Rural Delivery

Standing in a field just a few hundred yards from the place where he was born 70 years earlier on “a cold February morning,” the retiring rancher eyed the crowd gathered around his dismantled windmill.

An auctioneer cried out from the center of the throng, “Last chance! Two-twenty-five, give me two-twenty-five! Sold for two hundred dollars.”

The auctioneer and the crowd moved on, away from the rancher and toward a rusty manure spreader. The man with the highest bid, a neighbor, lagged behind. He studied the metal fan blades of the windmill and then crossed over to the rancher. His round, flushed face was reflected in the older man’s dark glasses.

“You’re going to have to help me put this thing together,” he said.

The rancher studied him a moment from behind the glasses, then announced in mock seriousness. “Nope, I can’t help you. I told you not to buy the thing.”

Auctions like this can be gloomy affairs. When a century-old ranch is sold and its equipment goes on the auction block, often there’s a foreclosure or a death in the family. Neighbors stand around, hands in their pockets, and bid sheepishly. The owner may not even attend.

This southern Idaho rancher stood his ground, wryly watching three generations of tractors, trucks and farm implements pass into other hands. Friends and neighbors, farmers and ranchers with weathered faces and calloused hands, approached the lank old man in the tan felt hat. Like the land around them, their conversation was sparse, but not subdued.

“Does this baler work good?” the auctioneer called out as he started taking bids on a John Deere 216.

“Oh yeah,” said the rancher with a slight grin. “You hook it on the tractor and it’ll follow.”

The 1,100-acre ranch had been sold to a developer from California. Soon after the auction, the old rancher would leave a land homesteaded by his grandfather in 1886, a place that he grew up on in the 1930s, and a family business he had owned for 40 years.

At various times during its history the ranch had supported a thousand head of dairy cows, nearly 500 head of beef cattle, crops of clover, seed, hay, alfalfa, wheat, barley and potatoes. Some years were tough, others prosperous; adequate water supplies were always a concern.

To keep the ranch operating, the owners purchased fleets of tractors and trucks over the years. Their outbuildings swelled with machinery and equipment. Long rows of those belongings spilled out across the field below the rancher’s log home, and the ranch’s final harvest continued.

A horse-drawn manure spreader sold that day for $235, a calf table for $140. A New Hiolland 1049 Super harrow bed stacker drew a top bid of $7,000.

In selling the family ranch, the old man kept title to 40 acres of unimproved land across the valley. What he’d do with it, he had no idea. But looking out across the broad plain that used to be his ranch, nestled tight against the southern flanks of the hills, it’s not hard to understand why a man would want to retain some portion of that space, if only to have a place to stand and watch you way of life go down the road.

“I’m just getting too old,” he explained. His three sons were not interested in — or could not afford — taking over the ranch. The rancher’s wife had passed away 18 months earlier.

At various times during its history the ranch had supported a thousand head of dairy cows, nearly 500 head of beef cattle, crops of clover, seed, hay, alfalfa, wheat, barley and potatoes. Some years were tough, others prosperous; adequate water supplies were always a concern.

To keep the ranch operating, the owners purchased fleets of tractors and trucks over the years. Their outbuildings swelled with machinery and equipment. Long rows of those belongings spilled out across the field below the rancher’s log home, and the ranch’s final harvest continued.

A horse-drawn manure spreader sold that day for $235, a calf table for $140. A New Hiolland 1049 Super harrow bed stacker drew a top bid of $7,000.

In selling the family ranch, the old man kept title to 40 acres of unimproved land across the valley. What he’d do with it, he had no idea. But looking out across the broad plain that used to be his ranch, nestled tight against the southern flanks of the hills, it’s not hard to understand why a man would want to retain some portion of that space, if only to have a place to stand and watch you way of life go down the road.

• Rural Delivery

On a golden afternoon in early autumn I return to a mountain lake I’ve visited many times over the years, dating back to when I was a child at summer camp. Some sense of connectedness brings me back, time and again, to reacquaint myself with familiar waters and old recreations.

Each time I rent an old 15-foot Grumman at the marina and paddle, somewhat aimlessly, along the shoreline. The rhythmic lapping of water against the hull and the far-off cries of loons float atop a deep and peaceful quiet. Blue skies are mirrored on the smooth surface, where anything that moves produces a sparkle and, then, dimpling circles of ever wider and fainter proportion.

