wildlife – Spotty West Goes East

July 24, 2026

The Search for a Fall—Franklin Lake, Sequoia National Park

7/15/26

This is the third night I’m unable to sleep. Random pains pop up and recede with a self-massage or simply by ignoring them. There is a pinch in my shoulder. My arthritic big toe on my left foot sings an aria that quiets to a hum. I toss and turn. Left side. Right side. Back. This goes on all night. I’m cold, then sticky and hot. Then I’m cold and hot at the same time like my body has different weather zones.

I unzip the sleeping bag then later zip it back—do the same with the tent fly. I put more clothes in the stuff sack I’m using for a pillow and then take some out.

The one constant other than no sleep is a distant roar of a waterfall somewhere at the east end of Franklin Lake. I can’t see it from my eagle’s perch on a granite shelf high above, but the concave bowl of mountains behind it seem to be acting like a parabolic reflector beaming the white noise directly into my camp hundreds of yards away. For some reason, this white noise is not helping me fall asleep.

In any case, I’m determined to hike over there tomorrow and find where the fall is.

Morning (finally)

I have FOMO about all these mountain flowers. My phone has died and I can’t take pictures. I want to record them all and I’ve started by taking notes on a few. I’m playing flower scientist.

#1 A water-loving sunflower with lush leaves at the base in thick clumps of swords. The flower sits atop a long, straight stem arising from the leaves. It has a golden or brown ball with yellow petals on the underside. I would call these flowers Bear in a Tutu if I were to name them. They seem to take over around sources of water.

#2 A lavender to white flower-ball about the size of an aggie on a long, slender green stem. Where they are prevalent over bare soil their shadows appear as polka dots on the earth.

More FOMO if my pen dries out. There is beauty everywhere. I can’t record it all. I have to go slow. I have a waterfall to find.

10 a.m. — What appear to be soap bubbles go for 75 yards along the south shore of Franklin Lake. Could it be dish washing from the five campers that came in last night or something natural in the environment? Getting a handful I feel and smell nothing as I mash them between my fingers.

I’ve gone another 50 yards past them to filter water for this trek. The white noise is slightly louder here. At my camp the falls sound like someone filling up a bathtub down the hall. Trout are jumping everywhere. They are easy to see in the clear water—rainbows with three sets of pink fins along the bottom: anal, pelvic and pectoral. The fingerlings stay in the shallow streams coming into the lake or the few places where there is rocky cover on the edge. Most of the adults I see are six to eight inches long.

I set aside four different bottle caps as I prepare to use my squeeze filter to refill my bottle. Two caps are for the dirty and clean end of the filter, one cap for the collection bag and one for my bottle.

I could have saved myself some strain if I’d known that the trail follows Franklin Creek leaves all the way from where we started three days ago. I could have filtered water as I came up, never carrying more than my half liter bottle. Instead I carried a liter and a half. That’s 3.3 pounds.

Then there are the two creamy cheese pouches for my mac and cheese dinner obligation. That added another pound. If there was ever a time for the powder version…

I could go on about the ways I could have made my forty pound pack lighter but I wouldn’t be on this excellent adventure now if my body had let me continue up the trail instead of saying, “We stay at Franklin Lake.” I would have continued on with the other guys who left yesterday. I wouldn’t be searching for this waterfall if my hips—a part of my body I wasn’t sure I even had—had not screamed at me to stop every six steps the whole way up this mountain.

**One of several canyons the Franklin Trail passes through going up to the lake (10,488 ft.). We started at the Mineral King Ranger station at 7,600 ft.**

Filtering my water is becoming a ritual I very much enjoy. It reminds me of my 1994 motorcycle trip from SF to Anchorage. I stopped every hundred miles to oil my chain. I would put a single drop of oil on each link. It was like counting Buddha beads.

I was never so good at maintaining that chain in daily life. It seems with solitude and time routines take on a special joy.

At the moment there is not a cloud in the sky. The temperature feels like 65. This is the first day without clouds but the temperature is holding steady at this high altitude.

I’m now almost directly across from the source of white noise at the end of the lake where it begins to bend. Still the source is not apparent. My ears direct me towards a jagged dark line etched into the green, shrubby cinquefoil bush. I hold up my finger to gauge its width and it fills up less than half my vertical finger.I imagine the dark line is made by shadow hiding a deep waterfall.

If I pay attention I can just see the slightest movement—a quarter inch patch of pulsing white on the side of the dark crack. At this distance the water is a chameleon against the white boulder it falls next to.

I’d really like to see a rattlesnake, but according to the park rangers it’s more likely down in Rattlesnake Canyon where the guys have gone. I hiked with my friend up to Franklin Pass yesterday and it was easy to keep up only carrying a daypack. At 11,800 feet that’s the highest altitude I’ve ever been on land. After parting ways, I still had energy to explore the upper Franklin Lake before returning to camp.

Lower Franklin was dammed in 1905 by the Whitney Power Company. A ranger at the Mineral King station said it was already a lake. I suppose the authorities just wanted to have a more consistent flow. It’s now controlled by Southern California Edison along with two other lakes that together generate power in aptly named, Three Rivers, CA.

Unused rectangular blocks of granite still sit where they were shaped after being blasted from the mountain a few hundred feet from the dam. The dam is made of these blocks stacked twenty feet high with a row of buttresses similarly made and filled with rock between them.

