You only have one chance

You only have one chance to experience a place as wilderness.  Returning to that spot, it will never be the same, it will always be a reunion. 

The first time I came to the farm, S. asked me if I wanted to look around and I responded, "no, this will do just fine."  I walked much of the land before looking at any maps....my way of not peeking under the gift wrapping, but instead preserving the discovery for a time when I would be standing amongst it.  As time goes on, I create my own stories for what I find, the squatter's cabin being the best example.  I think out loud and share my theories on who might have built it.  This is where I differ from the scientists that I've worked with.  They do not have that luxury, their facts and conclusions are up for peer review.  While my creations are up for peer review as well, they need not be facts. A friend of mine coined what I do as "personal geography" - as good a description as any.  I map what interests me, I collect what I find - but I find what interests me, and I am particularly good at filtering out disturbances that do not count, in my mind.  I can create my own wilderness even in places that are no longer wild.

S. is at the farm today and sheds a bit more light on the squatter's cabin.  But, he is clearly careful not to ruin any surprises for me.  The cabin was attached to a mining claim, but both of us acknowledge that that does not mean any mining took place.  It does not, in my mind, look like something a prospector would build.  But, if there was a claim, there might be a record, and a record would have a name.

I head out to collect another piece of wood.  This one takes on mystical qualities.  It was almost unmovable two days ago.  Today, I can lift one end with just fair effort.  Then, as I trundle it towards the road, I need to adjust it, and once again, I cannot so help me lift it.  I sit back and wonder how to get out of the fix.  With no brain solution, I go back and pick the end up without much trouble.  When the time comes, it drags me on my ass, quite unapologetically, to the bottom of the hill.

I return to retrieve my pack and tools and finding sun penetrating the forest, I take time to sit up against a cedar for awhile, glad to have brought a thermos of coffee out.  I am tempted to sit here until the sun goes away.  But, curiosity takes me to the last piece of wood, one that I only noticed two days ago as it is partially buried.  I load it up.  When the time comes, it drags me fully out of control to the bottom of the hill.

Out of gas, I rest in the sun, and then go and walk the creek, this day taking the far side.  There is a lot of beaver and deer sign.  They like the same trees - the beaver cut down a cottonwood, the cottonwood sprouts a hundred shoots, the deer come and eat the shoots.  It looks like the beaver are coming to the creek overland from the river as most of beaver sign is on the river side of the creek (the creek parallels the river through much of the farm).

Raining in the cottonwoods

It is raining in the cottonwoods under what is soon to become a sunny sky.  The night frost is melting from the branches.

I head in to get a second large piece of rotting wood for a sculpture project.  I hope to return it sometime when I no longer need it.  I don't like the idea of taking from the forest.  It is a loan.  I hope the forest will understand.  I ponder about how often I think, "my dad used to say..." when I am in the forest.  As I hang onto the ropes that I use to guide the 300+ lb piece of wood down a steep slope, I fetch his memory of hanging onto the plow horses when they got turned toward the barn (my great-grandfather was rather late in buying a tractor).

My heavy work done, I don't have the gas to haul another piece, so it must be time to wander.  I head to the lower beach.  The creek is down a foot, and so it stands to reason that the river should be somewhat lower.  On my last trip I was unable to see the beautiful colored rock installation from the Lo-Fi Arts Festival and I want to check to see if it might have been under water.  At the beach, I scare up two killdeer and three ducks, clumsiness on my part.  A hawk stays perched on the far side of the river and watches me.  The sun did not arrive today like I said it would.  It remains everywhere a steel grey day, a November day that is so very common in the northern tier.  The installation is completely gone.  The water is low enough that it should be fully exposed, but it is nowhere to be seen.  I can't even find a hint of the colored stripe pattern.  High water from rain has already reached the edge of the forest once, and it is clear that the Stillaguamish carries a tremendous amount of gravel when it runs high.  Fresh gravel covers the silt patches where I checked for animal tracks.

