Day four.

It's getting quite nasty out there. The wind is coming in strong from the north, bringing with it, so the forecast says, a whole lot of snow. I can reasonably expect about another foot of snow within the next day, and I'll likely be snowed in, a phrase that is quite different here than in Colorado, where "snowed in" means more that there were two or three inches of snow and they cancelled all the schools because the city can't afford to send snowplows out. "Snowed in" is a bit more literal here. But I've got plenty of firewood, plenty of food, water enough and, since I hung my wireless card from the light fixture, sudden and nonstop broadband. I'm set.

I don't have a whole lot to report, other than I wrote my butt off yesterday, getting on a roll and spending until about 4 AM immersed in my little novel's world. I ate leftovers all day yesterday, since I have to get through that mountain of rice sometime, and watched a bit of Wonderfalls in the afternoon. I've developed a nice little routine here: wake up, build the fire and bring in wood, post the blog, make a little something to eat, work for a while, take a little walk, come back, work a little more, watch a little DVD, take a nap, wake up, and work until late. It's been pretty successful as far as routines go, so I'm happy to stick with it.

I've also started collecting snow for water, which sort of fun: I go out with my big five-gallon bucket in which I used to make wine, fill it with snow, let the snow melt into the tablespoon or so of water I get from five gallons of snow, then do it again, and again, and again.

It's really coming down now, and the temperatures are supposed to plummet, getting deep into the negatives by tonight. Wish me happy blizzard.

(Oh, and this is one of my bluejays. His name is They Might Be Giants. He's the fattest one.)

Fancy pictures post!

Since I currently have good internet, here're a more pictures:


Some strange tracks by the dock. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what these belonged to.


The "only-go-out-with-the-following-things-when-the-ice-is-this-thick" sign. Of course, they don't tell you how thick the ice is, so it's pretty useless.


Steel-cut goodness.


Another pretty sunrise picture.


Carrots, butter and fire.

The big walleye on Mille Lacs. I feel obligated to take a picture of this every time I'm going through.

Day three.

The promised snow has arrived, and it’s quite pretty: big lazy flakes falling slowly around the cabin. I can’t see even across the river from here, let alone the rest of the lake. There’s a small group of bluejays huddled around where I’ve been tossing my slop water, no doubt picking through the tiny bits of oatmeal scrubbed from the pan.

I had difficulty getting a fire going this morning, just enough trouble in coaxing the wood into flames that I, in my sleepy haze, thought, Did the rules of fire change while I was sleeping? That didn’t seem very fair, so I cheated and used kerosene, and now the fire is roaring. I’ll show you, Universe.

I had a little adventure yesterday. I decided to go across the river to try to find any signs—tracks, droppings, a kill site, whatever—of the wolves I’d heard the night before. So the dog and I tromped off, following a set of snowmobile tracks. We were trotting along just fine until we reached the actual river channel, and the snowmobile tracks veered off out onto the lake. We continued for about another 50 yards or so until I heard a deep and disconcerting creaking beneath my feet and I became aware that I could actually feel water flowing underneath me. It was not a happy revelation. I shouted for the dog, who was wandering a few yards ahead of me, and immediately turned tail and headed back for shore.

It’s clear that the ice is still quite thick out on the lake, where pickup trucks and SUVs are still driving, but the river channel would tend to thaw earlier, what with the current. And if I go through there, I’m simply dead; the current would sweep me under the ice and I’d probably suffocate before I could freeze to death. Not a pleasant thought, and I’ll be avoiding that part of the ice from now on.

I made quite a nice dinner last night: an herb-crusted roast chicken and brown and wild rice with bacon and vegetables. I ended up making a massive batch of the rice, since when I was peppering it, the lid of the pepper came off and I ended up dumping nearly the entire thing into the pot. So I made another batch of the rice, and it was still too peppery. Today I’ll make yet another, and I’ll probably put more bacon in it, since that’s how I roll. Isn't this fascinating?

I gave myself a sponge bath last night in front of the fire, and yes, thank you, I did indeed feel like Kelly McGillis in that scene from Witness, only doughier and less Amish. I’ve also adapted quite well to the temperature here; something in my internal thermometer must have shifted, because I found myself quite comfortable barefoot and shirtless, peeing off the deck last night, and I wasn’t nearly as chilly this morning when I woke up. Is it possible that I’m turning into a tough, northwoods-y man? Probably not.

Day two.

It's a lot colder out today, and the sun has yet to make an appearance. Snow should roll in this evening.

So, my stew? Excellent. The 14 hours it spent in the Crock Pot did it good, fairly melting the beef and doing that weird alchemy that takes place when you just let things cook on low temperature for a long time. It was just the sort of hearty, wholesome stick-to-your-ribs fare I should be eating up here. Then, for dessert, I had some blindingly expensive dried fruit from Dean & Deluca, just to hammer home what a citified twit I am. For breakfast, I'm currently making some Irish steel-cut oatmeal on the stove, on the recommendation of everybody who's ever eaten Irish steel-cut oatmeal and then raved about how superior it is to regular oatmeal.

