October 2021 - September 2022 In some traditional cultures, the year begins with the harvest. Larders are full; things are at their peak in the natural world. Next comes seven months of decline, and then five months of renewal. Vermont Almanac marks a year’s time in the same manner.
P R E A M B L E
W
contributors 4
hen Samuel Morse was inventing the telegraph in 1843, he pitched it as a technology that would make “one neighborhood of the whole country.” Henry David Thoreau, ever the curmudgeon, documented his thoughts on the matter in Walden by writing: “We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.” Author Neil Postman, a more minorly famous curmudgeon from the 20th century, noted in his book Amusing Ourselves to Death that Thoreau was able to grasp, right from the get go, that not only would the technology permit discourse between Maine and Texas, it would insist on it. Sure telegraphy would make communication efficient, but it would also start to make relevance irrelevant. Useful news and information about familiar people and places would be replaced with decontextualized information from away: gossip, scandal, a steady stream of sensational stories about crimes or natural disasters from places a reader couldn’t even point to on a map. Had Postman or Thoreau lived to see the Internet age, they’d have seen their critiques borne out on a global scale. As with the telegraph, there’s good that comes with our Internet browser and in our social media feeds – of course there’s good. But the technology is also exacting a deep psychic toll. There’s an epidemic of loneliness and alienation at the heart of so many of today’s social problems, and the torrent of uncurated, or poorly curated, or maliciously curated information that we subject ourselves to on a daily basis is one of the root causes. In the Preambles of Volumes I and II of Vermont Almanac, we wrote of our hope that these books could serve as manuals to help readers discover and nurture a love of rural things. Besides that, we hope there’s something here that models a healthier way of being. Something that presents the world in a more natural way and at a more manageable scale. Something that reminds people that some of our most satisfying pursuits are simple: hunting or foraging, eating good food, staring at fires, listening to water running, human touch. A reminder that a simple life that contains prolonged bouts of self-forgetting toil done in service of nourishment and heat and family and community is a life well lived.
preamble 13 october 15 november 41 december 63 january 85 february 113 march 135 april 163 may 187 june 207 july 229 august 253 september 271
A content index of the many people, places, and topics covered in Volume I and Volume II is avilable online at vermontalmanac.org. A similar index for Volume III is in the works.
12
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stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
13
October 2021 - September 2022 In some traditional cultures, the year begins with the harvest. Larders are full; things are at their peak in the natural world. Next comes seven months of decline, and then five months of renewal. Vermont Almanac marks a year’s time in the same manner.
P R E A M B L E
W
contributors 4
hen Samuel Morse was inventing the telegraph in 1843, he pitched it as a technology that would make “one neighborhood of the whole country.” Henry David Thoreau, ever the curmudgeon, documented his thoughts on the matter in Walden by writing: “We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.” Author Neil Postman, a more minorly famous curmudgeon from the 20th century, noted in his book Amusing Ourselves to Death that Thoreau was able to grasp, right from the get go, that not only would the technology permit discourse between Maine and Texas, it would insist on it. Sure telegraphy would make communication efficient, but it would also start to make relevance irrelevant. Useful news and information about familiar people and places would be replaced with decontextualized information from away: gossip, scandal, a steady stream of sensational stories about crimes or natural disasters from places a reader couldn’t even point to on a map. Had Postman or Thoreau lived to see the Internet age, they’d have seen their critiques borne out on a global scale. As with the telegraph, there’s good that comes with our Internet browser and in our social media feeds – of course there’s good. But the technology is also exacting a deep psychic toll. There’s an epidemic of loneliness and alienation at the heart of so many of today’s social problems, and the torrent of uncurated, or poorly curated, or maliciously curated information that we subject ourselves to on a daily basis is one of the root causes. In the Preambles of Volumes I and II of Vermont Almanac, we wrote of our hope that these books could serve as manuals to help readers discover and nurture a love of rural things. Besides that, we hope there’s something here that models a healthier way of being. Something that presents the world in a more natural way and at a more manageable scale. Something that reminds people that some of our most satisfying pursuits are simple: hunting or foraging, eating good food, staring at fires, listening to water running, human touch. A reminder that a simple life that contains prolonged bouts of self-forgetting toil done in service of nourishment and heat and family and community is a life well lived.
preamble 13 october 15 november 41 december 63 january 85 february 113 march 135 april 163 may 187 june 207 july 229 august 253 september 271
A content index of the many people, places, and topics covered in Volume I and Volume II is avilable online at vermontalmanac.org. A similar index for Volume III is in the works.
12
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13
o c t o b e r
A T
T
AU TUMN APPLES
An Apple Ladder
I didn’t know the generosity of trees until I discovered the apples in my dooryard – the trees bent low to the ground, draped with hundreds of golden globes.