up the creek

Just as I am about to leave, a guy from the Stillagamish tribe arrives to check for coho salmon.  I ask to join him.  We walk up the creek, both of us noticing how much it has changed at where it exits the hills.  Where there was a small pond, there is now a foot high ridge of gravely sand.  The restoration seems to be taking this year.  Kevin finds two coho as we ascend the creek.  We find G. with his back turned, head in his camera, and we stop for a moment or two trying to figure out how to not surprise him too much as he won't hear us coming with all of the tumbling water.  We go until it is unlikely that the salmon could pass any farther.  Then, we return and follow the creek most of the way to the river, checking under woody debris and in pools for more fish.  I point out snipe when we flush them (3 total).  Kevin only sees one because he is looking for fish - the two cohos that he pointed out to me I would never have seen. Gravel is returning to the bottom of what was a ditch this summer.  Beaver are working a new dam, higher up than the one I'd found earlier.  These are all good things for the salmon.

It's older than I thought

Friday - November 2
The leaves are off of the cottonwoods - spindly bushy trees at this time.  It is surprising how much the view increases and how short the distances actually are, the openness inviting shortcuts.  Cloudy skies in town slowed my start, tamping down my early morning routine, extending my coffee and breakfast.  I saw six swans on wing and two eagles as I approached the farm where it is sunny and calm.  Dressed as I am for the forest, dressed in common sense and respect, it is shirtsleeve weather as I head for my first appointment at the squatter's cabin.


A shadow passes through my eye...a large bird, a not infrequent occurrence, and I look up to spot a mature eagle flying down river to perch in a nearby tree.  It is a completely normal and usual happening when I get to this point on the road.


When I reach the fork where I turn uphill, bird calls delay the turn.  I drop my field pack and continue toward the north field in hope of seeing what is calling.  I spot two young eagles on a high branch in the tall alder that is a landmark on my maps.  The tree overlooks the fields and a bend in the river.  A third eagle comes in and lands lower down.  Then a fourth joins the first two.  Then a fifth larger and more mature eagle, possibly concerned with my presence, flies past heading upriver.  The landmark tree now has a name.  I return to the fork in the road and two more eagles are calling unseen from up the hill in the direction that I must go.

Vanguard Satellite Fired - Successful Coup in Burma

I work on my list of missing data for the cabin - roof details, interior elevations - shelves, nails etc., and the locations of some debris.  When I think that I have gotten most of the stuff, I carefully begin to look under things for clues about the builder.  There is a wad of newspaper stuffed in a knothole on the "boulder" wall (one side of the cabin faces a cabin-sized boulder).  I carefully ease it out and take it out in the light where I can gently unfold it.  It is from the Seattle Daily Times for September 26, 1958.  The year lines up the date penciled on the wall, 6/14/1958.  This also explains the lack of plywood in the construction (there is one small strip of plywood near the door where a repair would have been likely) and the high quality fir studs and 1x10 shiplap that seemed a bit out of place for a 1970 build date.  It also dovetails with the razor blade box that I found, which would've been hard to find in a drugstore by 1970.


If the cabin is an artist shack, it is not a Fishtown derivative, but instead, a generation earlier.  There was a well-known art movement working in the Stilliguamish, Sauk and Skagit valleys at that time as well as several famous writers that were going into the Cascade forests to write in seclusion.  I would expect the builder would be at least 70 years-old.


This is about all the discovery I can stand for a day.  So, I pack up and head down to the cedar forest where I take a series of portraits with the forest women.

Mother and son

Before ending the day, I walk the lower farm.  Of note, the colored rock installation is no where to be seen on the lower beach.  Unfortunately, I did not get around to plotting its location.  It is either just under the high water or the river has washed enough fresh gravel (the river has been higher than it is today) onto it to make it disappear.

