The sound of a barn falling
May 24, 2016
It took ten to fifteen seconds and ended in a cloud of dust, and it was a sound unlike anything we had heard before, a tearing, scratching, snapping mess of sound, and it went on and on.
And then the old Young barn, a landmark on Young’s Hill, was a twisted wreckage of tin roofing, timbers, and sheeting. One of the nesting turkey vultures circled the heap in dismay.
There are a few thousand feet of hardwood lumber in there, a good Herreschoff pram I’d like to rescue, and a generation’s discarded tools, winter tires and furniture.
BBC on Roadkill Cuisine
May 20, 2016
I have never managed to shoot a deer. They don’t exactly volunteer, it turns out. Before I retired time wasn’t available during the short hunting season: for some reason school administrators have a big conference that week, and I usually had to run the school in the principal’s absence. After I had retired, I couldn’t be bothered wasting a week sitting still on a deer run when there were far more interesting things to do.
A few friends have stepped up over the years to fill my license for me, though, and there were occasional deer which had been whacked by a passing vehicle. Of the two sources of venison, I’d have to rate the found carcasses generally higher in palpability than those shot with rifles.
I’ll provide a single example and then leave the subject. One evening in early December I was driving down Hwy 15 when I came upon a large yellow truck stopped on the shoulder, with drivers shuffling around at the front of the truck in some confusion. I stopped. A dead doe lay in front of the truck without a mark on her.
The drivers needed to move on, had a long run and nowhere to put the doe. I offered some steaks if they helped load it into the back of my SUV. I drove directly to a guy I knew who had processed venison all through hunting season. He skinned and cut it up for me for $100.
I reported the pickup to the OPP and the clerk concluded with: “Enjoy your deer.”
Clifford told me that the only mark he could find on the large doe was a small hole in one ventrical of her heart, no doubt from the hydraulic shock of impact with a large, flat object, the front of a Hertz truck. The meat was outstanding in flavour and texture.
I won’t tell the far messier story about a rifle-killed specimen which did not taste very good.
O.K., one more story. While commuting from Carleton Place to Smiths Falls I occasionally encountered road-killed ruffed grouse. Just about everybody picks them up. They’re hard to hunt, easy to clean, and flat-out delicious. One afternoon I was in a line of traffic when the Honda Accord three cars ahead of me took out a low-flying male with the tip of its antenna.
Three of us immediately braked for a U-turn. My SUV had rear-wheel drive, so I could power around more quickly than the Golf and the minivan. The grouse had landed on the centre line so I leaned out the door and picked it up. The other two drivers saluted and resumed their trips home. The thrill of the hunt.
Here’s a clever BBC article on why roadkill’s not just for the starving any more.
http://www.bbc.com/autos/story/20160519-why-you-should-be-eating-roadkill
Hockey Night in the House of Commons
May 19, 2016
All Hell broke loose in Canada’s House of Commons yesterday afternoon when Prime Minister Justin Trudeau left his seat to assist MP Gord Brown, the Conservative Whip, to his seat so that an important vote could proceed.
The subsequent events are well documented on Parliamentary TV, though opinions vary as to the gravity of the Prime Minister’s faux pas. After due reflection, and in the context of the annual Stanley Cup Playoff television marathon, I would like to offer my view.
Now let me get this straight. NDP members chose to barricade a portion of the floor of the House of Commons so that the Conservative Whip could not make it through to resume his seat, thereby delaying a duly-scheduled vote. Whip Brown apparently chose to go along with this coercive act without protest, although this organized and premeditated action clearly infringed upon his parliamentary privilege.
MP Brosseau willingly joined this scrum, offering her physical stature to help form the impromptu barrier.
Prime Minister Trudeau saw the scrum for what it was, and his teacher training cut in. Over my 33 years in secondary schools I have broken up many situations like this, plunging through the crowd, nabbing the perpetrator (or in some cases the victim of a beating) and drawing the individual none-too-gently from the scrum.
Foremost in Trudeau’s mind would have been that Gord Brown had the right to move to his seat, and these individuals were taking that right away from him. Gord in this case would be no different than a grade nine girl on her way to the washroom, blocked by a gang of grade 12 boys in the smoking area.
Trudeau would have been furious with the ringleader/bully in this case, Tom Mulcair, who in his mind was clearly out of line. This outrage piled on top of the humiliation last week of a near-defeat in a vote because of Mulcair’s mischief.
So far everyone played his role in a classic schoolyard confrontation. But then Trudeau’s elbow struck MP Brosseau, and the NDP yeoman, the physical shield, suddenly went all girly, complained to Mulcair, and fled the House. This move by Brosseau was definitely not part of the classic confrontation model. Girls in brawls are if anything tougher than the guys.