Yesterday, I took a long walk in the morning, down to the landing where people haul their ice-houses out onto the lake, then back up the road and into the woods for a bit. For the first time, I saw a bird up here, a bluejay who was very unhappy to see me, judging from her chattering. Then I came back, ate some lunch and wrote for a few hours, then took another short walk, then ate dinner, then settled down to watch a few episodes of Firefly, which turned into a rather long nap.

I woke up around 8 PM and started writing again, and did so until around 1 AM, with the help of a tumbler of scotch. Around midnight, I heard wolves. They were pretty far off—my guess is on the other side of the river—but Annyong didn't quite know what to do. He barked a few times, then listened in, staring out toward the river. He gave a little half-ass howl of his own. After a minute, it sounded like one of them was getting further away, and then it stopped altogether. It was altogether a little haunting, and a good reminder that I should get all my wood in before dark.

I've found that I'm going through one large bin of wood a day, "one bin" being the metal thing right next to the fireplace. I've got plenty on the woodpile, but the pine and birch there burns a little too quickly for my liking. It means that the fire will be out when I wake up in the morning and often makes for a pretty chilly few minutes while I build a new one.

Annyong's doing pretty well in the cold; he'll wear the little quilted vest that I got him, and he's adopted a funny little walk to prevent his feet from going through the crust atop the snow. Despite this, his front feet will punch through sometimes, and often when he's running at full clip, dumping him head over heels. It's pretty adorable.



Today's passage:

"I am Dayrin Boldsilver, ranger of Rashah," she returned, angered at his defiance at her inquiries. She tilted her sword and pushed the blade into the ground, then leaned upon the pommel.

"Greetings, Dayrin Boldsilver," the man said a moment later, a smooth, quipping edge to his voice. "By what businesses do you come to my forest?"

Dayrin shifted her weight slightly and clenched her jaw, her hands tightening around the hilt of her sword. "I come to your forest—" she slowly slid the point of her blade from the ground "—to strike your mocking head from your shoulders!"

With a guttural snarl Dayrin swiftly yanked her sword from the ground, bringing it around in a roundhouse slash. The man, not in the least surprised, ducked deftly and kicked out at the raging woman's already injured ankle.

What will happen next? Will the man pull out a flail and dance around Dayrin, promptly beating her ass and chastening the cocky ranger? Will they then become fast friends? Stay tuned to find out!

On the docket for today: walking, writing and cooking. Just like yesterday. Ooh. Just tasted my oatmeal. It is incredible.

Day one.

I am here, and the fire is crackling merrily as I drink tea and watch the sun rise over the lake. A lone pickup truck is inching from shore to the closest ice-house I can see, which is about half a mile out.

The trip out was a breeze: no snow, clear roads, minimal traffic, and little to no van trouble. The van doesn’t like, and never has liked, the trip through Denver, for some reason, and I had to stop on I-76 to check the temperature, which was getting into the red. But, from there out, I had no trouble whatsoever; I listened to roughly six hundred thousand episodes of This American Life across Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa and Minnesota. Around 2 AM, I arrived at my parents’ house in suburban Minneapolis, which was tomb-cold, since they’re currently wintering in Texas, and crawled directly into bed.

I woke up ridiculously early yesterday, like today, and gathered all the stuff I’d need from my parents’ house: a few warm jackets, some meat from their freezer, a bottle of scotch and some books. It was unusually warm in the Twin Cities yesterday, and, when I stopped for gas, I noticed a carful of women in hijab—a sign that the massive Somali immigration to Minnesota has reached even Lakeville. I wonder if their kids go to the same high school I did.

The trip from there to here was likewise easy, and I switched from This American Life to Radio Lab. Near Garrison, I was listening to an episode about discovery, about whether our understanding of the universe means they we’ve imposed an arbitrary system of order on things or whether, as their guest postulated, that in defining the rules of nature we’ve actually cracked the vaster system. While I was listening to this, I rounded a bend and saw Lake Mille Lacs, this endless tract of ice onto which people had plowed a complex, winding snowmobile course.

The roads were clear past Garrison and all the way to Bena, whose sordidness was underscored by, no shit, half a dozen dogs lying in the road, blocking my way. I had to honk and prowl right up to them before they trotted off.

Even the road to the cabin had been plowed, as Craig from McArdle’s had promised, and I had no trouble getting in, getting the electricity on or getting a fire started. I turned on the electric heaters, closed the doors to the bedrooms to conserve heat and unpacked everything. My parents recently did some renovation up here, so the dank carpet and crumbling fixtures I remembered are gone, replaced with hardwood, and new carpets a marble countertop, a new sink and brand-new cupboards. It’s nice, although apparently in fixing things up they excised what my sister and I referred to as “that cabin smell,” which was must and the ghosts of hundreds of fishing and hunting trips past. I kind of miss it.