**Near Franklin Pass all three Franklin Lakes come into view. From left to right: upper, middle and lower. The dam can be seen on the far right side.**

The lake end opposite the dam where I am now has a huge coliseum feel with a two hundred foot granite wall in the center and boulders, steps and shelves on either side with rivers of green bush—audience members leaving their seats to come down to the water’s edge.

**Northwest facing view of Franklin Lake. Florence Peak (12,438 ft.) on the left and Tulare Peak (11, 654) on the right.**

Middle Franklin Lake, unviewable from here, sits atop the granite wall and is the source of the falling water. Patches of snow are still holding to the mountain up there.

I’m hoping that once I’ve found the falls the lady of the lake will release the power of sleep on me tonight since white noise has tended to bestow that favor in the past.

This excursion started out as a beach stroll that quickly became a parkour course. There is no trail around the lake. The bushes are the biggest impediment and I have to go up and down the boulders to find paths around them. The soles of my boots have excellent gripping power on the sandpaper-like granite.

On my own land I might whack the vegetation with my machete to make a trail but this land is my land only in the sense of the song. I try not to step on moss or grass if I can find a stone.

On my infrequent trips into the wild I used to scoff at people using walking sticks like the ones I’m now employing. They are invaluable. I use them as handholds to pull me up and stops to help me step down. If a rattler sees one before me perhaps they’ll let me know.

There are times when I need to take these poles into one hand to lean into a boulder or grab an edge. Still the poles are more handy than not.

If hiking sticks need a better advocate than myself I only ask you to look at many of the photos and sketches of John Muir, perhaps the most widely known explorer of these mountains. A pole was very much his friend.

**Ten-foot high chainsaw carving of John Muir in Lemon Cove, a small community in the San Joaquin Valley near the western entrance to the Sequoia National Park. Carved by artist R.L. Blair, 1989.**

Back down on the shore I find two gentle falls coming into the lake on this southeast side. They are making noise but not enough to make it up to my camp.

On the second fall a trout enjoys lounging in the rapids that seem to be going backwards where the stream meets the lake. I’m baffled. Could the small sunken timber just shy of bridging two boulders here be enough to create a dam that the water is bouncing off? Ah no! It is a western breeze creating waves coming toward me across the lake. Where the waves meet the rapids it creates this backward moving river phenomenon.

My daypack is the “brain” taken off my backpack—a hand me down from my friend. It’s a removable zippered bag on the top of the pack that can be used as a large fanny pack. I have a journal in it and I’m stopping often when I think I have something to say. It’s making the going slow but pleasurable. I’ve figured out how to loosen the buckle to slide the bag around to my front and retrieve my journal without taking it off. Would I have thought of this if I’d never seen anyone do it? Perhaps. Still, we tend to remember things we’ve seen.

For instance, hiking with my friend he flips his walking sticks to his backside, places them under his pack and then lifts it to give his shoulders some temporary relief. It’s a nice trick that I learn to copy.

The sloping granite slab I’ve plopped down on to write has fissures where plants grow. The central one is almost entirely filled with marmot scat. The slightly tapered cylinders laid all over have rolled to the indentation with the help of gravity, and the drying effect of wind and sun. The volume goes to show that marmots don’t just shit where campers leave a few stray tortilla crumbs. Obviously there are things in the wild they eat. It makes me rethink their reputation as thieves and opportunists.

From here I’m starting to get a better picture of the noisy falls. The black line is more hidden at this angle, but at the bottom I see white rivulets rolling over a black bar that I’m guessing is the same white granite made dark by water. I had thought the color was a deep shadow but it looks instead like wet rock.

I’ve come to another falling creek a third of the way around the end and as much as I’d like to go down and see where it meets the water it is locked off with brush. The only clear way around is to go up. When I get to the mid-point it looks like I’ll be able to head down to refill my bottle again.

I might have skipped bringing it and just used the gravity hose the filter comes with, but having a bottle is less awkward and doesn’t require me to squeeze the collection bag as I suck on the hose.

I’ve got a granola bar and a chicken stick to eat for a snack. If I’d thought this outing would be so long I’d’ve brought lunch. Truth is I’m not too hungry. The packets of tunafish, chicken and other rations stopped being appealing after a few days.

The biggest reason to eat this food now is to make my pack lighter on the way out. I’d be happy if I could use up all my white gas too.

It took me seven hours to get up to Franklin Lake with the backpack. Seven miles in seven hours and some of those miles took two.

Maybe I didn’t pack the bag the right way. I didn’t have the bear canister high enough in the pack. Also, I didn’t remember I had a chest strap until we were already at camp and my friend pointed it out. That would have helped minimize any wobbling. Mostly it’s just the fact that I’m not in backpacking shape. Age doesn’t help but my friend is four years older and he is “crushing it”. (He’s tried to encourage me with those words but I told him I felt more crushed than crushing.)

I’ve come to a fourth stream now buried under the rocks. I can’t see it. The sound comes and goes as I make my way down a playground of boulders. My intended route was to stay high but my curiosity has me following the sound to see if the hidden stream comes into daylight before the lake. I see a possible path of boulders close to shore that may get me to the spot I want to go. Maybe I can achieve both goals.

I’m thinking more about these big rocks now that I’m navigating them. I’ve come across a few loose, two-head-size ones that I caused to roll and some large flat ones that see-sawed when I stepped on and off again.

