Operation Airdrop

Caretaker’s Log, Monday, June 2, 2014

I get up at 8:15. As I’m coming down the stairs there’s the whirring buzz of a low flying plane. It makes one pass. Two. It practically rattles the roof. I try to see it out of the backroom windows. Who in the world is giving a tour of the Darwin at this ungodly hour and scaring off all the wildlife? Who is low-buzzing the house and disturbing my final days of solitude? In my mind, I shake my fist at the air, at the plane.

Downstairs, I stick a cup of coffee in the microwave and check my email. There’s one from Karen telling me that “weather permitting” Greg (her husband) and Paul (the owner) will be doing a fly over this morning at 8:30.

Yep. Weather’s permitting. That explains it.

She adds that they might do an airdrop (because they like them) and that she’d suggested a box of red wine since she knows I like it and my supplies are probably depleted.

Funny how quickly my attitude changes from irritation to excitement.

I grab the binoculars, my camera, a pair of socks, and my rain boots. When the plane buzzes by I throw up my arm and wave. The plane whirs over the west field and vanishes behind the ridge. I put on my boots and head toward the east pasture, thinking they must have already dropped my wine.

Engine whir turns to roar and there they are again. They skirt the east pasture and come to center. A flash of black and red. There’s my care package, dropping from the sky. It hits the ground and, like a water balloon, bursts with a tremendous red-purple splash. The grass is going to be really drunk. I wave with cheerful exuberance at the plane as it roars over me, and go to collect my box. It’s pretty well empty. I sit up on a fence post and watch as the plane comes by again then passes over the east mountains and is gone.

I take the box inside and cut through the black trash bags, the tape, and the bubble wrap. The box itself is soaked and tattered. Split on both sides. There’s enough pooled wine in the bottom to get one small serving. I pour it into a glass jar. There’s maybe two inches of wine from a 5 liter box. I think about measuring it with the rain precipitation stick. This makes me laugh.

I take my coffee and my wine and go sit in the sun. I’m having chillable red wine in the morning, kids. One drink with my coffee in honor of my first airdropped package.

First things first. Breakfast and one cup of coffee down. Then, I can’t stand it, I have to measure the wine. I can’t not. It’s too much fun being precise. I take the glass inside and pour the liquid into a smaller container. I have two containers that are the exact same size. In the second container I pour water until it matches the level of the wine. Then I pour that water into the precipitation measuring tube. Then I measure the level. 0.12 inches of wine. That’s what I’ve got.

I’ll take it.

It has a toasted, buttery flavor. Perfect for breakfast wining.

Later, after the excitement has worn off, I’m a little sad about the lost wine. I could have had a party. With myself. I could have drunk the heck out of that five liter box. But, there’s no sense crying over spilt… well, you know how it goes.

A bumblebee bumbles right into me.

It’s too nice of a day to sit still. So I put on my hiking boots, daub on some sunscreen, grab my survival gear, and get outside. I start across the pasture in the direction of the airdrop site, heading the way of the dam. But as I go, I keep on eastward. I’m going toward Bacon Ridge. Bacon Ridge is called Bacon Ridge because (prosaically) it looks like a slab of bacon. I prefer to think of it as Kevin Bacon Ridge because this (to me) is hilarious.

I’ve been part of this way before. A long time ago when the snow was still deep. I’d followed a moose’s tracks over a hill. Maybe I’ll go as far as K.B. Ridge today. We’ll see what happens. I have no agenda really, just the desire to be out and moving.

There’s a pool lying at the feet of some trees that reminds me of the Wood Between the Worlds in the book The Magician’s Nephew. I stand and listen to the frogs sing. I stand and listen to the birds join in the chorus.

Then I go on.

Over one hill and then another. I pass through marshy areas and the mosquitoes gather with glee on my sleeves, trying to pierce through my clothes and find my blood. I brush them off again and again. A crow flies overhead. The frogs call out a symphony. Bacon Ridge is still off in the distance. I had no idea it was so far. I’m wandering slowly and I have no real desire to make it all the way there. So I head for home.