Witness

I am glad for my rubber boots today.  The lower parts of the farm are becoming wetter and holding more water from each of the fall rains.  The creek is just a few inches under the log bridge, which means it is nearing 4 feet deep.  There is a bit of hail and snow mixed in with the grass and as I arrived the cleared hillsides well below a 1000 ft high were white.  But, the sun is coming through as the clouds part.  As I walk the hallway of golden cottonwoods, I cannot help but think of how fortunate I am to be here.

I spot a mature bald eagle down on a gravel bar just as I reach the river, and this time I have spotted that eagle before it sees me.  It is not so much that I have sharp eyes as much that I have a good memory and that large dark shape was not on that gravel bar last time I was here.  I drop some of my gear, crouch and sneak closer, taking a photos when there are views.  Eventually, I am discovered and the bird flies to the far side of the river.

As I continue up the road, the eagle spots me first.  This time it sits high in a snag topped alder on my side of the river.  It leaves.

I head straight up to the squatters cabin to continue measuring details.  I am also planning to lay out a string grid inside the cabin to help map the artifacts that remain.  If I am lucky, I will finally find the witness post again.

interior with string grid in place

...a couple hours later...
I have my numbers and photos, so I pack up and drop back down to the grove.  Here, I leave my gear and begin searching for the witness post that stands near the corner of the state property.  I flush two deer as I walk, the first two deer that I have seen while on foot.  I catch partial glimpses of them as they move towards the cabin.  I find pink flagging that runs true north-south and note that the ground feels and looks as if a road or a tractor trail has been here before.  I also have a hunch that someone altered the drainage on this hillside at some point.  I wander south looking for the witness post, but don't find anything other than some nice large cedar stumps.  I end up back at the grove (I'm starting to recognize individual trees having been here a few times) and try once more, this time not thinking about it too much, because that is kind of how I found the post the first time.  Again, I don't spot the post, until I am heading back towards the grove and catch the orange marker to my left.  I find the monument in the leaves and from there, I walk a line directly east until it intersects with my own trail to the cabin.  The cabin lies just 50 yards from the boundary.

corner monument - a witness post helps you find this

Rain Day

It was a full moon last night on a cloudless sky, a moon so bright that most of the stars that one might expect could not be seen.  I slept in the moon, choosing to not complain about the light, but to take it in.  When I got up in the middle of the night, the forest had become a grey toned scene, black shadows with the greys being the same as tarnished silver.  Only Orion was there, sideways over the ridge on the far side of the valley.  It seemed a shame to go back to sleep.  I heard the first winds come.  I heard the first brief rain fall.

I worked for an hour in the shop building another specimen box.  When T, T and K showed up with their carpentry students, I loaded up and headed to the squatter cabin for a few more measurements.  It began to rain hard as I reached the log bridge.  My field work would not last long today.  I measured shingle locations for each row of shingles-

11,31,40,54,60,79,98,122,132,166,176,190,208,227,236,door,348,358,edge

When my hat, jacket, pants and notebook were drenched, I descended.  I enjoyed the sound of rain in the forest very much.  If only it wasn't so wet.

November 10 - Bird Day

I head straight out to continue work on the squatter's cabin.  The valley is windy with an overcast sky that won't last long.  There are fresh mule deer tracks and the creek is now knee deep and flowing.  At the point where I can see the river, a mature bald eagle passes on its way upstream.  It perches not far off, just long enough for me to get my camera out and not long enough for me to get a photo.  When I get up to the perch point, I find a huge pile of bear scat, which I flag for later collection.

I carefully measure and draw the exterior details of the cabin with hopes of someday connecting the construction to someone.  It is not a prospectors cabin and it is too nice for a hunter's shack or a teenagers party fort.  Note the green stripe that has been applied using asphalt roof shingles.  It does not make up for a shortage of cedar shingles, but instead covers a row of cedar shingles (imbrication is the basketry term)...it is a decorative feature (there is another green stripe at the bottom).  Also, the roof shingles are brown, not green.