It all leads me to the thought that one of the larger prize-winning-hog-size stones could be delicately balanced on a precipice that my 170 pounds might dislodge and pin me under with a broken arm or leg. I’m probably safe with the bull and elephant-size boulders, but none of these got here by anything other than violent tumbling and they all have their own clock and ambition downward.

The subterranean stream I’ve been hearing appears in a rock window fifty feet from shore but the path I thought might get to the bottom isn’t viable so I start climbing back to my original route.

In the aquamarine waters next to the shoreline is the ultimate future for many of these boulders. There a deceptive one foot strip of fine gravel looks like a good, firm place to step but it turns out the mix of tiny rocks are not hard packed but in a buoyant, thick layer. The uninitiated person who steps there sinks and throws their body sideways. However, if you can find a rock to sit on it feels good thrusting your sore hiking feet in the grit and wiggling your toes.

I’ve come to the half way point around the lake end. The big rock wall here has an overhang that would make a good place to ride out a rain storm pushing west, however a storm coming opposite would make you feel like a seed in a mortar.

The shoreline is within reach and just over the next bench is probably the most sizable source of water filling this lake. But I’m no expert. Water is likely sifting in everywhere at the base of these mountains. There is not a lot of visible snow left but who knows how deep the ice goes in those cracks.

I’m thinking I should use up the day as much as possible and cook dinner after the sun goes down tonight. It will make cleaning up more difficult, but going to bed at sunset makes for long hours of no sleep.

I’ve been stopping so much I only have a vague notion of what time it is. Noon? Two? Four? I forgot my wristwatch at camp and, as I’ve said, my phone has died. Much as I wish I could take more pictures, I’d likely not be writing much if I was. Writing is often the last thing I do. Strangely, it is the thing I love most to have done.

I’m down at the lake’s edge now sitting on a gently sloping whale of a rock. If the definition of a boulder is a rock that is free of anything else, this is not one. This is part of a shelf firmly cemented to whatever is beneath it.

It’s easy to get water here. Filtering is becoming second nature. It occurs to me that I could take off my clothes and swim over to find where that hidden fall reaches the lake. I was in the water yesterday and it’s cool and refreshing. Without a cloud in the sky it would take no time for me to dry off.

On second thought, if I mess around too much the rest of this adventure might begin to feel like a chore. Best to eat my snacks and move on.

In the distance I hear a male sooty grouse making its mating call. I saw one near my camp this morning sitting very still under a bush. The sound is similar to the sliding bass you can make by hitting a conga and pushing a wetted finger across the skin. It also sounds a lot like the empty 5 gallon water drums I used to bring to school for my first graders to bang on at recess.

It’s taken me three days but I finally feel really good about being on this adventure—just don’t ask me tonight when I’m tossing and turning.

I’ve made it over the bench to the falls. They are certainly making a grand noise. I can see my orange tent peaking from behind the granite wall in my camp and the large, ancient and rare Foxtail pine with its orange exposed wood nearby.

**Where the bark is broken off this foxtail pine shows the spiraling wood grain that helps it withstand the fierce winters and high winds.**

The noisy waterfall comes from behind a boulder surrounded by bush. Then it drops in a series of steps and slides into a curvy s-shape before pouring over that dark bar of rock that I could see from a distance. I’m no expert at estimating flow but I’ll venture a guess of 180 gallons a minute.

A second fall further west is joined by a trickling stream. They flow together into a shallow brook with skinny steps that goes parallel to the lake for fifty yards and contains darting trout fry. I walk out to the end where it joins the lake between two long rocks that form a sort of slip dock for a boulder parked in the middle like a tugboat that has skidded in.

I then walk back shoreside to look at where the main fall enters. I climb back on the prominence. From the bar the water slides down a slope into a pool then flows beneath a flat bush reaching across the banks. It rolls down over double-head-size stones into more pools before entering the lake on three broad offset steps that have me imagining a 1950s Hollywood movie goddess sashaying out of her swimming pool. All architecture is copied from nature.

I think I’d better eat that granola bar that I ended up saving. I’m getting a little punchy and still want to make it up to the middle lake.

I work my way around a wide area of bush across some long boulders where the white mountain called Florence Peak trails into the red one named Tulare Peak.

I double back to the top and find where the fall begins. It is not coming directly from the middle lake but a series of three ponds, each lower than the next. None of these ponds were visible from the high pass I was on yesterday. All have clear water and appear to be about five to ten feet deep. A breeze is rippling the surface making it difficult to see if there are fish.

Each pond is surrounded by red scree from crumbling Tulare Peak a thousand feet above. Most of the rocks are no larger than a fist. My footsteps make ringing glass sounds where thin shards come against each other.

There is some sort of yellow buttercup flower in bloom along the east side of the first pond. All these ponds are eminently dippable except for those fist size rocks that line the shallow water. The only way to get in without water shoes would be to carefully prostrate yourself and scooch in until the water safely floats you from shore.

Phosphorescent green moss clings to the rocks in the rapids that connect the ponds and looks like a blurry photograph.

The top pond is separated from Middle Franklin Lake by a mounded field of a 100,000 tons of red rock. (Okay, maybe my powers of estimation have reached their limit here, but it’s a lot.)

It’s clear these ponds are fed by the lake but there is no obvious exit of water in the form of a fall or stream. Perhaps it comes up unseen somewhere in the middle of a pond.

On the lake side, however, I see where it enters. There is no through-stream, cave or hole only a U-shaped indention in the mass of scree where the lake spills into a stream and then five feet away becomes a pool where the water is sucked into the stones.

