Signs and omens: no way out but forward

Out and about in the woods this month, (which incidentally was one of the wettest June months on record and included some light snowfall) going about my business of bringing word of library riches to rural school districts and remote Chamber of Commerce groups, I couldn't help noticing the handmade, homemade nature of the billboards and signs in every community I visited.

I like that I live in an area where the human hand is still part of the trajectory, unencumbered by mass production interventions and big box store made-in-China artifacts.

That said, the chain saw technique can be a bit rough at times, rendering the old warrior guarding the exit a bit of a sour-lemon-puckered, toothless ancient.

Rat Trucks: for sale by owner

The snow melts, temperatures warm up and the hot rods come out. Car shows in the park. Gatherings at '50's diners. Shiny chrome and paintwork, pinstriping and hood ornaments.

And then there are the others, all potential and rust: the projects, the ones not yet fixed up.

In early June, at an espresso stand on the southern edge of town, I discover a 1974 El Camino. A little worse for the wear but the El Camino has always been my dream truck.

This Chevy Suburban, however, could so easily become a liveaboard gypsy caravan, oh yes! What seed-dreams it sows, parked there outside my library.

Later in the month I find myself turning up the Chariot card. Hmmmmmm. Money can't buy love.

The turning

Solstice arrives so sudden this year. Summer? Bring it on.

Or rather here's hoping for a few days of balance, as long, light and close to the sun as I can possibly get, before the turning back towards the long dark.

Those who hold the light hand on the light to retain the light. Om shanti shanti shanti

The Farmer's Almanac edition: morning rain and edible babies

Monday morning I wake to the soft sound of rain dripping outside the open windows. Fresh sky watering for my garden beats the chemically altered tap water any day. So far this season I have had a lot of support for my gardening endeavors from the elements. For which I am grateful.

While heritage strains of beans, melons, kale and arugula germinate and go about preparing to be my food in one section of the garden, the Painted Mountain corn sprouts are the infants-of-the-moment, monopolizing all the loving attention.

This morning when I go out to greet them, each little cornstalk baby is adorned with trembling crystal beads of rain on their fresh leaves. I am fascinated.

My benefactor ensured that I received the full spectrum of colours in the seeds that I sowed. I have read that even the tassels on this corn is rainbow hued.

Looking closely at the seedlings in my field of dreams, I notice little variations. Some have a deep red stem at the base, some yellow.

Another has a leaf tip edged with a fine red line.

Is this going to continue? Watch this space.

My apologies if this is beginning to sound like a mommy blog. Food farming is a great place to put generative energy.

Spoiler alert: I plan to eat my babies! And these are no ordinary babies (are they ever?) These are generated from open pollinated, heritage seed. That means they can trace their genes back to way before the Mayflower. Heck yeah! gotta grow that rainbow before I can eat a rainbow. Somebody has to take a stand against the evil genie in the genetic engineering laboratory.

Digging deep in the sagebrush scablands

Little Yoni and I went on a bit of a road trip to the sagebrush scablands this week. Nothing better than the smell of sage in warm sun!

Initially I thought we were heading for Soap Lake: I needed to soak some scratchy skin and troublesome twisted back muscles in the lovely mineral waters of that meromictic lake in the desert about 150 miles south and a bit west of the Gulch. I have written about it previously here

As we neared Sun Lakes State Park, however, Deep Lake called us. Ever obedient to deviation from the plan, the amber golden, liquid sunshine Ford Ranger turned.

Above it all, an enormous enamel tin drum blue sky was scribbled with jet streams. We made a slow  sage-smudged way along the little roads through the park, taking time to savour the magnificence of the landscape and the fragrant, blooming marvel of spring in the desert.

X marked the spot as we launched. What ceremonial magnificence! I swear there was even a rainbow sundog shimmering! Some real Bagdad Cafe moments.

The last time I paddled Deep Lake was last summer, with the Blue Bath Tub Toy, in a thunderstorm, written up here.

Conditions couldn't have been more different this time. The surface was a reflective dance of colour and light, the water a lovely dark aquamarine. That and the graphic goings on in the sky kept my mind off contemplation of the unimaginable scary depths. No surprises in the name here. This lake has an unplumbed deep of the kind which puts a cold clamp of terror on my entrails. Bigtime heebie jeebies if I allow the attention to drop. Definitely a place of profound mystery.

Little Yoni and I are finding our balance. I practiced my J strokes technique with the single blade a bit, then put that aside as being too leisurely, and took up the double bladed Shuna paddle for some fast travelling, hoping to exercise the painful muscles into health as they warmed in the molten honey sun.