The building is 12 x 14 feet, the construction is 2x4, 24 inches on center - everything (walls, floor and rafters) with 1x10 shiplap sheathing, tar paper and then sawn cedar shingles for the siding and asphalt shingles for roofing.  The windows are salvage (they are mounted sideways).  There was a stove at one time.  The cabin rests on 3 split cedar beams that are roughly 6x6 inches.  The beams sit on rocks.  Although not perfect, it was a visually pleasing cabin and built with that intention.  Whoever built it, had a fairly decent knowledge of carpentry...this wasn't their first project.

Right now, my theory is that this was built by a writer/artist in the circa 1970 and possibly by someone connected with the Fishtown artist community (mouth of the Skagit River) that existed then.  There were more than a few artists doing such things then.

Anyway...bird day.  When I get my head out of the bush and out of my notebook and tape measure, I find that it has become an amazing fall day.  As I return to the shop with gear, I flush a snipe from the road.  It is a beautiful bird, but one rarely sees it on the ground and once flying, they don't stay in sight for long.  I turn and watch it land 30 yards behind me.  I head back out to pick up the bear scat and half expect to find the snipe again.  It flushes when I am just 4 feet away and speeds around the corner.  As I get to the river, I here a dunk....dunk, and I turn to see the silhouette of a pileated woodpecker just 10 yards away.  It flies to the far side of the river as I reach for my camera. Returning with my bear scat, I flush the snipe again.  This time I watch as it flies a circle through the golden cottonwoods.  It is reluctant to leave this spot.

where the woodpecker went

Historical Archaeology

I come up for an overnight, but find the farm winterized with the water turned off to prevent frozen pipes, and for the life of me, I cannot trace the plumbing back to the missing valve.  So, it will be a day trip this time.

I head out to the lower beach, the wandering ritual of greeting the farm in order since a short trip to Chicago and the resulting "airplane head cold" have kept me away for too long.  The farm is beginning to be an integrated art project for me...it is becoming a piece of daily life.  Last week when I could not get to the farm, I worked steadily boxing specimens that I had brought home with me.  My "empty" time is spent thinking about how to approach new finds and new ideas that the farm has germinated. 

I find those scrapes again on the road on the way to the river.  Scrapes are outside of my knowledge base and I cannot tell if they are cat or deer or something else.  I need a track with a scrape to get there.  I almost forget to slow up and walk soft as I reach the river...I scare a young eagle off of its perch on the far side of the river.  The salmon run is finished now and there are just a few carcasses left at the water's edge.  In exchanged there are a dozen or so complete backbones laying in the rocks.  There are few tracks today, just some deer and coyote.  Recent rain has wiped the slate clean, but the reduction in free food is also bringing fewer visitors.

I drop a sample pear tree branch (there are 4 pear trees very close to the location of the Dan Baker homestead site) at the barn and head out to look for the squatters cabin.  There is a cool down valley wind with an overcast sky that doesn't look like it will last the day.  The trees are still brilliant in fall colors..that is those that are out of the path of regular winds.

This time, when I go to the cabin, I take compass bearings, pace distances and record additional CMT's (culturally modified trees) and landmark trees (like a 3-1/2 foot diameter maple).  I have very little trouble finding the cabin this time...but, yes, it is very hard to spot from 50 yards away.  In fact, if you weren't looking for it, you would not notice it.   It is built up against a boulder that is nearly the same size as the cabin itself.

note the green asphalt shingle decorative stripes

I photograph and measure the exterior features.  Once inside, I just stand and study everything that I can see without touching.  I expected to find a name somewhere on the wall, but I only find a date, 6/14/1958, which is too old to be the construction date in my opinion.  The Smoke Farm visitors have left the interior unpilfered and I find a few scraps of newspaper on the floor.  I can't find a by-line date, but I am fortunate to have a piece of automobile want ad.  There is nothing newer than 1971 listed, which doesn't confirm, but does line up with my original guess of a mid-70's build date.  It is a successful exploration and the only thing that I don't find is the state land corner monument that I ran into on my last visit.