A work party starts tomorrow at the farm, but I needed to escape from my recent routine of sorting, packing, sorting and fixing as we prepare to sell our house and move a couple thousand miles.
I don't know that escaping to a place is any better than escaping from a place. For my time here at Smoke Farm, the farm has never been a place to escape to. Rather, it has always been a place to explore. I come here to find something new, I keep coming because I keep finding new things, sometimes about the land, often about myself. As long as that happens in any facet of my life, I find purpose and satisfaction.
The potters are here today preparing to fire their wood burning kiln. It will run for 50 hours, tended constantly by a few of them. They will sleep in shifts.
I set my tent up at the top of the tree house. It always seemed like a good spot to spend the night, 30 feet or so up among the trees. I would sleep in the open, but the clouds and unusual high humidity signal rain.
With my tent up, I change into the worn wool trousers that work so well when walking in the wet grass. They dry fairly fast and they also are thick enough to fend off most thorns. I head out to my installation to continue tying little white rocks to long strings. My supply of cobbles is safely hidden beneath the high water of the Stillaguamish, so I can walk up river when I am done with my supply of little white rocks.