and spread the ladder to fit your own aesthetic. A handy way to ensure the rungs stay tight is to split the protruding ends with a chisel and pound in hardwood
wedges. Make sure the splits are horizontal to the upright ladder and not vertical, so the pressure on the wedge doesn’t split the fir pole. —Bob Machin
The yellow jackets humming, like a coffee klatsch of women who gossip with morning slung across their eyes. And the drone of bees beating their ephemeral wings, as drunk with ambrosia, they sip from rotting cups of apple. Apples clung to childhood memory like honey in Autumn sunlight, still glinting in the eye. All that gold upon the ground, a spongy carpet of mash – the scent of apple death, a delight to the senses. Like warm apple wine, the bouquet of Indian Summer when the light slants towards Winter. But
v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
CATHERINE GRUVER
22
•
ANNE HUNTER
rying to access the fruit on a mature apple tree with a step ladder or an extension ladder can be an exercise in frustration and futility. A specially constructed fruit ladder with a pointed top allows you to slide it up through the branches and rest it in a crotch where it will remain stable while you work your way up. You might want two of these ladders to match different sized trees – perhaps one 10 feet tall and another 15 feet tall. The accompanying drawing shows a ladder that can be made relatively easily with a chainsaw. Start with a spruce or balsam fir pole about 5 inches in diameter with relatively little taper. Skin the bark and drill 1-inch holes 12 inches apart (or however far apart you want your rungs to be) along the length of the pole, stopping 12 inches from the end. Carve a point on the end and run a bolt through the pole about 6 inches from the top. Now use a chainsaw and cut the pole in half, starting at the bottom and ending before you hit the bolt. The rungs can be made from any type of hardwood – I made mine out of ash saplings that were as close to one inch in diameter as I could find. Pare down the ends to fit snugly in the holes. Insert the rungs
H O M E
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
not
just
yet.
There is an interrupted breath, as late Fall lingers, suspended in caramel light and the soft cider scent of apples falling
down.
—diana lischer
23
o c t o b e r
A T
T
AU TUMN APPLES
An Apple Ladder
I didn’t know the generosity of trees until I discovered the apples in my dooryard – the trees bent low to the ground, draped with hundreds of golden globes.
and spread the ladder to fit your own aesthetic. A handy way to ensure the rungs stay tight is to split the protruding ends with a chisel and pound in hardwood
wedges. Make sure the splits are horizontal to the upright ladder and not vertical, so the pressure on the wedge doesn’t split the fir pole. —Bob Machin
The yellow jackets humming, like a coffee klatsch of women who gossip with morning slung across their eyes. And the drone of bees beating their ephemeral wings, as drunk with ambrosia, they sip from rotting cups of apple. Apples clung to childhood memory like honey in Autumn sunlight, still glinting in the eye. All that gold upon the ground, a spongy carpet of mash – the scent of apple death, a delight to the senses. Like warm apple wine, the bouquet of Indian Summer when the light slants towards Winter. But
v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
CATHERINE GRUVER
22
•
ANNE HUNTER
rying to access the fruit on a mature apple tree with a step ladder or an extension ladder can be an exercise in frustration and futility. A specially constructed fruit ladder with a pointed top allows you to slide it up through the branches and rest it in a crotch where it will remain stable while you work your way up. You might want two of these ladders to match different sized trees – perhaps one 10 feet tall and another 15 feet tall. The accompanying drawing shows a ladder that can be made relatively easily with a chainsaw. Start with a spruce or balsam fir pole about 5 inches in diameter with relatively little taper. Skin the bark and drill 1-inch holes 12 inches apart (or however far apart you want your rungs to be) along the length of the pole, stopping 12 inches from the end. Carve a point on the end and run a bolt through the pole about 6 inches from the top. Now use a chainsaw and cut the pole in half, starting at the bottom and ending before you hit the bolt. The rungs can be made from any type of hardwood – I made mine out of ash saplings that were as close to one inch in diameter as I could find. Pare down the ends to fit snugly in the holes. Insert the rungs
H O M E
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
not
just
yet.
There is an interrupted breath, as late Fall lingers, suspended in caramel light and the soft cider scent of apples falling
down.
—diana lischer
23
n o v e m b e r
T
50
CLOVER AJAMIE
here is a solemn tradition that occurs during the month of November throughout New England. It begins with the human infestation of backwoods cabins, RV campers, and propped up tents. This is the annual migration known as “going to deer camp.” The exodus allows properly licensed participants to pursue the elusive white-tailed buck as well as enjoy the camaraderie that attending deer camp provides. I was blessed with a father who knew the value of a much needed respite from the workaday routine. He built a deer camp for friends and family on an acre of land purchased for $25 in the 1950s. Having spent all his meager savings on the land, that first camp was held together with a lot of tarpaper and high hopes. A wonderful feature that I fondly recall about the old shack was that the ceiling was made of cardboard. This allowed us kids to lay in our bunks at night with our BB guns and shoot at the sound of the mice running over our heads. It was great practice for when we got older and were allowed to join in the hunt. Especially when we discovered that shooting by sound, in the dark, was a fair description of opening morning of deer season. Personal hygiene at deer camp tends to be low on the list of priorities. I myself have witnessed a respected businessman who only brushed his teeth once during a week’s
Deer Camp Rules
stay, and that was with a finger dipped in whiskey. If he could’ve gotten within breathing range of a deer he wouldn’t have needed his gun. And the aroma of wool clothing, socks, and long johns hanging steaming around a glowing wood stove is pungent enough to water-up eyes, clear the sinuses, and stop the Allies
from winning the war. After a few days they don’t have to be hung up. They can stand on their own. In the woods, the trick is to stay downwind of the deer. In camp, it’s to stay upwind of your hunting companions. Deer, being crepuscular, are more active under low light conditions. It behooves the
hunter to be out in the woods by the crack of dawn to take advantage of this trait. The timing is crucial, as my dad and his buddies found out one opening morning. They had stayed up late toasting their arrival at camp, and when they retired for the evening it was discovered that they were
v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