With the amount of water it seems like I’d see a whirl or hear a slurping sound but there is simply a calm pool where it all goes down. The broad heap of stones is just a sieve for all that water to pass through. I suppose there is not enough debris up here to clog the holes. There are no trees. It is barren of plants except for a few lakeside flowers and sedges.

I walk over to the lowest patch of snow on the mountain. The red scree shifts under my weight. At least the round ankle-twisters are rare here and easy to avoid.

The snow is not ice, but it’s firm with a top slushy layer that takes my footprints. Fine red sand blown off the talus colors parts of the wavy field making it look like a large topographic model of some Siberian landscape of snow-patched hills.

What appears to be one of the smallest birds I’ve ever seen, outside of hummers, hops across the landscape pecking at something. At this distance I cannot see any coloration. The bright sun makes it appear as a silhouette.

A few rocks are in the snow at the bottom of oversized conical pits as if they were dropped there burning hot and melted to the bottom.

It’s time to leave this landscape. The sun has moved from east to the west. I’ve been out all day. I’m getting hungry and tired yet… I can’t help but stop at the lake again to admire fine bunches of rush with perfectly cylindrical stalks surrounded by blue moss and another ground cover as tidy and bright green as newly laid synthetic grass. It feels more like a modern art exhibit than living things.

The wind dies for a bit and I see trout floating inside an invisible medium. Again…unreal.

I make it back to the sturdy, large boulders relieved to be beyond the loose rocks that pivot under my weight. I’m drawn to the overlook but afraid to get too close to the front edge where it begins to slope downward and has patches of slippery sand before the two-hundred foot drop. The side is safer and I can see well-enough the first steps in mapping my way back to camp.

June 20, 2026

When I become used to doing things the hard way any idea that will potentially make my life easier makes me feel, at least momentarily, very smart.

This happened when I was remeasuring the driveway opening for the third time. The driveway is the only area on my land in which human domination over the environment is apparent. I was measuring it to see if it might be possible to get a 20 foot, 5,000 pound shipping container delivered for storage. I noticed that if I took out one tree it would make the opening about three or four feet wider. It would also make backing out and swinging in that much easier for me.

For the last year I’ve been happy with the small opening. I really just wanted enough room to get Stewart’s truck in the driveway. I didn’t want to take down any unnecessary trees although this land is full of unnecessary trees—which is what makes it a beautiful jungle.

On the day of my epiphany, I waited until I needed a break from weed- whacking the proposed cabin spot and then I walked down to the drive with my chainsaw, shovel and pickax. The tree I wanted to remove was a small maple which I felt a little bad about since they are not as common as others like sweetgum trees that grow by the dozens per ten yards square.

The tree would be easy to take down. It had a strong lean over the road. Only the roots would be difficult. Chainsaws are not designed for cutting in dirt and taking out stumps with an axe is best done with a slow and steady war lasting a year or two.

The maple is on the left of the drive close to my cart.

While I was cleaning around the roots and thinking about how to deal with them my neighbor Rod drove up in his big air-conditioned truck. I enjoyed the cool air immediately when I leaned in the side window to talk.

“What cha doin’? I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Rod said.

This is often his opening line when I haven’t seen him in six months. He’s a big, easy going guy who had 40 years in the demolition business in Wisconsin. He retired with his wife here in Tennessee about five years ago.

I told Rod about the tree and how I was thinking about trying to cut it in a way that would use it’s own weight to lift up the roots while at the same time realizing I don’t have the skills or knowledge to do something fancy like that even if it’s possible. I said it would probably get me killed so I was just going to cut it regular-like.

“Want me to go get my Bobcat,” he asked? “I can probably get those roots to come right out.”

There was no hesitation on my part. The answer was an immediate, enthusiastic, “Yes!”

I asked him if he wanted me to cut the tree and leave enough standing for him to push against.

“No, just leave the whole thing. I gotta go home and change my shoes and pants and then I’ll bring the Bobcat down.”

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About this time last summer Rod invited me to come over and learn how to drive his machine. He was thinking about selling it and for six thousand dollars I was considering buying it. I think he also just liked the idea of showing me what had been a big part of his life’s work.

When I arrived Rod had two fourteen foot logs that each weighed over a thousand pounds for me to move around. He was a good teacher. He didn’t seem particularly concerned that I would kill myself or damage the Bobcat. He yelled at me over the engine noise or used hand signs which I didn’t understand. I had to cut the engine often to hear him and learn the sign language. Sometimes he just smiled and raised his shoulders when I looked at him worriedly about what to do next. He was encouraging me to use trial and error and it slightly terrified me.

The Bobcat operates with two hand sticks and two foot pedals. Like the guy I hired to put in my driveway last summer, Rod makes his machine move with the grace of a dancer. You push the two sticks to go forward. Pull them to go backward. Pulling the left stick back and pushing the right stick will turn you left. The opposite turns you right. It’s called a skid steer because instead of turnable wheels they are locked in place and used as pivot points to skid around. This allows the machine to easily get into tight spaces.

Once I got the basics I moved on to the tasks of controlling the bucket and claw attachment. The left pedal is pushed by the toe or heel to move the bucket up or down. The right toe and heal control the tilt. A thumb toggle on the right stick controls the claw that clamps items in (or to) the bucket.