I heated some water for a sink-pan and, after taking a little walk, chopped up some vegetables and browned some beef for stew, which I just tossed into the Crock Pot to cook overnight for my lunch and dinner today. I’m a little concerned about fresh water, since there hasn’t been snowfall up in here in a while and there’s a dearth of clean snow—and, between the dog and me, we’ve gone through about four gallons already. But we’re supposed to get snow this weekend and, if worse comes to worse, I get clean-ish snow from the lake, where debris from the trees hasn’t reached it yet.

The cabin is nice and warm, even with the electric heaters turned off. I’ve already made three trips to the woodpile, since the majority of the wood up here is really quick-burning pine. I’ll make a trip into the woods after the weekend to look for some deadfall to chop, but there’s plenty of wood so far.

Last night, I sat in front of the fire with a glass of bourbon and re-read something I’d found at my parents’ house: the fantasy novel I’d started when I was in eighth grade, which is constructed of passages like this:

For the second time that day, the message fell from shaken hands, where it wisped slowly to the ground. Grason gathered his robes from his bony, yet supple, ankles. He bolted out of the room and began to look for signs of his master.
Grason hurried past the countless rows of shelves, some containing books and tablets, the majority housing neatly bound, thick volumes bearing silver etchings along their midnight-blue spines. The page paced morosely upon his leather sandals, barely touching the cool granite floor. He approached his lord, stood tentatively several feet away, nervously eyeing Astricus, hunched at the desk with one of the many silver-inscribed tomes.
“Why does any form of life feel it has to destroy its own kind, Grason?”

Deep. I go on to discuss racism, the many kinds of swords and use words like “slaken” and “oblimininate.” A junior-higher with a thesaurus is a dangerous thing.

Annyong and I took a walk last night after sunset, about a quarter-mile out onto the lake, where I saw what looked like four sets of wolf tracks. I’d seen some near the cabin, too, and apparently the timber wolf reintroduction to this part of the state is doing fairly well. I imagine that if wolves can chase something out onto the lake, it’s an easier kill than in the woods. I’m sort of hoping to see them, but it also means I’ll need to keep a closer eye on the dog.

It’s about 10 degrees out right now, and I’ll take a little walk before breakfast, then get down to writing. I’ve got internet, which is good, and it’s also the perfect amount—just one to two bars, which means I can check my email and blog but not spend all day looking at lolcats. But it also means I'll have more difficulty uploading pictures. I'll sure you'll survive.

Another cup of tea, then a walk.

And, now, tomorrow.

I've got a no-doubt fitful night of sleep ahead of me before I leave tomorrow, so this is a good opportunity to thank everybody for helping me out with the trip in the many ways they, by which I mean you, have. So, thanks to:

Everybody who birthday-gifted me clothing, provisions or equipment or the means to get them. Biddle: love the Gerber, and it's already proved indispensable. Ian: I tried to stay out of your way while you rewired the van. Brandy and Mike: you showed me the way of Costco bacon. Megan and Jon: I'll be eating much more elitist-ish, what with the Dean & Deluca fig jam. Jeff: greatest driving-to-wilderness mix CD ever. Craig and Don: you're to blame for my relentless documentation to-be. Sally and Tom, for indulging me. And, because I don't say it enough, Bettina: you are The. Best. Thing. Ever. Seriously.

In other news, weather is clear from here to there, and will be till the weekend. The abnormally warm temperatures in Plainsland may be the bellwether of global climate change, but they also mean a blizzardless drive. I'll take it. Thanks, Al Gore!

Now, off to finish packing and try to sleep. See you on the other side.

Thursday Thursday Thursday!

So, come (duh) Thursday, I am off.

I am be-licensed. The van is fixed. Groceries are bought. Dog vest is obtained (and adorable!). I've even started packing, and this is coming from a guy who, around midnight the night before I'd leave for an eight-week tour, would say, "Oh, I guess I should probably think about packing. I should probably do laundry, too," and then would get down to the business of drinking more before the van left in the morning. I've got more loose ends to tie up tomorrow, and then pub quiz to do, but come Thursday, I am the hell out of Colorado and en route to Winnie. Weather, you know, permitting.

Funny thing about that: I called up to McArdle's today to ask if they could plow the forest road and the driveway up to the cabin—a service they'll apparently provide—and the owner Craig surprised me by saying, "The road's completely clear. We haven't had a whole lot of snow at all." This, when the Twin Cities got about eight inches of snow last week. It might be less wintry than I'd thought.

Anyway, it's happening. And soon.