Getting a little sappy over the process of making maple syrup

When I was a young boy growing up on Limekiln Lake, the house we lived in was owned by the Department of Environmental Conservation. Since we did not own the property, we were restricted from tapping the many maple trees in the surrounding woods.

However, there were a few folks in the area who set up small operations to draw colorless sap to make maple syrup for their own personal consumption.

As an eight year old, I found the maple syrup making process to be among the most interesting things for me to observe.

The buckets hanging from trees were quite a sight and the drawing of droplets of colorless sap came at a time of year when the woods seemed to be waking up and pushing out new smells every day.

Though I learned some basics of tree tapping from our Encyclopedia Britannica, I found it much more interesting to visit the twenty to thirty nearby sap collecting operations and watch them in action.

Perhaps action is too strong a word to use in describing the process as it was actually quite boring to watch. But regardless of how long it took a single silvery droplet to form and plop into a metal bucket I still found it to be fascinating.

One day I tagged along with a fellow who was tapping over near Sixth Lake. He gave me quite the education on the proper ways of sap collecting. Continue reading →

Lessons on choppers learned in dentist office waiting room

 It was March of 1978 and I found myself among a group of equally apprehensive patients in the waiting room of Dr. Rintrona’s dentist office.

Neon lights buzzed from above and the air smelled of peroxide. The faux leather chair made a funny noise as I slid across the seat to sift through a pile of magazines for a read that would appeal to a 12 year old.

Buried among the stack of Newsweek, People and Time magazines I discovered a singular copy of Chopper magazine.

It was a great find as I had never seen one before. I flipped through the pages filled with bright photos and gleaming homemade machines and became curious as to how they were constructed.

The men featured on the pages appeared to be in their 30’s and sported handlebar mustaches or full beards. They looked hardened—not like someone you would invite over for a dinner party. Continue reading →

Annual wood-splitting detail a pleasure to the senses

When the March days began to get warmer as I was growing up Adirondack, my father would drop a truckload of butt logs onto our driveway for splitting.

The mostly Beech, Maple and Yellow Birch logs were found in his daily travels and sawed into 16-inch rounds.

The pile seemed to grow daily. It covered the melting snow bank and overflowed into the area where we parked our car.

In 1978, the tradition of helping my father with woodsplitting began.

My job was to sort through the pile and roll one log after another out to a small available space to split with a maul.

I was 12 at the time and the maul was almost as heavy as I was.

But this was the right time of year for splitting as the cold nights froze the rounds up a bit.

When I pulled the heavy maul over my head I felt as if I was the toughest person on earth.

I swung it with all my might to bring its chiseled edge down on the surface of the butt round to make a sound that I called thumping.

I worked my way around the butt, slicing off shards of wood ready for stacking.

I usually pulled four or five butts out at a time from the mound of wood and placed them where I could easily move from one to another.

Then I would thump them into firewood ready for stacking.  Continue reading →

Taking inventory of lined-up sleds, a variety of makes and models

February weekends were always busy with snowmobile activity in the Lime-kiln Lake area of Inlet when I was growing up Adirondack.

Come Saturday morning, hordes of trucks and trailers would pull up across the road from our home to unload their snowmobiles before hitting the trails.

Curious of the ritual, I would hurry to change into my snowpants and jacket so I could join them outside and witness the unloading process.

I took inventory of the many makes and models of sleds. Arctic Cats, John Deere, Massey Ferguson, Polaris, Yamaha, Ski-doo and Scorpions were all well represented.

Through the blue smoke and noise of the revving engines I could hear shouts of, “Hey, how ya been?” between riders as they struggled with straps, ramps and uncooperative machines.

One morning as I made my way down the long lineup of snow warriors I noticed one of my favorite sleds.

It was a 1976 Rupp Nitro 340, a true performance sled that I was told could eat up many of the larger sleds of its day.

My personal knowledge of the Rupp was that it was bright red in color and stood out nicely against the backdrop of snow.

The owner of the prized machine caught my eye as I was admiring it. With a grin on his face, he offered me some unsolicited information on its attributes.  Continue reading →

Getting mentally prepped for big upcoming basketball game

Being respectful of the ice while engaging in February fun

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I began to understand the properties of the ice that formed on the lake, the edges of creeks, and the marshy areas that surrounded my Limekiln Lake house.

As children, we were trained to be respectful of the ice and to avoid trekking on thin ice.

In school we were told the story of Mr. Meneilly, who, long before we were born, drowned as he tried to cut across Fifth Lake on bad ice.

I had a fascination with the ice and investigated its progress every time I was outside.

I would go down to the lake as often as I could to poke a stick in the edge of the shore to check its depth.

I would roam around the woods and stick the toe of my boot into the creek edges and swamps to see what the ice was doing.

I liked to crack the ice with rocks or skip a rock across its surface. As a rock flew along I could tell the depth of the ice by the sound it made.

A twang-like sound would indicate thin ice, while a low growling boom would tell me the ice was thick.

The ice varied in color at different locations. Some of the real dark ice was so hard I could barely scratch its surface.

The white ice seemed softer and more fragile, like glass.  Continue reading →

Getting hung up while on a cross-country ski expedition

When I was a young boy growing up in Inlet, I loved my Saturdays and the opportunity afforded me to spend a whole day exploring my winter world.

I would typically begin my Saturdays by watching the morning kids’ show, Salty Sam’s Super Saturday, followed by a few cartoons.

Then, with a bowl of oatmeal and some peanut butter toast in my belly, I would pull on my snowsuit and ski boots and glance at the temperature before heading out.

One morning when I stepped outside there was a slight wind that chilled me right through.

It seemed much colder than the 17 degrees that appeared on the thermometer.

The snow crunched beneath my feet like I was stepping on cereal as I headed to the garage for my skis.

I was accompanied by my dog Mutt who had expressed an interest in tagging along on the adventure.

While I was pulling out my skis I spied a sled laying on the floor.

I decided I would make a harness with some rope and pull it behind me—just as I had seen in old movies depicting Antarctic expeditions.

It took some time to figure out how to make the harness, making a variety of knots with a piece of nylon rope.

Once completed, I attached it to the sled. I took a few test runs in the driveway to make sure there was enough space between the backs of my skis and the sled.

Mutt begged and whined in anticipation of our trek in the woods.

Though she wasn’t much help with tying the knots and making the harness, she seemed really keen on guiding the expedition.

As we pushed off downhill towards the lake the sled tried to catch up with me.

I had to double pole as quick as I could to stay out in front of it.  Continue reading →