Sometimes I’ll drop a line for trout or scramble ashore to look for frogs or driftwood. Mostly, I linger in private coves scented by bordering pine trees and watch for deer emerging from the shadows or osprey soaring overhead.

Canoeing appeals to many moods and ages. For me, it’s been at various times a source of childhood adventures, fun-filled family outings, and quiet retreats from day-to-day business. It’s as much a sport for boys as girls, and as easy for Grandma to master as it is for a burly truck driver.

Some folks, like myself, canoe the flat waters of quiet rivers and calm lakes. Others lean toward the challenges of fast and roaring whitewater. Whatever your preference in this self-propelled sport, there is a canoe to match your ambitions.

The word “canoe” derives from “canoa,” a Carib Indian word recorded by Columbus meaning dugout. Many Native Americans crafted canoes from hollowed out logs — dugouts — or by using birchbark or hides stretched across a wooden frame. European explorers, fur-trappers and missionaries became enthusiastic canoeists, paddling and portaging their craft for hundreds of miles across unfamiliar territory.

The canoe was as essential in the backcountry of the 17th and 18th centuries as four-wheel-drive vehicles are today. It could be maneuvered down narrow channels or across broad lakes with similar ease, and if a man had to he could carry it across land. Try that with a Land Rover!

Canoes of the late 20th century are made of synthetic woven fibers instead of hides. Plastic resins and thermoplastics have replaced most wooden frames. The modern canoe is lighter, tougher and faster than its colonial counterpart. An average person can lift many of them one-handed.

Not all canoes are the same, of course, and there are almost as many styles as there are uses for the craft. Recreation canoes are best for leisurely paddling or fishing on calm waters. Their hulls are wide and they have a flat bottom that gives them extra stability. These are the canoes rented at most liveries and resorts, designed to safely carry families as well as sportsmen.

Touring canoes are a little longer (16 1/2 to 18 feet) and wider with a slightly rounded bottom. Built for longer trips across rougher water, they’ll carry more gear and maneuver more easily than the recreational models.

Cruising canoes are designed for experienced canoeists who want more speed. These canoes are about 18 feet long and have a shallow V-shaped hull that delivers more speed and distance per paddle stroke than the recreational or touring models.

Other types of canoes include wilderness-tripping canoes for long-distance travel, whitewater canoes for negotiating rapids, and downriver canoes for racing. All of these are built for veteran canoeists who know their strokes, not the novice or weekend paddler.

Out of the water, most canoes transport rather easily. There are handy loading devices available for stowing canoes atop vehicles or trailers. The top of a fold-down camper can also be outfitted to hold a canoe.

Paddling a canoe is actually easy to learn and not as strenuous as it might seem, especially on calm water. By trial-and-error most first-time canoeists quickly learn that paddling on the right side of the canoe makes it veer left, and paddling on the left side makes it veer right. Only by paddling on both sides alternately, it seems, will the canoe travel in a relatively straight line. But by turning the paddle away from the canoe at the end of the stroke the push-away movement will correct the veer and keep the craft going straight ahead.

There are other tricks to paddling solo and in tandem, like using back strokes to brake your speed or a bow rudder stroke to turn sharply with little effort. These are taught in canoeing classes, schools and clubs in many communities. But no one should let the lack of formal training dissuade them from going canoeing on a calm lake or gentle river. The basic skills of the activity are like riding a bicycle — quickly learned and rarely forgotten.

Canoeing may involve long trips through wilderness areas or quiet moments on local lakes and rivers. Splendid opportunities for paddling are available in almost every state and the mobility of the canoe allows access to quiet, scenic sites far from crowded campgrounds.

Wherever you choose to paddle, the best advice anyone can offer is to go easy and follow your own interests. Canoes are like pickup trucks, reliable vehicles for those who know how to drive and appreciate them. Whether it’s a family picnic on a secluded island or a hunting expedition in the backcountry, the right canoe can get you there.