lacking an alarm clock. Mutt Sommers declared that being an expert woodsman, he had an internal alarm clock and would set it for 4 o’clock sharp, at which point they all dropped into their bunks. This should have sounded an alarm, as they all knew Mutt’s woodsmanship was such that he couldn’t find a church steeple in
a corn field. When Mutt awoke to relieve himself, he glanced at his watch. “Time to wake up! It’s five after four!” he shouted. The groggy crew moaned and groaned their way out of bed as Mutt, the camp cook, began to throw together a hearty breakfast. They shoveled in bacon, sausage, eggs, home fries and toast like they were stuffing a musket and washed it down with coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe. They staggered into their hunting duds and grabbed their guns. As they were getting ready to step outside, somebody looked at a watch again. What Mutt took to be 4:05 was actually 1:20. It was the classic case of all dressed up and nowhere to go. As they were all sitting around jawing waiting for legal shooting light, they made a momentous decision. One that would ease the burden and fuss of opening day forever. They debated the numerous reasons for the new rule. What if they went visiting and some thief came and stole their cherished weapons? And if, by some miracle, one of them actually shot a deer, then what? They would have to dress it out, drag it to camp, bring it to the check station, skin it, cut it up and package it. Sure sounded like a lot of work. When they took the vote it was unanimous: no more guns allowed at camp. The deer never even noticed. —Bill Torrey
51
n o v e m b e r
T
50
CLOVER AJAMIE
here is a solemn tradition that occurs during the month of November throughout New England. It begins with the human infestation of backwoods cabins, RV campers, and propped up tents. This is the annual migration known as “going to deer camp.” The exodus allows properly licensed participants to pursue the elusive white-tailed buck as well as enjoy the camaraderie that attending deer camp provides. I was blessed with a father who knew the value of a much needed respite from the workaday routine. He built a deer camp for friends and family on an acre of land purchased for $25 in the 1950s. Having spent all his meager savings on the land, that first camp was held together with a lot of tarpaper and high hopes. A wonderful feature that I fondly recall about the old shack was that the ceiling was made of cardboard. This allowed us kids to lay in our bunks at night with our BB guns and shoot at the sound of the mice running over our heads. It was great practice for when we got older and were allowed to join in the hunt. Especially when we discovered that shooting by sound, in the dark, was a fair description of opening morning of deer season. Personal hygiene at deer camp tends to be low on the list of priorities. I myself have witnessed a respected businessman who only brushed his teeth once during a week’s
Deer Camp Rules
stay, and that was with a finger dipped in whiskey. If he could’ve gotten within breathing range of a deer he wouldn’t have needed his gun. And the aroma of wool clothing, socks, and long johns hanging steaming around a glowing wood stove is pungent enough to water-up eyes, clear the sinuses, and stop the Allies
from winning the war. After a few days they don’t have to be hung up. They can stand on their own. In the woods, the trick is to stay downwind of the deer. In camp, it’s to stay upwind of your hunting companions. Deer, being crepuscular, are more active under low light conditions. It behooves the
hunter to be out in the woods by the crack of dawn to take advantage of this trait. The timing is crucial, as my dad and his buddies found out one opening morning. They had stayed up late toasting their arrival at camp, and when they retired for the evening it was discovered that they were
v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
lacking an alarm clock. Mutt Sommers declared that being an expert woodsman, he had an internal alarm clock and would set it for 4 o’clock sharp, at which point they all dropped into their bunks. This should have sounded an alarm, as they all knew Mutt’s woodsmanship was such that he couldn’t find a church steeple in
a corn field. When Mutt awoke to relieve himself, he glanced at his watch. “Time to wake up! It’s five after four!” he shouted. The groggy crew moaned and groaned their way out of bed as Mutt, the camp cook, began to throw together a hearty breakfast. They shoveled in bacon, sausage, eggs, home fries and toast like they were stuffing a musket and washed it down with coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe. They staggered into their hunting duds and grabbed their guns. As they were getting ready to step outside, somebody looked at a watch again. What Mutt took to be 4:05 was actually 1:20. It was the classic case of all dressed up and nowhere to go. As they were all sitting around jawing waiting for legal shooting light, they made a momentous decision. One that would ease the burden and fuss of opening day forever. They debated the numerous reasons for the new rule. What if they went visiting and some thief came and stole their cherished weapons? And if, by some miracle, one of them actually shot a deer, then what? They would have to dress it out, drag it to camp, bring it to the check station, skin it, cut it up and package it. Sure sounded like a lot of work. When they took the vote it was unanimous: no more guns allowed at camp. The deer never even noticed. —Bill Torrey
51
d e c e m b e r
Hooked on the Unusual
I
VERMONT ’ S LESSER - KNOWN SPORT FISH
f you’re like most anglers, you probably have a favorite fish species. Maybe you like hauling largemouth bass out of heavy vegetation or drifting a fly through a pool in a pristine mountain stream for trout. Maybe you prefer trolling spoons or streamers on big lakes for landlocked salmon or dabbling small jigs for tasty crappie, perch, and sunfish. But beneath these same fishing waters lurks an entirely different cast of characters, fish species so different from traditional “sport fish” that most of them are overlooked, and may even be completely unknown, by many Vermont anglers. Bowfin, redhorse sucker, longnose gar, freshwater drum, lake whitefish, cisco, burbot, fallfish, eel, shad, the list goes on and on. In fact, the lineup of these lesser-known native Vermont fish species is almost as long as the list of the more frequently targeted species. And they are every bit as catchable on a rod and reel as the others. Even better, many of them are highly abundant and grow to huge sizes; some are even considered delicacies. If you’re an angler interested in pursuing some of Vermont’s lesser known sportfish, the Vermont Master Angler Program website provides information on where and when anglers have had the best luck with various fish species. Here are a few possibilities to get you started, each pictured with the proud angler who hooked them in Vermont. —Shawn Good PHOTOS COURTESY OF VT FISH & WILDLIFE
The BOWFI N (or dog fish) is a fish that hasn’t changed for 150 million years – it’s the original native Vermont fish species. They inhabit warm, shallow, heavily vegetated shorelines. Toss out a piece of cut bait (a chunk of sunfish or perch) under a bobber and hang on. The strikes are vicious and aggressive, and the battles are epic.