Back at the Lodge, I de-gear and then since I’ve still got my boots on, I go up and check Industrial Park to make sure the fuel tank isn’t leaking. It’s not.

A can of pineapple chunks is my afternoon snack.

I wash up and launder a few items of clothing.

Karen emails to say the plane crew reported that the roads looked good from the air and that I can expect them to arrive to The Darwin on Thursday.

I eat kitcheree for dinner.

Then I have to buck myself up about the lost five liters of wine. I haven’t really lost anything, I tell myself, but a treat. I still have my own rationed out wine to fall back on. It should last me a few days more.

Some rain comes at 6:00. There’s only a trace of precipitation in the bucket. Not enough to measure. Not even 0.12 inches.

I build another fire and cozy in. Warm for the night.

Caretaker’s Log, Tuesday, June 3, 2014

“Porridge today, Gromit. It’s Tuesday.” That’s what I’m thinking when I wake up. The line is from the Claymation series Wallace and Gromit. I don’t even know why I’m thinking this… I’m having granola for breakfast, Tuesday or not.

I talk with my grandmother.

The sun is out briefly. Then a long layer of clouds takes over. This is kind of good. The clouds free me from the temptation to laze about all day on the front porch.

From 10:40 to 4:20 I clean. I take a break to eat a snack and to talk to my mom. The seemingly never-ending task of thoroughly cleaning the kitchen is almost to an end. It’s starting to look really sparkling. I clean the upstairs bathroom. I vacuum the loft bedroom. I vacuum the music room and the living room. I start to collect the things of mine that I’ve left out to use—with the mind to packing them up. That’s all the cleaning I can stand.

Now the sun is out and I go find a patch of sunlight. The cat winds herself around my legs, around and around. The bald eagle is roosting at the top of a tree near the waterfall. The osprey is not happy about this at all. She keeps diving at the eagle trying to force him into flight, and away. No such luck.

Tomorrow is my last solitary day. I’ve been here sixty-three days. I haven’t seen anyone for forty days, tonight will be forty nights. Sounds terribly biblical.

It’s so lovely when I go check the weather and do my evening walk around that I take my dinner (more kitcheree) to the sauna porch and sit looking over the river while I eat. The sun—the much loved sun—is warm on my face. The water twirls, dances from bank to bank, rushing by me with burbling satisfaction. A duck flies in. Why are ducks so funny?

This is the kind of weather that tempts me to remain outside forever.

Caretaker’s Log, Wednesday, June 4, 2014

9 weeks today. I’m up early. Almost an hour earlier than usual. It must be the impending descent of the summer crew that’s got me moving out of my usual habit. The sun is out. Nice start for my last solo day.

Today marks a year that my friend Matt went missing at sea.

I sew up the pants I ripped by the simple action of sitting the other day. This country calls for tougher clothes.

The eagle is on the tree by the waterfall again, looking dignified and important against the backdrop of green.

The red tailed hawk is out.

I bag up the recycling and mark it so that’s it ready to be taken out and recycled. I take the trash to the trash bin. It’s ready to be taken out and thrown away. I burn the burnable trash in the incinerator.

Melody, Loring’s wife, calls to tell me that Loring, Karen, and Kathy will be switching the winter phone number to the summer phone number and asks me to stand by from 1:45 to 2:30 while they test it. A bit later she calls back to say they’re running a little behind and could I stand by from 2:15 to 3:00 instead. I stand by. While I stand by, I make cookies. It’s the best I can do in my upcoming and short lived role as hostess.

It rains for about ten minutes.

I talk to Michaela.

Sometime between 2:15 and 3:00, Loring calls. The number switch was a success. He hands me over to Kathy and she tells me that they’ll be at the ranch tomorrow around 3:00.

I have another twenty-four hours of this place to myself.

I eat the last of the kitcheree for a late lunch out on the porch. The cat stands up with her paws on my leg to smell the bowl and acts like she’s going to jump in my lap and start eating. I put a piece of spinach on the ground for her and she eats it up. Crazy cat.