For myself, I am happy for some stolen moments on a quiet lake or meandering stream, fancying myself akin to the aboriginal Indians or some intrepid trapper. Sometimes I’ll sit back, paddle at rest, and drift with the wind while listening to the plop of rising fish, the squawk of waterfowl and the pee-yeeps of tree frogs. I’ll have found my destination, then, and reached it by canoe.

• Outgoing
• Paddle Your Own Canoe

Real cowboy hats don’t have feather bands, nor do they come in mink fur or shades of mauve. The real thing, like the Stetsons and Resistols of old, is 100 percent fur felt. It’s sturdy enough to weather gully-washers and to withstand horse’s hooves, and it comes only in basic colors: good-guy white, bad-guy black and wrangler tan.

It used to be, a hundred or so years ago, you could tell where a cowpoke hailed from by the style of his hat. High Plains horsemen wore hats with wide brims to shade them from the glaring sun. Backcountry packers and riders in wooded areas favored hats that were narrower, to avoid tree limbs, and more bowed, to keep rain off their necks.

Nowadays mass production of cowboy hats has messed things up, but there are still some distinctions among real-life working cowboys. Your Texas cattleman, for instance, still wears a conservative rancher-style hat with a crease down the center of a six-inch crown and a dent along each side.

Most Nevada buckaroos, on the other hand, seek out the scruffiest, most old-fashioned hat imaginable and wear it with great pride.

And only bankers and other city dudes wear those black, short-brimmed bowlers.

The earliest cowboy hats were self-made fashion statements the likes of which won’t be found in any store. Hat-makers started off by digging a hole in the ground the size of a man’s head. Then a piece of wet rawhide was stretched over the hole and nailed down.

Into the middle of the wet skin the cowboy would stuff several handfuls of grass and shape the crown from the inside with his fingers. The brim was tamped down and cut to whatever width the maker desired.

Once the rawhide dried, it was smoked and heated over a campfire for waterproofing.

Such hats, which date back to the early 1800s, did not last long. Their brims wore like corrugated cardboard, according to historical accounts, and broke apart in chunks after a few months.

Not many cowboys make their own hats these days unless they are professional haber-dashers like Tom Hirt in Colorado. Hirt uses early-century techniques to custom-craft hats from a dense Beaver fut felt. He cuts and shapes the hat by hand, but instead of using a hole in the ground he forms the crown using antique wooden blocks, or “lasts,” to get the head shape he wants.

Hirt then works the brim on a heat press to create the sloping dip of a Wyoming cowhand’s hat or the “pencil-roll” lip of a riverboat gambler’s. After sanding and oiling the fabric to a smooth finish, he ties a simple leather cord or a colored ribbon around the brim.

No feathers, no buckles, no flags on these hats. Real cowboys, their character molded by austere landscapes and a frugal lifestyle, disdain such adornments. The only concession to vanity may be found in gold lettering along the two-inch-wide leather sweatband inside the crown: the cowboy’s name.

• Rural Delivery
• Hats Direct from the Hatter

Out here we pretty much ignore the TV weather forecasts. They aren’t accurate more than half the time, so we’d do as well flipping a coin.

It’s not that meteorologists in these parts are poorly trained or that our weather is particularly tricky. They’re just demographically handicapped. They forecast weather for their primary viewing audience, the “big city,” which is 25 miles away and 600 feet lower.

Folks like us in outlying rural areas are on our own, which is how we like it most of the time.

We don’t follow the “news” much, either. It’s all about city life, mostly, and one ghastly murder after another. There’s not enough minutes on the TV news to tell us about all the shootings and robberies and child abuse going on. There’s not enough pages in the newspaper.

No wonder the media never gets around to reporting on how our neighbor’s breast cancer miraculously went into remission or how the Kiwanis constructed a band shell for the park. Some small towns have a weekly newspaper that prints news of kids that aren’t in trouble and local governments that aren’t corrupt, but they don’t sell many copies.

Around here, when folks want “up-to-the-minute” news they don’t subscribe to CNN, they buy a scanner. For less than the cost of a couple months of cable TV, a person can buy an emergency frequency scanner that tunes into the radio calls of police, firefighters and ambulance crews. The guy who runs the local gas station has one, and so do several neighbors.

If we need to check on winter road conditions we huddle around the scanner down at the Co-op and listen to the snowplow drivers chatter at each other. If there’s an accident somewhere, we’ll hear about it on the scanner long before it’s news.