I lifted each log six feet off the ground, moved them thirty feet away, then set them down and moved them back again. It was amazing. All the movements are fairly intuitive. The tricky part is doing the tasks seamlessly: reaching, grabbing, spinning, dropping.

After my short lesson Rod said, “Take it over to your land. What do you want to do with it?”

“Oh no.” I told him. “I’m not ready to be alone with this thing.”

I’d carried out the tasks but it was all ponderous and jerky and I wasn’t sure I’d remember everything.

I could learn to use the Bobcat well and in fifteen minutes do what would otherwise take many days but I still like the idea of minimizing my footprint…or in this case tireprint.

Ultimately I decided getting a machine that big means serious business and I don’t want to get serious. I suppose I fancy becoming a gentleman forester or amateur biologist and if I can’t live up to those titles I will settle for piddler.

———————————————-

To get back to the other day when I took Rod up on his kindness, I heard the echo of the big steel bucket being loaded on the Bobcat on his property over a little hill across from my place.

Soon he was driving down the road with the steel bucket balanced on top of his forks. He drove into the grass across from my drive and set the bucket down then turned around and came over to attack the tree.

Rod had extenders on the forks to give himself extra reach and avoid backing into the driveway ditch. He raised the forks and started pushing with one prong on the trunk of the tree. The earth at the base of the tree lifted. He repeated at a new angle. The prong slipped several feet up the side of the tree skinning it of bark.

Rod backed up and pushed more on different spots of the tree. Each time the earth lifted a little higher. He poked the two tines of the fork into the earth under the roots and raised them to loosen them more. He turned the Bobcat around, went over to the grass, set the fork on the ground and slipped out of the extender sleeves.

Now he had the shorter forks and he came back and pushed some more. This time the roots started to snap with a muted, under earth force. One particularly big snap sent something, probably a rock, whizzing by my head with a bullet-like sound. I could feel it cut the air. I moved away to watch and film from a safer distance. This silent video shows the moment when things started to fly.

Rod pushed the tree over and avoiding putting it in the road—something it would have been difficult to do if I’d only used the chainsaw. He moved to the other side to dig under the last roots holding the tree and with one more upward lift it popped free of its life source.

The Bobcat is a very versatile piece of equipment with different attachable tools that are as easy to slip on and off as, well…a slip. Here is a silent video of Rod putting on his bucket. He also has a claw attachment, auger, forks, fork extenders and he can switch out the tires with tracks.

Here’s the widened drive. I was able to get a bucket of gravel that same day to put over the spot Rod smoothed out in the dirt. I’m holding off on getting the shipping container for now.

Reptile/Amphibian Report!

I took apart the bridge I made from oak logs and hundred year-old flooring from the falling cabin.

The bridge had become even more lopsided than it had been and without any oil or coating to protect it from decomposition turkey tail mushrooms, slugs, snails, earthworms and this Green salamander were making it their home.

The salamander was revealed on top of one of the oak logs when I lifted a plank. This was the first Green salamander I’ve seen on my land. I’ve seen the more common Red salamander a few times. Apparently the Green are considered a “Species of Conservation Concern” in Tennessee and endangered or imperiled in other states. Had I known I would have carefully delivered it to a more protected space, but as it happened it disappeared into the leaves beneath the bridge. I’ll certainly keep my eye out for more.

I did relocate this box turtle from the road. This is the fourth box turtle I’ve come across since 2020 when I began coming to this land twice a year.

A neighbor related that someone recently relocated a rattlesnake found nearby to an unpopulated area. So far I’ve only heard stories.

I did find another of these small grey snakes that I’ve only come across digging in the ground. According to this Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency guide it appears to be a Smooth earthsnake.

A Few Mushroom Pictures

I know close to nothing about mushrooms except the store bought varieties I like to eat. My AI identifications below could be way off but it’s a start. Your thoughts are welcome on this or anything about my blog. Write me at spottywestgoeseast@gmail.com.

AI has identified these as either Amanita vaginata, aka the Grisette or Leucoagaricus leucothites aka the White Dapperling. I like how the broken mushroom’s stem separated into four perfect curls like wood shavings. Confusing is why the internet makes the grisette lowercase because its a common name but still uses the determiner “the” not “a”. More confusing is why when I tried to link this conundrum to show you what the internet had to say, it changed it to uppercase and gave slightly different information. Is AI just hedging its bets? See the before and after below.

I hope you had a good Juneteenth yesterday whether you had a chance to celebrate it or not. I appreciate this time to acknowledge our shared American history and honor the struggles and sacrifices of those who came before.

June 22, 2025

You really know you are in the south when people inquire about the status of your eternal soul. I have answered a question and settled a long-brewing debate for the time being, but it’s not about that. The question has been how am I going to get the lumber for a cabin using the wood on my land.

The debate was between pulling logs off the land to get milled by a professional or milling the lumber myself with a chainsaw. The first will be faster and easier on my body and will likely result in a superior product but it will involve buying or renting expensive equipment and a greater impact on the forest. With a chainsaw and Alaskan Mill I can make lumber where the trees fall.

I might end up doing it the faster way, but for a project that is still more in the dream phase it makes more sense to ease into it with on-site, forest milling.

To do this I bought another chainsaw and ordered and assembled an Alaskan Mill. The Alaskan Mill is basically a metal frame to guide the chainsaw down a rail screwed to the log. It allows the chainsaw to make smooth, even cuts and turn logs into usable building lumber.