F RES HWAT ER DRUM ,
also known as “sheeps-head,” grow to more than 20 pounds in Lake Champlain but feed mostly on small snails, clams, worms, and crayfish on the bottom. Fishing a small jig tipped with a night crawler around rocks can be very effective.
The LO NGNO SE GAR is another living dinosaur that’s been around for over 100 million years. They are native, widespread in Lake Champlain, and generally found in shallow, marshy bays around vegetation. They can often be spotted in groups sunning themselves on the surface, which is how most people target them when fishing, using flies.
FALLF I S H , the largest
The REDH O RSE SUCKER is another native species many anglers overlook. These fish can exceed 10 pounds and they fight hard. Anglers have had luck fishing flies, but you can do just as well drifting worms or other bait.
native minnow species in Vermont, grow up to 20 inches and live in most of the larger rivers and streams around the state, as well as in some reservoirs. It feeds on insects and other small fish, so casting in-line spinners, small spoons, and crankbaits on light tackle around submerged trees and deep, slow pools will give you the best chance to hook one.
80
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stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
81
d e c e m b e r
Hooked on the Unusual
I
VERMONT ’ S LESSER - KNOWN SPORT FISH
f you’re like most anglers, you probably have a favorite fish species. Maybe you like hauling largemouth bass out of heavy vegetation or drifting a fly through a pool in a pristine mountain stream for trout. Maybe you prefer trolling spoons or streamers on big lakes for landlocked salmon or dabbling small jigs for tasty crappie, perch, and sunfish. But beneath these same fishing waters lurks an entirely different cast of characters, fish species so different from traditional “sport fish” that most of them are overlooked, and may even be completely unknown, by many Vermont anglers. Bowfin, redhorse sucker, longnose gar, freshwater drum, lake whitefish, cisco, burbot, fallfish, eel, shad, the list goes on and on. In fact, the lineup of these lesser-known native Vermont fish species is almost as long as the list of the more frequently targeted species. And they are every bit as catchable on a rod and reel as the others. Even better, many of them are highly abundant and grow to huge sizes; some are even considered delicacies. If you’re an angler interested in pursuing some of Vermont’s lesser known sportfish, the Vermont Master Angler Program website provides information on where and when anglers have had the best luck with various fish species. Here are a few possibilities to get you started, each pictured with the proud angler who hooked them in Vermont. —Shawn Good PHOTOS COURTESY OF VT FISH & WILDLIFE
The BOWFI N (or dog fish) is a fish that hasn’t changed for 150 million years – it’s the original native Vermont fish species. They inhabit warm, shallow, heavily vegetated shorelines. Toss out a piece of cut bait (a chunk of sunfish or perch) under a bobber and hang on. The strikes are vicious and aggressive, and the battles are epic.
F RES HWAT ER DRUM ,
also known as “sheeps-head,” grow to more than 20 pounds in Lake Champlain but feed mostly on small snails, clams, worms, and crayfish on the bottom. Fishing a small jig tipped with a night crawler around rocks can be very effective.
The LO NGNO SE GAR is another living dinosaur that’s been around for over 100 million years. They are native, widespread in Lake Champlain, and generally found in shallow, marshy bays around vegetation. They can often be spotted in groups sunning themselves on the surface, which is how most people target them when fishing, using flies.
FALLF I S H , the largest
The REDH O RSE SUCKER is another native species many anglers overlook. These fish can exceed 10 pounds and they fight hard. Anglers have had luck fishing flies, but you can do just as well drifting worms or other bait.
native minnow species in Vermont, grow up to 20 inches and live in most of the larger rivers and streams around the state, as well as in some reservoirs. It feeds on insects and other small fish, so casting in-line spinners, small spoons, and crankbaits on light tackle around submerged trees and deep, slow pools will give you the best chance to hook one.
80
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f e b r u a r y
F
Life and Death on the Farm
orrest Foster is a farmer in Hardwick on an organic dairy farm with 70 cows total and about 40 milking at any given time. The Fosters are one of those old families around here. I spent an afternoon following Forrest around the barn, his sugar shack, we took a long ride on his tractor out past his deer camp. He took me to a place where he cuts cedar and hemlock boughs for deer in the winter, and dispatches his old animals to feed the bear and the deer and the coyotes and the ravens. Forrest would rather trade services than exchange money; he’ll give you meat if you can’t afford it, and he’ll expect you to do some chores in exchange. I guess what I love about Forrest Foster is that he’s always practical. And he’s always generous. And these things are always the same thing. Here’s one part of my conversation with him in March 2022. —Erica Heilman
Alexander in Craftsbury, he’s a big game biologist, and I said, “Well there’s 18 inches of snow and she’s working to get through it.” He said, “She’ll starve to death if she don’t find something to fill up on. And if she has cubs in the den, they’ll starve to death or freeze to death if she don’t find a way back to them, and it should be within the day.” ERICA : So what did you do?