Some folks, like the neighbors we play cards with, leave their scanners on night and day. Over pinochle on a Friday night we listened as a crime wave swept through our town.

First, the local police stopped a couple cars for speeding — out-of-staters, of course — and checked on a barking dog down by the gravel pit. We all knew which dog they were talking about.

Later, there was a call about a suspicious person behind the bar and the Sheriff went to investigate. After a few moments he called for a backup. The “suspicious person” he went looking for was nowhere to be found, but a young kid he questioned outside the bar had gotten mad and was using “loud profanities,” the Sheriff said. The 16-year-old boy was arrested.

After that, the night was quiet until the State Police were contacted by a woman who had been traveling northbound on the state highway when a dark-colored van passed her recklessly. As the van passed, a passenger yelled at the woman and made an obscene gesture. A patrolman said he would investigate.

As we folded our last hand, we reflected on how fortunate we were to live where the most serious crimes of that particular night were bad manners.

• Rural Delivery

Hard frost again last night. My footsteps leave dark impressions on the ground. The breath of the cows rises in clouds as they huddle together like football players at Soldier Field on a December Sunday.

Fewer grasshoppers now, I notice. They used to scatter through the wheat stubble on my approach. Only a few stragglers remain. The rest have died or gone off to hide from winter.

The crisp night is giving way to a warm morning glow. It will be an “Indian Summer” sort of day, the kind we missed out on last year when winter dropped in early. Some of our coldest weather came in November rather than January, where it belongs.

Most of nature depends on a steady progression of seasons.

These cool nights encourage the growth of fat and fur on dogs, cats, horses and most other warm-blooded critters. My beard and waistline, too, seem to grow more readily this time of year. By winter solstice, or late December, we’ll be well acclimated to the cold.

Reptiles, insects and other creatures make similar adjustments. Many bury themselves in the most protected spot they can find and slip into a deep torpor, like hibernation, which lasts throughout the winter.

Even no-see-ems — those nearly invisible biting midges that infiltrate lawns and campsites, nibbling at whatever skin they latch onto — have a nifty wintertime adaptation. Their bodies start producing a protein this time of year that acts as a sort of antifreeze.

Scientists don’t know exactly how the no-see-em, or Culicoides variipennis sonorensis as they call it, accomplishes this winterization. They have discovered that if the insect is suddenly exposed to a temperature of 14 degrees for two hours it will die. But if the no-see-um is first exposed to 41 degrees for an hour, it can survive at 14 degrees for up to three days.

This wintertime acclimation, known as “cold hardening,” is also found in the pesky fruit fly and the common house fly. It is one reason why a hard winter won’t always kill off an insect population and the diseases it carries.

My own cold hardening begins with snow tires on the truck, weather-stripping around the windows and doors, and a couple cords of firewood split and stacked. There’s still gloves and boots to buy, trees to prune, feed to stock up on, and garden beds to mulch. I don’t have any antifreeze proteins in my system that I know of, but I’ve noticed that 30 degrees isn’t as chilling as it was a couple weeks ago.

Call me Pooh Bear.

My three-year-old son is Piglet. We walk side by side, the best of friends, in pursuit of adventures. All things are possible.

Some days I am Rabbit, who frets and worries, or the bouncing Tigger, especially after a cup too much of coffee.

Then there are those somber, feeling-sorry-for-myself times when I’m accused of being Eeyore. “Thanks for noticing me.”

Benjamin, my son who is sometimes Piglet, depending on his mood, sees people as animals. This is quite normal, the childhood experts assure me.

Young children dream animals too, or so I’ve read. Owls and bears and cows and dogs impersonate people in their fantasies. The courage of the lion or the stubbornness of the goat matches the traits of family members or friends.

No one has to teach children to make these connections. They do it naturally. It probably comes with being human.

Some Amazonian native peoples believe that when you are born there is an animal born with you at the same time. It lives with you and protects you, even if you reside in the city and it dwells in the jungle. When you die, it dies with you to guide you back to the spirit world.

Most cultures have animal guides of one sort or another, whether it’s Coyote the Trickster, a witch’s black cat, or Flipper.