On Deep Lake, there are times when one paddles between sheer cliffs which not only rise up up up but also drop down down down below the water. There would be no shore landing possible should a capsize take place. Wet exit: wet re-entry is the only only option.

The cliffs, however are home to hundreds of rock swallow nests, little mud condominiums each with a bird face sticking out. The sunlight on the water was playing magical, dancing light show, reflective tricks at this point. I shot some videos of it but mysteriously when I got home I cannot find the little Canon camera which does video. Fortunately I was shooting mostly stills with the Olympus DSLR.

Other birds of prey circled high above or perched in caves calling attention to themselves with shrieks - osprey maybe -  but the distance was too much for clear identification. Crows called counsel across the clear, desert air, their wingspan shadows swooping against cliff, across water.

A little headwind on the return journey had me putting some power into my paddle strokes, and thinking about how almost exactly a year ago I was freshly strong and wild, transformed by the Na Pali paddle. The sheer cliffs here and the colour in the water make the two places cousins.

Little Yoni is welcomed to the deep and the high.

Click on pic to open in a slideshow window

Guarding the Yoni

Little Yoni has a much wider belly than my slim sleek Merlin kayak. I needed to do something to protect the canoe from being gouged by the sharp ends of the roof rack supports on top of my truck.

Thinking tennis balls, I scoured the local second hand shops for something suitable. No tennis balls turned up,  but I did find a couple of candidates who were prepared to sacrifice their bodies in service to the Yoni.

 The beautifully curvaceous belly is in danger no more.

Rainbow dreaming: homage to the maize gods

And on the tenth day they germinated!

When I get home from work today I discover that the field of dreams has become populated with inch high Painted Mountain corn (zea mays) sprouts.

For a while there I was worried. I managed to just squeak in under the wire to get the treasured seed planted on the evening of June 1st, with the moon swelling to full. With a short growing season there's not much wiggle room for dallying with this warm season, tender annual: get the seed in a couple of weeks late and one can get caught the other end of summer with early frosts.

The first week of June here gave us snow, some nights of real low temperatures and so much rain I thought the poor little kernels would have done better to have builded themselves an ark. A heated one at that.

A day or two of sunshine, though, and there they are: manifest promise of a colourful harvest come mid-September. Imagine! Rainbow mielies! Cultivating patience whilst sustaining with vision is what it is all about.

Background on Painted Mountain corn is found here

Another blogger's experiences with lovely pictures here

Morning raga: cloud dancing

Wind tickled cirrus in blue with birdsong.

 East

West

Snow in June

Not a good picture, taken in haste from the truck window en route to a meeting, but, for the record: fresh snow dusting the mountains the first week of June this year. Just after I had planted my field of Painted Mountain heritage corn.

Maize or mielies by any other name will grow as sweet on this continent of origin for the species. Well actually Painted Mountain is a flint corn - for drying, grinding into meal - and not a sweet corn for eating green.

I am restraining myself from prodding about in the earth to see what has germinated and hoping the crows and starlings don't get to the precious kernels first.

Dreaming of a rainbow harvest.

Rocking the double blade on Rocky Lake or Just turtling around with Little Yoni

Memorial Day, the last weekend in May, I had a bonus day off work. The weather didn't really cooperate. Mostly it gloomed and glowered. I worked a lot in the garden, slapping at mosquitoes all the while, trying to get ahead of myself with preparing a field for Painted Mountain heritage corn.

On Monday, though it took me a while to get loaded and on the road (becoming a habit, this is, it seems) Little Yoni and I went journeying.

I had a plan to explore Rocky Lake, a little 20 acre puddle about 15 miles to the north and east a smidgen.  It turned into a beautiful sunny, rainshowery, windy day: a bit of everything and then some. Spring flowers were at their peak in the meadows and forests along the way.

There were more turtles than even I could imagine sunning themselves on logs, ducks with babes playing the camouflage game in the reeds, dark water rippled by wind and a handful of fishermen. The place was strangely quiet for a holiday.

Turns out Little Yoni handles rather well with the double bladed paddle, though I do need to adjust my stroke and reach to accomodate the wider vessel - she's a tubby bellied one, is Little Yoni. I kept knocking the paddle shaft on the edge of the canoe. For voyaging, though, and covering water fast, the double blade is the one.

We did a little road trip afterwards, a kind of victory lap, introducing Little Yoni to the ancestors of the land: north across the Columbia at Kettle Falls, a stop to collect rocks at French Rock, and back south on Colville NDN Rez to cross again on the Gifford Inchelium ferry: a princess on the Princess. Eagles attended us.