ERICA : What are you afraid of ? FORREST : My biggest fear:
I don’t want to get crippled and not be dead. And I’ve told Karen over and over, if you see that I’m not going to be up and moving, just shoot me. Do you think about dying? ERICA : Yeah, I feel like I
think about it all the time. Do you think about it?
FORREST : I do. And I’ve [got a story]. I’m great friends with a bear. Eleven or twelve years ago – it was Valentine’s Day, February 14 – I was going into the woods with a skidder that I had rented to cut some big old rotten trees. And here comes a bear up the skidder track – they’re not supposed to be out until late March or even mid-April. So I came home and called Cedric
FORREST : I had 19 horses at that time. I had [one that was] a 30-year-old workhorse and I put a halter rope on and I went right down the skidder trail, went right back by the bear, right by a big old spruce tree, turned around with that little gun and got her right in the head. And I carry a jack knife all the time … ERICA : Wait, you shot the bear? FORREST : No, the horse. No,
To hear the entire conversation, visit rumblestripvermont.org
“ MY HOPE IS THAT … PEOPLE I ’ VE TALKED TO HAVE FELT SEEN .” —Erica Heilman
PHOTOS BY ERICA HEILMAN
he Rumble Strip podcast is the creation, and the work, of Erica Heilman. She travels the state, digital recorder in hand, to visit the homes, the barns, the lives of ordinary Vermonters. Sometimes the subjects are messy. But always there are lessons in the conversations she has. Heilman plays the part of guest rather than host, keeping herself in the background and the focus on those she’s speaking with. And she is very good at what she does. She’s built up a devoted following of listeners, and in 2022 won a Peabody Award for her story Finn and the Bell, which tells of the tragedy of a teen suicide in a way that celebrates young Finn’s life. v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
runs right over to her. They talk all the time – growl, grrrrrrr, growl, grrrrrrr – when they’re growing, but the babies understand that. So she kept doing [well]. And I called the game warden and told him what I’d done. And he said, “Well, that was big-hearted of you.” And I said, “The horse wasn’t no good to me; it wasn’t enjoying life. I wasn’t breeding her for colts anymore… And he says, “That was a hell of a deal.” And [the bear’s] been with me 11 years now. And she has babies every other year. And she has a good supply [of food]. It’s a good place to live. Good place for her to be. I mean, that’s a good connection to me – to take my waste and feed an animal that’s growing a new generation of babies. And everything worked good.
Telling Stories
T
128
no…I shot the horse. The horse is 30 years old. I can’t use it anymore. Her feet are messed up. Best thing in the world is to get rid of her and save that bear – in my book. So I worried all night long [about it]. After I shot her, I cut her open to make fresh blood so the bear could smell it and it brought it right back to her…I made an opening for the bear at the heart cavity and the lungs, where all the soft tissue is, and that’s the first thing she went for. So the mare was split open for her to access that. Didn’t see any sign of her ’till prit’near April, maybe towards the tenth of May. We were starting to put up fence posts for the cow’s pasture, and there was the bear, standing down on the hill by a brush pile. And I said, “Well, she made the winter anyway.” And in just a minute, there comes a little black bear about as big as a woodchuck, only it’s got longer legs, and it
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
Heilman’s audio recordings (professionally produced, but exceedingly authentic) capture the tone and nuance of her subject’s stories in a way that slick video productions can’t. Like print, audio leaves something – an all-important something – to the imagination.
129
f e b r u a r y
F
Life and Death on the Farm
orrest Foster is a farmer in Hardwick on an organic dairy farm with 70 cows total and about 40 milking at any given time. The Fosters are one of those old families around here. I spent an afternoon following Forrest around the barn, his sugar shack, we took a long ride on his tractor out past his deer camp. He took me to a place where he cuts cedar and hemlock boughs for deer in the winter, and dispatches his old animals to feed the bear and the deer and the coyotes and the ravens. Forrest would rather trade services than exchange money; he’ll give you meat if you can’t afford it, and he’ll expect you to do some chores in exchange. I guess what I love about Forrest Foster is that he’s always practical. And he’s always generous. And these things are always the same thing. Here’s one part of my conversation with him in March 2022. —Erica Heilman
Alexander in Craftsbury, he’s a big game biologist, and I said, “Well there’s 18 inches of snow and she’s working to get through it.” He said, “She’ll starve to death if she don’t find something to fill up on. And if she has cubs in the den, they’ll starve to death or freeze to death if she don’t find a way back to them, and it should be within the day.” ERICA : So what did you do?
ERICA : What are you afraid of ? FORREST : My biggest fear:
I don’t want to get crippled and not be dead. And I’ve told Karen over and over, if you see that I’m not going to be up and moving, just shoot me. Do you think about dying? ERICA : Yeah, I feel like I
think about it all the time. Do you think about it?