As a species, we moved out of the jungles and the forests long ago, but there are still wild places within us. Our brains have gotten bigger and more complicated, but there’s still an animal brain at every stem that’s watching out for snakes and getting anxious about dinner.

If you hunt or fish, you’ve probably experienced this animal more recently. Stalking a prey or butchering a kill exercises a bond that’s as old as human history. Eating the flesh of an animal, whether baked or broiled or fried or barbecued, can be a spiritual experience. Life succumbs to life.

Vegetarianism, for all its merits, lacks this primal communion.

As a parent, I find that one of my more distasteful chores is shattering illusions and reinforcing our culture’s agreed-upon realities. When Benjamin runs around on all fours, barks and starts to drink from the dog’s dish I must remind him that he is a boy, not a dog.

There are no ghosts in the dark, I tell him, and no spooky pumpkins hiding under the bed. Pretend lions are not real and hyenas are not likely in Idaho.

And no, I am not Pooh Bear.

• Rural Delivery

First, you start with a pumpkin seed, but not just any pumpkin. Seek out seeds of a Halloween or Jack-o’-Lantern or Spookie variety. You want a pumpkin that matures to the size and shape of your own head.

Sow your seed just before the last frost in mounds of soil and manure. And as you plant, reflect on how deeply the roots of pumpkins sink into history. Native to the Americas, pumpkins fed Indian tribes before Columbus landed and gave white settlers in frontier cabins sustenance through cold, dark winters.

Grow pumpkin vines in full sun with plenty of water. When they sprout small pumpkins, pinch off the tips of the vines. When the pumpkins are six inches across, pick all but one pumpkin per vine.

Turn your pumpkins gently in their final weeks of growth so they don’t grow flat on one side. If one becomes your favorite, reflecting in its ribbed surface something inside your soul, scratch your name or initials in its skin.

Pick pumpkins after fall frosts have wilted the vines. Find the one you personalized, or select another you find most interesting and cut it from the vine with a knife, leaving at least a three-inch stem. Wipe its surface clean with a damp towel.

The first Jack-o’-Lanterns were large turnips grown in Ireland long before pumpkins crossed the Atlantic and, according to folklore, Jack was a sinful blacksmith who had played one too many practical jokes. Neither Heaven nor Hell would have him and Jack was doomed to walk in darkness until Judgment Day.

Just before he was thrown out of Hell, Jack was eating a turnip. Thinking quickly, he snatched up some of Hell’s burning embers and put them in the hollowed out turnip to light his way through the darkness.

Cut an opening around the stem wide enough for your hand. Pull on the stem to remove the lid and then scoop out the seeds. Washed and dried, pumpkin seeds can be baked at low heat on a lightly oiled cookie sheet for a half hour. With a little salt, they make a pleasant snack.

Next, draw a face on your pumpkin. Let your imagination loose. Give free rein to any feelings or emotions. The best pumpkin faces express something unspeakable.

With a sharp knive, carve out the features. Notice how easily the blade moves through the pumpkin shell and how quickly the face emerges. What was once plant is now part animal; the pumpkin becomes a Jack-o’-Lantern.

Place a cat food or tuna can inside the pumpkin for a candle holder. Light the candle and close the lid. Turn off the TV and stereo. Turn out the lights. Watch and listen.

In the dark you may feel the onset of winter and its long nights. In the glow of the candlelight you may face demons. And in the silence, if you listen carefully, you may hear the shuffle of Jack’s footsteps — and ours — crossing the darkness.

• Rural Delivery
• In Season: Pumpkin
• Pumpkin Pop Quiz

“Logs to Burn! Logs to Burn!”
“Everyone needs logs to burn!”
Hear the woodman sell his wares.
What trees they come from, no one cares.Ah! But here’s a word to make you wise,
When you hear the woodman’s cries.
Never heed his usual tale
That he has good logs for sale,
But read these lines and really learn
The proper kind of logs to burn:

“Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year.

“Chestnut’s only good, they say,
If for long ’tis laid away.

“But Ash new or Ash old
Is fit for a queen with crown of gold.

“Birch and fir logs burn too fast
Blaze up bright and do not last.

“It is by the Irish said
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread.

“Elm wood burns like churchyard mould,
Even the very flames are cold.