I’m more than a little intimidated with the chainsaw I bought. The Stihl 500 is heavier and twice as powerful as my Stihl 251. I take some consolation in the fact that the smaller chainsaw also intimidated me when I first got it. The general wisdom is that you’d be foolish to not be wary.

I had trouble sleeping the night after I bought the larger one. It helped to stop stewing, turn on the light and watch some Youtube videos about it.

You can expect to see pictures and hear more on the process after I practice on my first log later this week.

Another of my purchases was a farm jack. I have a notion that I might be able to lift logs with it and put them on stands for milling to save my back from bending over too far.

I don’t know exactly how I will engineer this but I think it’s possible. I had a good conversation with an old farmer in the hardware store and he had lots of good ideas beyond his most frequent suggestion that I really should just buy a tractor. Still he didn’t give up on suggestions about how to use the jack until he asked me if I went to church and if I’d been saved.

This is always awkward. It seems to happen in the south more than other places I’ve lived. I told him I’m atheist and don’t subscribe to those beliefs hoping this definitive statement would end it quickly. Of course this may have just sweetened the pot if he thought he might get extra points for such a hardened case.

He went on a bit about the big guy on his throne in heaven and I started to get that aching feeling that I really wished he’d stop his pitch. Instead of fighting it too much I waited for the next pause and tried out an abrupt change of subject. Lo and behold it worked. We were even able to continue our conversation a bit more. He talked about Snatch Blocks and Clevis Hooks and other things I know nothing about except that the first step to learning is often just hearing the names.

After shopping there were several hours of sunlight left and I decided I had time to go to the land and do a little more brush-pile clean-up. I’ve decided not to burn but move the five large piles into the woods to rot.

After telling the man at the hardware store that I’ve never seen a snake on my property I saw my first one that evening. Strange how things seem to work that way — or is it because snakes are often on my mind when I talk about the forest the way sharks are on my mind when I talk about the sea?

There were several hours of sunlight left when I made it to the first brush pile to start work. These are mostly pine branches that are matted with wet needles from the recent rains. As I reached for a limb I startled a large black snake coiled on top. It immediately uncurled and slipped into the pile. Of course, it startled me a bit too but I recognized it as non-poisonous.

There are no all black poisonous snakes in North America. The often black Cottonmouth, aka Water Moccasin, has a yellowish belly and from my experience seeing dozens as a kid in Texas, they tend to be tapered and fat in the middle unlike this sleek serpent. Anyway, my land isn’t the habitat for Cottonmouth who like a year-round water source nearby.

I got out my phone and leaned it against a tree to be ready in case of another appearance. I kept my eye out as I worked to see if the snake would slip out of the pile somewhere.

It was disruptive, pulling on the pile, stuffing branches into the rolling trash- tote I bought to accommodate long limbs. I figured the snake would wait until I was taking a load into the woods and then slip out through the weeds, but then again, it might just hunker down. After all, what does a snake know about human intentions around clearing brush?

When I got to the bottom layer of the pile I took the load I had into the woods and came back. I took a glove off and held the camera while I pulled a big log from the pile that I thought the snake might be under. Nothing.

The wet, matted branches lift like shelves and I toed one up with my foot and there it was. I believe it would’ve stayed there and watched me had I not been both unbalanced and surprised and dropped the cover back abruptly. Finding a snake you think might be there is the same as going into a haunted house. You know to expect something scary but it doesn’t keep you from freaking out when you open a door and see a mad clown holding a knife. Besides, black snakes have been known to bite when cornered.

Had I been more careful lifting this bottom layer with a rake pole or stick I might’ve gotten a better shot. When I lifted the mat again it was done with staying put. The race was on. It headed toward the next brush pile and I got four fuzzy shots.

I won’t go so far to say that our human endeavors are anti-nature. We are nature. But, had I approached that brush pile with my powers of observation leading the way instead of my desire to get to work I might have gotten a clear photo of the beautiful creature curled on top.

My best guess is that this is a Black Racer but it could be a Rat Snake. A closer sustained look would have helped.

I’m more inclined to see a deer while hoeing the trails than using the weed whacker or while swinging an axe instead of firing up the chainsaw. There are costs to efficiency and speed. Even the plants I want to keep pay the price. I find myself cutting down cedar saplings and ferns simply because my eyes can’t keep up with the speed with which I swing the trimmer.

After seeing the snake for the second time and getting my fuzzy photos, I went over to a pile of logs to sit and take notes. As I was quietly getting my thoughts together, a hawk swooped by and landed on a stump 15 feet away.

“Hello there,” I said astonished.

It was a greeting that might be appropriate sitting at a city cafe when a friend walks into view and stops at the nearby cross walk. For the hawk however it was like, shit, who are you? She immediately took off.

Nature requires a certain formality. My introduction to both the snake and the hawk were forward to say the least.

The same day I saw my first snake I got my first tick…of the trip. Yes, I’ve had plenty of these, maybe 15 over the course of being out here (if I don’t count the raspberry picking episode with my nephew where we each got about 10 all at once and saw them creeping everywhere across our clothes toward open flesh).

The number of ticks I get each trip is getting smaller and usually it is caused by a lapse in protocol. In this case I was working with my short-sleeve shirt untucked. (My bare arms where sprayed with Off which does seem to keep them away.)