FORREST : I do. And I’ve [got a story]. I’m great friends with a bear. Eleven or twelve years ago – it was Valentine’s Day, February 14 – I was going into the woods with a skidder that I had rented to cut some big old rotten trees. And here comes a bear up the skidder track – they’re not supposed to be out until late March or even mid-April. So I came home and called Cedric
FORREST : I had 19 horses at that time. I had [one that was] a 30-year-old workhorse and I put a halter rope on and I went right down the skidder trail, went right back by the bear, right by a big old spruce tree, turned around with that little gun and got her right in the head. And I carry a jack knife all the time … ERICA : Wait, you shot the bear? FORREST : No, the horse. No,
To hear the entire conversation, visit rumblestripvermont.org
“ MY HOPE IS THAT … PEOPLE I ’ VE TALKED TO HAVE FELT SEEN .” —Erica Heilman
PHOTOS BY ERICA HEILMAN
he Rumble Strip podcast is the creation, and the work, of Erica Heilman. She travels the state, digital recorder in hand, to visit the homes, the barns, the lives of ordinary Vermonters. Sometimes the subjects are messy. But always there are lessons in the conversations she has. Heilman plays the part of guest rather than host, keeping herself in the background and the focus on those she’s speaking with. And she is very good at what she does. She’s built up a devoted following of listeners, and in 2022 won a Peabody Award for her story Finn and the Bell, which tells of the tragedy of a teen suicide in a way that celebrates young Finn’s life. v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
runs right over to her. They talk all the time – growl, grrrrrrr, growl, grrrrrrr – when they’re growing, but the babies understand that. So she kept doing [well]. And I called the game warden and told him what I’d done. And he said, “Well, that was big-hearted of you.” And I said, “The horse wasn’t no good to me; it wasn’t enjoying life. I wasn’t breeding her for colts anymore… And he says, “That was a hell of a deal.” And [the bear’s] been with me 11 years now. And she has babies every other year. And she has a good supply [of food]. It’s a good place to live. Good place for her to be. I mean, that’s a good connection to me – to take my waste and feed an animal that’s growing a new generation of babies. And everything worked good.
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no…I shot the horse. The horse is 30 years old. I can’t use it anymore. Her feet are messed up. Best thing in the world is to get rid of her and save that bear – in my book. So I worried all night long [about it]. After I shot her, I cut her open to make fresh blood so the bear could smell it and it brought it right back to her…I made an opening for the bear at the heart cavity and the lungs, where all the soft tissue is, and that’s the first thing she went for. So the mare was split open for her to access that. Didn’t see any sign of her ’till prit’near April, maybe towards the tenth of May. We were starting to put up fence posts for the cow’s pasture, and there was the bear, standing down on the hill by a brush pile. And I said, “Well, she made the winter anyway.” And in just a minute, there comes a little black bear about as big as a woodchuck, only it’s got longer legs, and it
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
Heilman’s audio recordings (professionally produced, but exceedingly authentic) capture the tone and nuance of her subject’s stories in a way that slick video productions can’t. Like print, audio leaves something – an all-important something – to the imagination.
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Potty Training for Grownups metal) basins and a two- or three-gallon bucket. The basins fit into your kitchen and bathroom sinks; the bucket sits beside your toilet. Even the water we use to rinse food off plates before putting them into the dishwasher fills that kitchen basin pretty fast. Add the rinse water from pots and pans, and before you know it, it’s almost overflowing, ready to pour into the bucket. That basin in the bathroom fills up quickly, too, as you let precious water pour out of the spigot until it’s hot enough to use to wash your face. v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
hris Callahan has been an agricultural engineer with UVM Extension for 10 years, and his work has three main focuses: sustainability, with a particular emphasis on efficient energy use; post-harvest handling, with a focus on helping farms comply with the Food Safety Modernization Act; and protective culture, otherwise known as growing commercial crops indoors. A simpler way to put all that is that he helps farmers solve problems. How do you build a hand wash station for a place that has no running water, like a sugarhouse? How do you convert a dairy barn into a cold storage for vegetables? How do you make a mobile hop harvester that’s small enough to serve a two- to five-acre producer? Chris can help. The following images show one such handwash station that he helped design a few years back – “It’s the closest thing we’ve had to something that went viral,” he said. If you’re handy, you can
handwashingstation, which also provides links to places that sell the 5-gallon carboys that hold the water, the bus trays that function as a sink, and the spring-loaded spigot.
probably build your own just by looking at these images. The metal frame in the schematic can easily be made out of 2x4s and plywood. For a detailed materials list, go to go.uvm.edu/
handsfree soap dispenser
springloaded spigot sturdy frame approx. 40” approx. 34” BASIN
cable between spigot and pedal
foot pedal (about 1” of travel)
FRONT VIEW
tote with cap and air vent
CLEAN WATER SUPPLY (typically 5 gal./50 washes)
basin (pit
ched to d
rain)
drain with barb
hose
DIRTY WATER COLLECTION (5 gal.)
SIDE VIEW
If you leave your bath water in the tub, it heats the room a little and is another huge source of water for toilet flushing. A fringe benefit from using secondhand water: it always has a little soap or detergent in it. Your toilet becomes almost self-cleaning! Scooping and carrying a few gallons of water every day is also a boon for upper body strength. After a few weeks, you’ll look for any excuse to roll up your sleeves and show off your water-toting muscles. Just ignore that stray spinach leaf or occasional noodle in your toilet from dish rinsing; it’s nowhere near as disgusting as using earth’s pristine drinking water for flushing our body’s waste away. —Francette Cerulli stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
FRANCETTE CERULLI
t was all that panicked handwashing at the start of the pandemic that really got me thinking about water use. And the more I thought about it, the more obscene it seemed that we routinely use gallons and gallons of clean drinking water to flush away our pee and poop. I quote no experts or studies here. It’s just common sense, and common courtesy to our Mother, Earth. If you don’t have the money to outfit your home with a pricey system that recycles your gray water, you can use a few bucks to buy a couple of plastic (or
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RETHINK RUNOFF
s the growing season approaches, and the possibility of yet another dry summer looms, spring is a good time to consider using a rain barrel to capture rooftop runoff and store it for use watering landscape plants and gardens. The Rethink Runoff program, managed by the Chittenden County Regional Planning Commission, promotes the use of rain barrels as one method of both conserving water and reducing stormwater runoff. (They can also help you save money if you’re on municipal water or keep from running your well dry.) Commercially available rain barrels are available that incorporate mesh screens to prevent mosquitos from taking up residence in the water, although regular monitoring and cleaning of the barrel may still be necessary. Store-bought rain barrels will also include a pre-installed spigot for draining/using the stored water. Or you can build your own rain barrel relatively easily with parts available at any hardware store. Rethink Runoff offers periodic rain barrel workshops and includes a printable PDF with instructions on how to build a rain barrel on its website: rethinkrunoff.org/what-you-cando/install-a-rain-barrel.