Some clouds move in.

I go in and take a bath, wash my hair. I’ll try to be presentable for company.

A bit of sunshine in the 7:00 hour. Why does the day become perfect just in time to turn to night?

I build up a fire and pretend it’s not my last night alone here. There’s no time (and not enough wine) for sentimentality. All things come to an end. All things begin again.

After all this time, I finally take my Edmund MAG 5 Star Atlas outside with me and gaze up. Didn’t Loggins & Messina (or The Carpenters, depending on which group you have playing) sing, “I see Virgo Rising is a very good sign”? Or are the words, “Pisces, Virgo Rising is a very good sign”? That would make more sense. Also, I mishear things all the time. I like to mishear them to fit my occasions. This occasion I really do see Virgo rising (at least I think I do. If I’m reading this map correctly) over the southern horizon.

The Big Dipper, The Little Dipper, those are easy. Cassiopeia, I know her. It’s the others I’ve gotten out of touch with. Bootes, Coma Berenices, Corvus, Crater, Libra. I put my thumb over my phone’s light—turning the beam red so that I don’t lose my night vision. I brought a piece of red cellophane with me to put over a flashlight so that I could study stars at leisure and never used it. How is it that I’m just now getting serious with the night sky? A satellite (the ISS?) goes south to north. A second moving point of light goes north to south. Like ships passing in the night… sky. Then I see another one tracking west to east. No, we are never ever really alone.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Caretaker’s Log, Friday, May 30, 2014

It takes a bottle of water, breakfast, and two cups of coffee to get rid of my I Stayed Up Too Late Reading hangover.

I sit out on the porch and finish The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. The cat finally comes from who knows where to get her morning attentions and to sit in the chair next to me.

Just after noon, the bald eagle is out soaring over the north slope.

Two youngster elk are munching grass in the east field.

From 2:00 to 3:30, I finish washing up the inside windows in the back room and upstairs in the loft. I disturb some spiders. Sorry, guys.

It rains a little. 

All of a sudden it’s 4:00. I don’t know how the day passed so quickly.

The osprey is out looking for fish.

The red tailed hawk is circling the forest.

I try to find something new to read.

After I start some quinoa cooking, I trudge over to the root cellar to replenish my house supply of canned pineapple cubes. I bring in nine cans. It’s quinoa and a can of pineapple chunks for dinner.

No luck finding something interesting to read. I must be too fresh off Stieg Larsson’s series. This is maybe the first time since I’ve been here that I’m bored. In between books. Not wanting to start something like a puzzle or a show. Maybe this is just the ennui that comes from being a bit tired, a bit grouchy. Early to bed tonight.

Caretaker’s Log, Saturday, May 31, 2014

The sun is out in full force. I wake up from a strange dream about running a four mile race in socks. One of those dreams where the race never actually starts and I wander around trying to get the staff in line and make sure my parents and my grandmother don’t mind the wait. There’s a rain delay in the dream. There’s a false start. There’s commiseration with the other three racers. There’s my Pappaw eating a hotdog.  

In real life, I sit in the sun and the dream fades away. Before I start to burn, I go inside and begin some research on the Marshall Islands Atomic Bomb Testing of the 1950s.

A helicopter flies over my valley.

A bit past noon, a dark cloud rolls in. A bit before 1:00, the thunder announces itself as serious. Then the rain starts.

These are quick little storms.

Feeling suddenly ill-kempt, I go take a bath and wash my hair.

I read about meteorology and atomic energy.

Well, that was a brief, but effective bit of rain, hail, thunder, and lightning.

Grandmama calls.

The eagle is out.

I make kitcheree.

  

At 7:00 I take measure of the day’s weather. 0.02 inches of precipitation. And that’s the day.

Caretaker’s Log, Sunday, June 1, 2014

Suddenly, it’s June.

Heading to the front porch with my coffee cup in hand, I see the coyote. I haven’t seen her in weeks. How I’ve missed her! I watch as she makes her way across the east pasture. She disappears into the tall growth. I consider getting up on the roof to watch her longer, but I don’t do it.