Ticks still freak me out more than any other animal for the obvious reason that they are gross, blood-sucking vampires that bore their ugly heads into your flesh and because they can carry potentially devastating, disease-causing organisms. The Borrelia burgdorferi spirochete carried by the Black-Legged, aka Deer tick, causes Lyme Disease. They can go into a cystic form that researchers believe may allow them to lie dormant and unaffected by antibiotics until they reawaken later to cause havoc.

I found this tick on my belly as I undressed to shower. It was fastened but came off with a steady pull that left it holding a tiny bit of my flesh in its jaws.

I dropped it in the sink. It landed on its back bicycling its eight little legs in the air. I rushed out of the room with a towel around my waist to get my phone. Pictures are important to identify the species and potential, associated disease.

The phone wasn’t in my room. It wasn’t downstairs. I tenderly hoofed over the gravel to the truck in the garage and couldn’t find it there either. I asked my Aunt to use hers.

This all took less than three minutes and when I arrived back upstairs the tick was gone!

Freak out time! In slasher movie this is the part where a high, screechy note is played on the violin. The killer was just standing behind you. You turn quickly. It’s gone.

Shit!

Now there was a deadly parasite loose in the house. I scanned across the floor near the sink using the phone’s flashlight. I moved items and searched the top. I aimed the light down the drain and in the little overfill hole. Nothing!

I figured maybe is slid into the drain. Ticks don’t seem great about walking up inclined, smooth surfaces. I ran water for a few seconds and then ran it another 30 until it was hot and then ran it some more. Agh!

Surely it fell down the drain.

The next morning I went to brush my teeth, my memory of the sanguivore present but dulled by sleep. I casually scanned the surface again and then my eyes popped, jolted awake.

There it was flagging at the top of the liquid soap dispenser! That little fucker had somehow crawled out of the sink in the three minutes I was looking for my phone. This was equivalent to a sprinter running the length of a football field.

During the night the little mole-mimicker had found one of the highest points and resumed the position to grab hold of its prey.

I think this is an American Dog Tick. They like humans too.

Without disturbing it I got my phone in the next room and took a picture. Then I scrapped it in the sink. I tried mashing it with the bottom edge of a glass before remembering how unmashable they are.

I opened a sink drawer and found some long toenail scissors and cut it into little pieces. Then I washed it down the sink for real this time. I ran the water, unreasonably, abhorrently long, letting it get hot, piping hot — letting it stay hot. I was the final victor in the slasher movie where I’d been stalked. I imagined myself in the final scene. I would be yelling down the pipe, screaming, out of my mind — “Are you dead yet fucker? Are you dead?”

Ugh. I don’t like to say it but I hate ticks.

It’s taken a while but I’ve gotten over an incident with my nephew about 17 years ago when we visited the land with my mom, Sharon and Linda and saw wild raspberries growing all along the dirt road to the falling cabin. Anthony and I got out of the car to pick raspberries and about a minute into the activity looked down and were covered with ticks. Nary a tick was seen when I got these a few days ago. So delicious!

Southeastern Five-Lined skink next to the shed

String-trimming (a more delicate way to say weed-wacking) is so much easier than hoeing the trails.

This rotted tree stump had this layered-set of concentric bark rings at the bottom as if the tree rotted or was eaten from top to bottom carrying the more hearty, resistant bark with it as it went down. Who knows how it happened? Other theories?

January 19, 2025

I have a new routine to write when I’m fresh in the morning and look at news when I’m tired at night. I get free library subscriptions to The NYTimes, The Washington Post and am currently paying one dollar for a year-long trial subscription to the SF Chronicle which has automatic renewal at a much higher rate. I bet they hope I forget about that but I won’t. That’s what calendars are for. I probably should support my fellow writers and just pay, but there’s a reason they are free—or close to it—and who am I to try to figure it out?

Together with these three newspapers there is more news than I can look at. I’d be better informed if I substituted one of these papers for a more radical doomsday-type publication and added in a more conservative Tennessee newspaper but my gut is probably going to churn no matter what news I take in.

The Post and The NYT usually have similar headlines. The writing is good in both. The NYT usually sends me three or four breaking news emails every day in addition to The Morning and I have to ask myself how much news can break?

The SF Chronicle seems to have lots of strange gaps in their reporting that often makes me ask “okay, what happened?” but it’s local(ish) news for me even in Concord and I should probably pay attention to that.

I’ve also decided that with all the crazy people in Trump’s junk drawer (Jillian told me people are calling it that instead of a cabinet), it’s probably best not to get worked up every time Broken Stapler #1 says they are going to invade Greenland or Dried Up White-Out says we need to stop requiring vaccines for children in public school. I just can’t be a yo-yo all the time on their rubber band.

This is my 2025 pick for book of the year (although it came out in 2022). The story is so compelling. It’s heartbreaking at times but there are lots of wait-for-it moments when the soul sings.

My favorite MLK jr. book that I’ve been reading to students for years. Warning: You will likely cry with joy at the end. Fantastic illustrations.

—————

I’m feeling better about the prospect of getting a cabin made. It’s been close to five years since I’ve been exploring this land and it feels, for the first time, like I’m finally getting a good map of it in my head.

For one thing, I found a good place where I can stage logs and then take them out to the road for cutting with a portable mill. I’ve passed by this spot a thousand times walking the trail the 170 yards from the proposed cabin site to the shed where I store tools. It’s flat, close to the road and largely free of any big trees. I think I never considered it before because it’s directly across from my nearest neighbor’s house and in the summer it’s overgrown with vines that offer a visual barrier that I like.