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Rainwater Recycling
Build Your Own Handwash Station
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Potty Training for Grownups metal) basins and a two- or three-gallon bucket. The basins fit into your kitchen and bathroom sinks; the bucket sits beside your toilet. Even the water we use to rinse food off plates before putting them into the dishwasher fills that kitchen basin pretty fast. Add the rinse water from pots and pans, and before you know it, it’s almost overflowing, ready to pour into the bucket. That basin in the bathroom fills up quickly, too, as you let precious water pour out of the spigot until it’s hot enough to use to wash your face. v e r mon t al m anac | vol u m e 111
hris Callahan has been an agricultural engineer with UVM Extension for 10 years, and his work has three main focuses: sustainability, with a particular emphasis on efficient energy use; post-harvest handling, with a focus on helping farms comply with the Food Safety Modernization Act; and protective culture, otherwise known as growing commercial crops indoors. A simpler way to put all that is that he helps farmers solve problems. How do you build a hand wash station for a place that has no running water, like a sugarhouse? How do you convert a dairy barn into a cold storage for vegetables? How do you make a mobile hop harvester that’s small enough to serve a two- to five-acre producer? Chris can help. The following images show one such handwash station that he helped design a few years back – “It’s the closest thing we’ve had to something that went viral,” he said. If you’re handy, you can
handwashingstation, which also provides links to places that sell the 5-gallon carboys that hold the water, the bus trays that function as a sink, and the spring-loaded spigot.
probably build your own just by looking at these images. The metal frame in the schematic can easily be made out of 2x4s and plywood. For a detailed materials list, go to go.uvm.edu/
handsfree soap dispenser
springloaded spigot sturdy frame approx. 40” approx. 34” BASIN
cable between spigot and pedal
foot pedal (about 1” of travel)
FRONT VIEW
tote with cap and air vent
CLEAN WATER SUPPLY (typically 5 gal./50 washes)
basin (pit
ched to d
rain)
drain with barb
hose
DIRTY WATER COLLECTION (5 gal.)
SIDE VIEW
If you leave your bath water in the tub, it heats the room a little and is another huge source of water for toilet flushing. A fringe benefit from using secondhand water: it always has a little soap or detergent in it. Your toilet becomes almost self-cleaning! Scooping and carrying a few gallons of water every day is also a boon for upper body strength. After a few weeks, you’ll look for any excuse to roll up your sleeves and show off your water-toting muscles. Just ignore that stray spinach leaf or occasional noodle in your toilet from dish rinsing; it’s nowhere near as disgusting as using earth’s pristine drinking water for flushing our body’s waste away. —Francette Cerulli stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
FRANCETTE CERULLI
t was all that panicked handwashing at the start of the pandemic that really got me thinking about water use. And the more I thought about it, the more obscene it seemed that we routinely use gallons and gallons of clean drinking water to flush away our pee and poop. I quote no experts or studies here. It’s just common sense, and common courtesy to our Mother, Earth. If you don’t have the money to outfit your home with a pricey system that recycles your gray water, you can use a few bucks to buy a couple of plastic (or
146
RETHINK RUNOFF
s the growing season approaches, and the possibility of yet another dry summer looms, spring is a good time to consider using a rain barrel to capture rooftop runoff and store it for use watering landscape plants and gardens. The Rethink Runoff program, managed by the Chittenden County Regional Planning Commission, promotes the use of rain barrels as one method of both conserving water and reducing stormwater runoff. (They can also help you save money if you’re on municipal water or keep from running your well dry.) Commercially available rain barrels are available that incorporate mesh screens to prevent mosquitos from taking up residence in the water, although regular monitoring and cleaning of the barrel may still be necessary. Store-bought rain barrels will also include a pre-installed spigot for draining/using the stored water. Or you can build your own rain barrel relatively easily with parts available at any hardware store. Rethink Runoff offers periodic rain barrel workshops and includes a printable PDF with instructions on how to build a rain barrel on its website: rethinkrunoff.org/what-you-cando/install-a-rain-barrel.
