over the years, there’s been a radical reversal. I now find showering downright pleasurable, especially at the cabin. I love showering there. It’s a mountain luxury, and for some reason, the water feels warmer. After a day of cutting firewood, poking along the chill creek, or tending a campfire, it lands like a soft massage. And considering we went the first fifteen years of our long cabin-building process without a shower or hot water, I don’t take it for granted.

Frankly, I hate getting out of the cabin’s shower once I start. Yesterday, I stepped in after a late afternoon of sawing Douglas fir rounds.

Pure heaven.

After a while, I called out, “Hey, Desi, grab my phone and come here, please.” When she arrived, I asked her to take a G-rated picture of me in the shower. “This is my place in the world,” I said.

Today, it’s my pleasure to share it with you.

Me in the Cabin Shower

—Mitchell Hegman

About Her Name

Shirly never liked her name, and she always wondered why a decent person would call a tree a western larch when you could call it tamarack instead.

As far as her name went, she wished to be a Belinda. Maybe a Blossom. Why not Enola? A name that opened like a window and let a little light in.

Shirly heard music words in names. And yet she fell for a man simply named Bob. Not much more than a single note, Bob, but sometimes a single note is all a melody needs to begin. He agreed to call her Enola, and she liked the way he said it: Ee-no-LA. A big, bold LA to end with a flourish. A symphony could hardly do better. Easily enough to build a love upon.

—Mitchell Hegman

Thanks, Dad — Thanks, Sun

Among other things, I inherited a bad scalp from my father. As an adult, he was allergic to sunlight and lived accordingly, keeping to the shade and rarely stepping outside without a hat.

While I’m not directly allergic to the sun, my skin is damaged (and now revolting) due to too much exposure as a creek-swimming, field-wandering kid who never wore a hat.

Presently, I am battling psoriasis, folliculitis, and actinic keratoses (pre-cancer). A couple of years ago, I had a spot of squamous cell carcinoma (yes, actual cancer) sliced from my forearm. Strangely, I didn’t feel a thing, during or after, which is notable because I am, by reputation and repeated demonstration, a bit of a baby about such matters.

So, as it stands, it appears I’m one malady away from using every letter of the alphabet. Not that there is any value in that.

—Mitchell Hegman