In the Bag

We must save the apples.

"We" in this instance is 95% Desiree and 5% me. The issue is worms attacking our apples. I am not in favor of spraying insecticides and would actually allow the worms to have their way with a few apples. As an alley kid from East Helena, Montana, I've never been opposed to working my way around the worm in an apple.

The classic wormy apple, by the way, owes its reputation to the codling moth. After hatching, its cream-colored caterpillar bores into the apple like a miniature miner, heading straight for the seed-filled core. If you've found a worm in a Montana apple, you've almost certainly met one. Given this, the damage is usually confined to the core.

But my island girl prefers purity in her apples. Our particular variety is the Golden Delicious. They are sweet late in the season, but I prefer them in the last stages of green, with a dash of salt. I converted Desiree to this preference last year with our first harvest.

To save this year's apples, she procured some net bags that can be secured around individual fruits. Although she may be a little late pulling the trigger, she started bagging the apples yesterday.

I must admit, there is a certain weird charm to the bagged tree. It's something akin to decorating a tree for Christmas. The effort makes it feel a little special. I am posting two photographs so you can get a feel for it.

Desiree Tying Bags Around the Apples

Apples in Bags

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sapphire Thing

Montana is America's sapphire state, home to the nation's only major deposits of gem-quality sapphires. Most are found in four classic localities: Yogo Gulch, Rock Creek, Dry Cottonwood Creek, and the Missouri River gravels northeast of Helena. The Missouri River deposits quite literally extend through the property on which I constructed my house. Given my feral obsession with rocks and my proximity to precious gems, I am regularly compelled to purchase bags of sapphire pay gravel from one or another of the nearby mining operations so I can glean a few stones.

Just yesterday, we poked through a bag of gravel processed from the Spokane Bar Sapphire Mine.

Good stuff.

We found several larger sapphires I like to think of as "tink-tinks" because of the distinctive sound they make when dropped into a holding bottle. Most of the gems ranged from green to blue. The largest, though not of perfect quality, I would estimate to be around 4 carats. I'm sharing a photograph of the gems we found.

Looking for Sapphires

Our Precious Finds

—Mitchell Hegman

Return of the Voles

The voles have invaded Desiree's flower garden again.

Though they are often mistaken for mice, they live very different lives. While mice are quick to invade and take advantage of the luxuries of our homes, voles are creatures of meadows, fields, and forest edges. They spend most of their time hidden beneath dense grasses, scuttling through narrow runways they weave through the vegetation and retreating to shallow burrows where they nest and store food. Their diet consists mainly of grasses, roots, seeds, bulbs, and the bark of young trees, which can make them unwelcome visitors in gardens and orchards. Although a vole may occasionally wander into a garage or shed by accident, they rarely take up residence inside houses.

If you spot a small rodent scampering across your kitchen floor, it's almost certainly a mouse rather than a vole. A vole is easy to recognize by its compact body, blunt nose, tiny ears that nearly disappear into its fur, and its short tail, which is only about a third the length of its body.

Yesterday, I live-trapped two voles from the garden and carted them down the road for release in the place we nicknamed Voleville in honor of previous releases there. I'm sharing two photographs of one of the captured voles. The second includes a Cold Smoke beer for an accurate reference of its size.

A Trapped Vole

Vole Next to a Cold Smoke Beer

—Mitchell Hegman

Monkey Flowers

The upper reaches of Arrastra Creek remain untamed and fully electrified. The water surges down the mountain in a fully white state, bounding from stone to stone, convulsing, and grasping at fallen timber. The clattering sound is bigger than all the other sounds in the forest. The sharpest birdsong cannot penetrate the din.

And amid all of this, in pockets and fists of green nurtured by mist, grow rare beauties: Solomon's seal, queen's cup, and monkey flowers.

Monkey flowers have a fondness for soggy ground. They are little botanical signposts, often revealing hidden springs and seeps long before the water reveals itself. They love having their feet wet. Over the years, I have found them in both yellow and red. Yesterday, along the fringes and braids of Arrastra Creek, I found a pair of red monkey flowers in bloom.

Arrastra Creek

Monkey Flowers

—Mitchell Hegman

Butt-Wipes

It's unlikely that rap music will ever overtake the sound of waves shuffling across a Montana mountain lake. Improbable that two words could topple you with laughter. Implausible that only my kiss could stop you from drowning in mirth.

But then a chrome-and-glitter wakeboard boat emerged, with too-loud music thumping.

"Butt-wipes," I said of them.

I swear, honey, you would have died laughing had I not enfolded you.

—Mitchell Hegman

23 Years

23 years ago on these early July dates, with the help of friends, I started setting foam panels in a freshly excavated hole for the foundation of my cabin. I recall the scent of freshly turned earth and pine as we worked. And I recall the excitement that filled me from my toes to my fingertips as we engaged in those early stages of construction.

Back then, I anticipated a timeframe of perhaps a dozen years from that point to fully frame and finish the cabin, inside and out. Well, life happens, and life doesn't happen. Losing Uyen in 2011 brought me to a complete stop for about five years.

I lost my heart for the cabin for a spell.

Since 2022, Desiree and I have been pouring our efforts into finishing the cabin. Just yesterday, I installed the last kitchen countertop receptacles and dropped in the kitchen sink. All that remains to completely finish the cabin's main floor are two small pieces of trim and the installation of the range hood. Today's post includes a few photographs documenting the process.

Me Studying the Foam Panels, July 11, 2003

Me on the Formed Walls, July 19, 2003

The Kitchen Counter, July 12, 2026

Sink in Place, July 12, 2026

—Mitchell Hegman

Limits

I have my limits. I can, for example, drink only 3 beers. A fourth one will give me a headache. I can only listen to about 30 seconds of opera singing before I get really uncomfortable and start squirming. When it comes to outside temperatures, my maximum is around 80°F. Anything beyond that causes me to flush red and sweat profusely if I try to do any physical activity. Yesterday, while driving out of the valley to reach the cool mountain air at the cabin, my car registered 103°F at one point. I'm pretty sure that's near my melting point.

Outside Temperature Registered on My Car

—Mitchell Hegman