I
C
Rainwater Recycling
Build Your Own Handwash Station
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Cave-Aged Cheese
sk someone to imagine the cheese-making process, and they’ll likely picture milking cows or cutting curds in stainless tubs. Sometimes, though, there’s another vital step – one that takes place out of view. It’s called aging the cheese, and in Vermont there’s no better (or bigger) example of this than at Jasper Hill Farm in Greensboro. Jasper Hill was started by brothers Andy and Mateo Kehler, who purchased a dairy farm in the late 1990s. Because milk prices were low at the time, they wanted to make a value-added product, so they started up a farmhouse cheese operation. “The most valuable thing that you can make out of milk is not only cheese, but specifically cave-aged cheese: artisan, European-style, natural rind cheeses,” explains Zoe Brickley, an experienced cheese educator and director of communications at Jasper Hill Farm. To create a high-quality aged cheese, you need a temperature- and humidity-controlled space in order to cultivate a living natural rind, which is a community of microflora. The Kehler brothers’ first cheese cellar was humble: a small space in the basement of their farmhouse. In truth, that sort of space was not far from the origins of cheese aging. “Before refrigeration, people would make cheese and store it in root cellars or natural caves – basically a
cool, humid environment. Over time they had figured out through trial and error that this was the best way to create controlled spoilage,” says Brickley. “Through salting and careful control of dehydration and acidification, you can really narrow which microbes are able to grow on the surface of that cheese. This allows you to set up the circumstances for a very specific set of flora to grow. The rind helps protect the cheese from drying out too quickly, and produces very interesting and complex textures and flavors.” She compares the cheese-aging process to more familiar stories of fermentation: if you let honey water sit around, it turns into mead; if you salt your vegetables, they’ll pickle themselves. “If you do this treatment to cheese, it preserves itself in a delicious way,” she notes.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF JASPER HILL FARM
The Cellars at Jasper Hill Farm in Greensboro. Opposite page: As they approach maturity, cheeses are tasted using a trier tool (top); Jasper Hill Farm co-founders Andy and Mateo Kehler (bottom).
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a p r i l
A
Cave-Aged Cheese
sk someone to imagine the cheese-making process, and they’ll likely picture milking cows or cutting curds in stainless tubs. Sometimes, though, there’s another vital step – one that takes place out of view. It’s called aging the cheese, and in Vermont there’s no better (or bigger) example of this than at Jasper Hill Farm in Greensboro. Jasper Hill was started by brothers Andy and Mateo Kehler, who purchased a dairy farm in the late 1990s. Because milk prices were low at the time, they wanted to make a value-added product, so they started up a farmhouse cheese operation. “The most valuable thing that you can make out of milk is not only cheese, but specifically cave-aged cheese: artisan, European-style, natural rind cheeses,” explains Zoe Brickley, an experienced cheese educator and director of communications at Jasper Hill Farm. To create a high-quality aged cheese, you need a temperature- and humidity-controlled space in order to cultivate a living natural rind, which is a community of microflora. The Kehler brothers’ first cheese cellar was humble: a small space in the basement of their farmhouse. In truth, that sort of space was not far from the origins of cheese aging. “Before refrigeration, people would make cheese and store it in root cellars or natural caves – basically a
cool, humid environment. Over time they had figured out through trial and error that this was the best way to create controlled spoilage,” says Brickley. “Through salting and careful control of dehydration and acidification, you can really narrow which microbes are able to grow on the surface of that cheese. This allows you to set up the circumstances for a very specific set of flora to grow. The rind helps protect the cheese from drying out too quickly, and produces very interesting and complex textures and flavors.” She compares the cheese-aging process to more familiar stories of fermentation: if you let honey water sit around, it turns into mead; if you salt your vegetables, they’ll pickle themselves. “If you do this treatment to cheese, it preserves itself in a delicious way,” she notes.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF JASPER HILL FARM
The Cellars at Jasper Hill Farm in Greensboro. Opposite page: As they approach maturity, cheeses are tasted using a trier tool (top); Jasper Hill Farm co-founders Andy and Mateo Kehler (bottom).
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W
hen Mumina Abdulle stands in her corn patch next to the Winooski River in Burlington, she’s part of a continuum that has seen crops cultivated here for a thousand years. In fact, she’s not far at all from where Ethan Allen once lived and farmed. But she has traveled far to be here. Mumina is a refugee from Somalia who moved to Vermont in 2004, and the corn she grows is an East African variety that can
Planting Roots be eaten fresh or dried to make corn meal. Mumina gardens here because of a program called New Farms for New Americans, designed not only to introduce refugees to North American crops but, more importantly, to help them raise the crops that they know from their home countries. In 2022, 100 households representing about 500 individuals raised food in the NFNA gardens, according to program manager
Alisha Laramee. These new American farmers come from places like Bhutan, Somalia, Burma, Tanzania, the Congo, and Burundi through area refugee resettlement programs. Most now live in Burlington and Winooski, and although many share familiarity with plants like tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, and onions, they have their own favorites from their home cultures: crops like bitter melons, millet, gboma eggplant, Sikkim
PHOTOS BY JOHN LAZENBY
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a u g u s t
W
hen Mumina Abdulle stands in her corn patch next to the Winooski River in Burlington, she’s part of a continuum that has seen crops cultivated here for a thousand years. In fact, she’s not far at all from where Ethan Allen once lived and farmed. But she has traveled far to be here. Mumina is a refugee from Somalia who moved to Vermont in 2004, and the corn she grows is an East African variety that can
Planting Roots be eaten fresh or dried to make corn meal. Mumina gardens here because of a program called New Farms for New Americans, designed not only to introduce refugees to North American crops but, more importantly, to help them raise the crops that they know from their home countries. In 2022, 100 households representing about 500 individuals raised food in the NFNA gardens, according to program manager
Alisha Laramee. These new American farmers come from places like Bhutan, Somalia, Burma, Tanzania, the Congo, and Burundi through area refugee resettlement programs. Most now live in Burlington and Winooski, and although many share familiarity with plants like tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, and onions, they have their own favorites from their home cultures: crops like bitter melons, millet, gboma eggplant, Sikkim
PHOTOS BY JOHN LAZENBY
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