  

The cat is frisky. She chases the ground squirrels and her own shadow across the front yard.

The clouds create a constant interruption to my sunning. I finally go inside. During a sunny break through, I go back out. Warmed by the sun. Then chilled under the clouds. That sunny lull was brief. The eagle soars over the pasture. The insects must be out. A flock of birds (nuthatches?) flies in changing formation over my head.

The clouds piss me off. It’s too chill to stay outside. Grumpily, I go sit on the couch and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.

At 2:00, I get to cleaning the kitchen. Four hours later I stop to eat dinner. At 7:00, I take the weather. I close out the month of May on the online weather recording site. I put away some of the dried dishes. I make two discoveries while I’m cleaning. 1. There are actually lids to the little pots I’ve been cooking my rice and quinoa in. I’ve been using skillets as lids for the past eight weeks. 2. Someone (not me) put the spices on the shelf in alphabetical order. OCD or efficient? If I’d done it… well, it would have been to satisfy my occasional OCD tendencies. And to be frightfully efficient, of course. Obviously, my power of observation needs some working on.

Through the den window I see a bird of prey that I don’t recognize. It has lots of white. I’ve never seen it before. Even through the binoculars it’s too far away for me to identify.

Michaela calls to make sure I’m alive. Apparently I hadn’t posted anything online all day.

Phinehas calls.

A little before 8:00, I give in and build a fire. A fire for June 1^st.

Catch and Release

Caretaker’s Log, Tuesday, May 27, 2014

It’s already 60 degrees outside at 9:00 AM.

The bald eagle flies by.

My arms have turned a bit pink from the sun yesterday. I’ll have to be careful how long I sit out here.

There’s a woodpecker out in the woods making a lot of noise.

Other birds are fussing in the trees.

I just saw the hummingbird.

The wind is howling. 

I clean the living room and the music room. Then I Windex some of the windows.

Talk to my mom.

The river has turned brown. The creek has had its time, now it’s the river’s turn to flood.

I take a bath. Wash some clothes.

Quinoa is on the menu for dinner.

One beaver is out on the riverbank. I spy on it with the binoculars. The river is full, filling up to the brim, spilling over the formerly seen rocks, sliding over new grass, flooding.

Caretaker’s Log, Wednesday, May 28, 2014

I get up. Wash a pair of jeans and hang them over the balcony in the sun to dry.

The osprey is out this morning, hunting low over Kinky Creek. Once she dives, splashing hard into the water, emerging with feathers glimmering with drops, but without a fish. She shakes out her feathers and starts the search again.

I read for a bit.

Then I wash the outside windows. This involves a ladder, a bucket, two squeegees, paper towels, and etc…. One and a half hours later I’m finished. Just in time for a thunderstorm to roll in. It doesn’t rain but a few drops.

There is a mighty wind.

I have lunch. While eating at the table, looking out the front clean windows I see a deer walk by. Hello, deer.

The osprey comes out for an afternoon jaunt.

There’s a little dead bird by the woodpile. I think it smacked headfirst into the window. I’d cleaned off a tiny brush of feathers earlier. Crime scene evidence. Sorry, little bird. I take the little dead bird to what has become the bird “burial” grounds and set it next to the bird of prey I’d found the other day. It’s still there, though off its funerary bark. No predators around at the moment, I guess. 

Another storm rolls over. This one has more impressive thunder.

A third storm finally brings rain. Though not enough to measure.

There are two flies in the living room. I’m too lazy to catch them and put them outside.

If all goes according to current plans, I only have seven more days to myself.

Using an empty pineapple can and a laminated map, I catch one of the flies and take it outside.

I catch the second fly and take it outside.

Turns out there are three flies in the living room.

This may be a long fly catching night.

The third fly is caught and released.

And a fourth.

It’s dusk and the birds are out eating bugs.

8 weeks today.

Caretaker’s Log, Thursday, May 29, 2014

It’s an overcast morning. I answer emails until it’s time to go make sure the lights in the generator shed are showing the correct system function.