“But Ash green or Ash brown
Is fit for a queen with golden crown.

“Poplar gives a bitter smoke,
Fills your eyes and makes you choke.

“Apple wood will scent your room
With an incense like perfume.

“Oaken logs, if dry and old,
Keep away the winter’s cold.

“But Ash wet or Ash dry
A king shall warm his slippers by.”

What? You cannot take the word of puppets
Who speak their truths in rhyming couplets?
Will you, then, accept it plain
If we rhyme these facts in smooth quatrain:

“Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pine will smell,
But the sparks will fly.

“Beech logs for Christmas time,
Yew logs heat well.
‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime,
For anyone to sell.

“Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
If you cut them in the fall.

“Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green,
Elm logs like smoldering flax,
No flame to be seen.

“Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs,
Smell like flowers in bloom.

“But ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They’re worth their weight in gold.”

Ash it is, then, as you see
The best to burn since days of old.
Go now and find yourself a tree,
Make sure it™s ash, as you™ve been told.

Cut and split and laid to hearth,
This fire burns from logs that last
All through the night, it warms the heart
Such good advice from anonymous passed.

There’s a place down by the river where the bank is wide and sandy. It overlooks a low-lying rock dam over which the river spills. Behind that dam, the water is flat and calm — perfect for skipping stones across.

My son stops here every time we come by on walks or bike rides. He scrambles down to the water’s edge, scavenges for flat stones just the right size to fit between his palm and forefinger. This is where he learned to skip stones.

I started skipping stones as a toddler beside a reservoir in Montana. My family spent many weekends camped along its shore. As soon as I grew bored watching the folks fish, which didn’t take long, I took to skipping stones — well away from the anglers, of course. I threw for hours.

Mastery of the art didn’t come easy, I am sure. My son struggled through many unsuccessful attempts to imitate my slicing sidearm motion. His stones always fell into the water with a thud, making a single splash, until one day — quite without warning — he sent one skimming across the river one, two, three and four skips. He’s been skipping without coaching or instruction ever since.

Finding the right stone is the real trick to successful stone skipping. It needs to be heavy enough to carry well, but also small enough to fit comfortably in yourhand. It should be flat, with rounded edges, the kind that most often lie along the banks of rivers. Locating a good supply beside a lake, far from moving water, can be difficult.

You wedge the stone along its edges between your forefinger and thumb, lean over to the side, and fling the stone sidearm while letting go of the thumb first to encourage a fast spinning motion. The stone should fly from your hand horizontal to the water and barely skim across the surface as gravity gradually brings it down.

A French physicist, Lydéric Bocquet, reduced the skipping action of the spinning stone to a mathematical formula. His equations showed that the faster it is travelling, the more times it will bounce. To bounce at least once without sinking, the stone needs to be travelling at a minimum speed of about 1 kilometer per hour.

The spin is critical, because it keeps the stone fairly flat from one bounce to the next. It also has a gyroscopic effect, preventing the stone from tipping and falling sideways into the water.

To match the world record of 38 bounces — set by Jerdone Coleman-McGhee on the Blanco River in Texas in 1992 — Bocquet calculates that a stone 10 centimeters wide would have to be travelling at about 40 kilometers per hour and spinning at 14 revolutions a second.

My son and I are not throwing for any records, but we do keep count of the bounces and with each successive throw we try to match or better our day’s best. Sometimes it’s just the beauty of the motion that captivates, or the thrill of seeing the stone arc through space.

I’ve heard that the Inuits of Alaska skim rocks across icefields and that Bedouin tribesmen of Arabia do the same thing on sand. In Scotland, the World Stone Skimming Championship is held each September on the island of Easdale, famous for its slate deposits and the millions of flat water rounded pebbles on its beaches.

There must be something powerfully primal about an activity that compels young boys to forego video games and grown men to set aside their ambitions to engage in a sport without prey or pay. Our genetic memories keep bringing us back to these shores where we’ve played for millenia. The same stone, perhaps, that flew from the fist of a pre-Columbian child is pulled from up from the earth by this 21st century youngster, wedged between his fingers and flung back out into space, skimming one, two, three, four and five (!) times across the surface before sinking back down into the depths of time.