The neighbor’s chickens were scratchin’ around next to the road and stepped into the woods when I approached them.

Now, as I’ve gotten to know my neighbors the idea of having complete privacy from the road doesn’t feel as important.There are plenty of spots on this 25 acre lot where I can get that.

Most distant and remote is a little valley on the other side of the central hill and between the next hill which becomes the neighbor’s property after it tops out. This little valley—more of a holler—is almost completely absent of woods. If there were flying fairies, quidditch tournaments or witchy broomstick games this is where they would be played. It would be nice to have a cabin here, but there is no flat spot. Where the hill ends, the next one starts. The valley is a V not a U. A cabin could be built on the hillside with supports like you see in the Bay Area’s Oakland hills but my joy in this place is about the absence of human intrusion not dreaming of what it could be.

A pretty winter weed that I’m too lazy to try to identify right now. It’s probably something obvious.

A while back I named the machete as the most valuable tool in my kit. That remains true even after making trails through the ever-encroaching wilderness. When I go back in six months there will be vines and saplings trying to take over again.

With this in mind I’m offering up another tool that tops the list and was most useful on this last trip. I threw a pair of $15, fleece-line gloves in my luggage at the last minute. I figured they might come in handy if it gets very cold, but that wasn’t why they ended up being so valuable.

It was the extra thickness that offered protection pulling up Multi-floral Rose. I got plenty of practice on that patch of land that I’ve decided is the perfect staging spot for bringing out all the logs to be milled. This species of rose is very aggressive and next to Poison Ivy the most prevalent vine on the land. It grows in clumps that extend out in an exploding firework shape. It grabs hold of your clothes like blackberry bramble and a thicket of it is not something you want to take on in the summer unless Aguirre, the Wrath of God and other Werner Herzog movies inspire you to go into nature and do the most difficult thing you can think of.

Winter is definitely the time to clear Multi-floral Rose. The leaves are gone and you can see where every shoot is heading. Though it still has live green vines, most are brown and dead and if you are lucky, as I was, the soil is soft with recent rains. Some of the clumps I could pull out on my first effort, gathering most of the vines in my hands and leaning back. Any that gave trouble, I’d dig around the edge with my shovel and lean back on the handle to break roots and get some uplift on the ball. This preparation was usually enough. The next time I leaned away with a handful of thorny vines imbedded in my gloves the remaining roots would start popping like a kettle of corn and soon I’d be holding the whole explosion of plant in the air, triumphantly carrying it to a neighboring pile.

The log-staging area I mostly cleared of Multi-floral Rose

The gloves also made it easy to pull up all the Loblolly and Winged Elm saplings on the PCS. It was rare that I had to use the machete on a sapling in this area. The ground is covered with pine needles and moss of varying shades of green and grey. Beneath this is about an inch or two of topsoil followed by white shale and clay that becomes increasingly hard to dig into about six inches down. During wet weather it is a miniature flood plain with much of the water washing off the knob behind it. The moss and top soil make it spongy.

Shale and clay earth just beneath the PCS surface

I used the harvested moss to line the rock stairs I put in last summer. I’ll see if it lasts but I don’t know why it wouldn’t. The stuff is pretty hardy and there was some in the stair area before I brought all this extra in.

The poor quality of soil on the PCS is probably why there are only a few species of trees there — Loblolly, Cedar and Winged Elm. Oaks which start out with a single, deep tap root definitely don’t like it. I imagine the shale is too difficult to penetrate. Those other species have roots that spread wide and shallow—at least in the beginning. I’ve no idea what the root system looks like for some of the older, surrounding pines that top out well over a hundred feet. I imagine when a tree grows that big it must start to have powerful roots that can make their way into deeper territory.

Ideally, I would have a well here on the PCS pumping water directly into the house, but I don’t know how much water makes it through the clay. Neighbors, Chuck and Rhonda, across the road, are roughly at the same elevation and hidden behind a small knob. They told me they hit water at 150 feet but drilled to 200 and take water from that level.

They came by on the day I was cutting up some fallen trees near the road. They arrived in their new, gleaming diesel pick-up and put it rumbling into park. Michigan natives, they had a retirement home built here five years ago and are still adjusting to it. Chuck misses the snow but they have a daughter who lives nearby in Knoxville with her fiancé. Ever-friendly, Chuck invited me up to their place to say hi. I told him I may take them up on that. I’ve been a few times before. Rhonda said, “I’ll give you a piece of pie!”

The next day I called them when I started to get hungry and asked if it was okay if I took my sandwich up and ate it while I visited.

“We have food,” Chuck exclaimed in his cheerful voice that made it sound like the introduction to a Broadway song.

“Oh, thanks, but I made this sandwich and I better eat it,” I said.

“Well, you like coffee,” Chuck asked?

“Sure”

“Well, we can give you some of that.”

We talked more about their water while I was there. Chuck gave me a glass to taste and it was exactly what I would want in drinking water—pretty much tasteless.

Their aging dogs Fatty Mattie, a standard poodle mix and Waggy Maggie, a black lab are slightly mis-nicknamed since Maggie is a bit plumper than Mattie and Mattie is a bit more waggy than Maggie. At any case it was nice to get my hands on some dogs, missing Sasha so much in the short time I was in Tennessee. The feel of a short shorn standard poodle’s curls is a textural delight.