I eat granola for breakfast.

After breakfast I gear up and trek up to check the dam. I haven’t been up there since Monday. It’s clear. It’s fine. Bored with the usual trail, I follow the creek to get back down. All the time I’m singing in my head a song from Peter Pan that I rework to fit my situation. I sing, “Following the river, the river, the river. Following the river wherever it may go. Tee dum, tee dee. A teedle ee oo tee dum.” Only it’s the creek I’m following.

On impulse, since I’m out and about, I decide to climb up the far north ridge. I’ve been meaning to do that since I got here. Karen had emailed me a few days ago to say, “The winding down days are hard, aren’t they? You start to think about all the things you haven’t done yet, places to hike, pictures to take, books to write.”

The winding down days are hard. And I have been thinking about the things I haven’t done. Trying to make sure I don’t miss out on an opportunity. I like to plan ahead to avoid regret.

So many places to hike.

I’ve been up to the dam what seems like a million times. I’ve done much of the same. Funny how easy it is to just stay within certain limits, a one hour distance from the Lodge, within the property fence line, within view of what I know. Today I’m branching out.

I cross the field. Clamber over the bridge, looking down to watch the muddy, risen water rush by. I follow the path made over the years, I presume. There are elk and deer, possibly moose tracks all along the way. I follow those. I also make my own path through the scrub and around trees.

The ducks fly away at the sight—or the sound?—of me. As I gain height, I stop to gaze down and see an elk looking up, white-faced, at me. She’s in the red reeds by the water, watching, waiting. But wait! What’s this? She has a baby! A little brown fawn. If elk babies are called fawns. I stand and watch them for a while. They stand and watch me too.

Then I’m at the top. It’s high. I slink as close to the edges as I dare. I play it on the safe side. It’s a little on the top of the vertiginous scale. Wow. What a view. When I’ve gone as far up as I plan to, I sit on a rock and drink some of the water I’ve packed along with me. I sit and look down.

All I need is a hang glider.

The red tailed hawks cry. The pair is hunting above me. Circling, calling, catching the sunlight between their wings. They fly together.

On the way down the scent of pine, earth-rich loam, the forest make a spring time perfume.

I pass a track. A very large something. A bear? A wolf? I’ll have to check the AFalcon Guide Scat and Tracks of the Rocky Mountains when I get back to the Lodge.

The sun has burned off the overcast. It’s a glorious day. My face is probably getting sunburned.

Back at the ranch, I head inside the fence and start towards the generator shed when I see a dark shape moving in the west field. The moose! I want to get closer. For a moment, I glance down to mark my path, and when I look up the moose is gone. A hallucination? I go sit up on the top log of the horse corral and wait. My patience is rewarded. I see the moose again. He moves briskly back the way he’d come. I think I see the elk mama too. Perhaps they startled each other.

The three hour jaunt has done me good.

I check my email. Kathy, the owner, asks me to measure a cabinet and the space around it. I measure and email her the numbers.

Then I eat lunch, some black rice thing I made last night and leftover green beans. Now to finish my morning coffee with the sun warming me through my clothes.

I make a final batch of granola (and here I’d thought the last batch would be the last. Must be like Elisha’s miracle with the pot of oil). I water out the last dregs of honey from the bottles, use up the last of the agave. It should hold me for breakfasts until people arrive next week. I’m starting to wonder what kind of food Karen and Kathy will bring when they come.

 

I talk with Michaela.

I talk with my grandmother.

I take a bath. Now I’m warm and refreshed. Time to cozy in for the evening.

On my way upstairs, I glance out the backroom windows. I grab the binoculars. An elk, two elk. Three elk. How many elk does it take to make a herd, I wonder. Six elk! Looks like they’re heading up the same path I took earlier today. I watch them for a long time. Straining my eyes against the gathering darkness. If there are any little ones with the elk it’s too dark, too far to see. I trace their motion. Maybe there are seven moving creatures working their way up, away, together.