CBC hockey analyst Don Cherry is going to love dissecting this play. Up until now he’ll agree with the many media analysts as to the statement of events, but here he’s going to turn on ex-hockey player Gord Brown for a gutless play in his unwillingness to go into the corners. Then he’ll defend Trudeau against Brosseau’s dive. He’ll show on video how the NDP stalwart had silently moved into position to get hit, and then went into a rehearsed dive, communicating with her captain, then rushing for the dressing room, missing a shift, but returning to the bench in time for the TV interview.
So Cherry will conclude: “Does Trudeau deserve a suspension for that elbow? No, the two minute minor was more than enough. But lemme tell you, from now on the refs will be watching Mulcair, and I’m disappointed by Brosseau. She’s been a promising call-up, but I don’t know about this. And Gord Brown, my buddy? I don’t know what got into his head.”
Here’s a video analysis of the incident:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sn9Up-tjmoM
The Beaverton has a great take on this, but I think their site has gone down because of the traffic. Try shortening the link until it works:
I predicted CBC’s Don Cherry would do an analysis of this film. Turned out it was retired NHL referee Kerry Fraser for MacLean’s Magazine. It’s pretty good, worth enduring the commercials:
Freddy the Coyote
May 13, 2016
Before his encounter with the roto-tiller this morning I’d only seen Freddy once, and that was two years ago this summer when he came out to watch my tractor mow around the seedlings in a stand of pine and walnut next to the woodlot. Accompanied by a much smaller coyote with an identical brown coat, Freddy spent an hour hunting mice in the lee of the tractor, deftly stepping out of cover to nab food disturbed by the bush hog.
At the time I was glad to see the pair. We’d been more than a year without a resident coyote following the disappearance of Emily, the old alpha who had set the rules around the farm for six years. Emily had become very tame as she studied our habits, and so she and her offspring often visited the orchard and garden, producing a few startled visitors and the odd photo-op.
Not so with Freddy. Apparently he had checked me out and found me wanting, because I just never saw him again. The tracks were there: huge paws accompanied by the delicate footprints of his mate. Our spaniel took great delight in their scat, so we were reminded they were around on every walk.
This morning the landscape waited nervously for the promised rain. Since 4:00 it had tried and failed to let loose. I paced the back deck, revelling in the sudden warmth but a bit nervous about Friday 13th and the coming rain.
Freddy appeared suddenly. He needs a good brushing to get that long winter hair (faded almost blonde) off his hips and shoulders.
While Emily used to enter the orchard with a confident swagger, Freddy skulks. The tall, rangy coyote floats lightly over the grass. This morning he spent much of his time looking over his shoulder, which made it harder than ever to tell where he’s going. I had a momentary surge of adrenaline when he took several steps directly toward the stairs to the deck, but he suddenly veered off toward the garden.
The scent of the freshly tilled soil obviously intrigued Freddy, but then he caught sight of the rototiller and jumped back. He stared, thought it over, and retraced his tracks out of the garden, disappeared behind a row of wild grapevines, and re-appeared one field over to complete his transit to the mouse-rich patch of seedlings on the knoll beyond the barn.
So that’s Freddy, a no-nonsense coyote mousing to feed his family.
A trailer repair mystery
May 1, 2016
Notice the new wheels on the old lumber trailer? I added two which I bought in 1980 or so and then forgot in the haymow. The mission to recover them from the now-derelict building was a bit more fraught than I would have expected. The floor of the upper level has separated from the rock foundation by almost two feet and settled, so I had to squeeze in through a pair of doors trapped by a foot of stone and find my footing on an unsupported floor inside.
As I gathered my wits after that endeavour, one of the resident turkey vultures decided not to sit through my intrusion and leaped into the air from the bare floor of the hay mow to my right. She looked HUGE in a confined area as the startled bird struggled up above the main beams, then glided down and out through the open door at the far end.
Now I have a pair of turkey vultures with a grudge hovering even lower over me than usual whenever I go outside.
Earlier in the day a mystery egg turned up on the grass below the barn. It had obviously been transported there, but only partially eaten. The egg was larger than a chicken’s Grade A, and seemed a bit “squarer” than the ovoid domestic product.
Logic indicates the egg was likely purloined from the nest of the neighbourhood wild turkey, though the lack of spots suggests a duck, but I’m pretty sure if a mallard were nesting in the barn I would have seen her flying in and out. But maybe that vulture was feeding, rather than tending a clutch of eggs in the abandoned building.
Deadhead at 12:00!
April 19, 2016
The first cruise of the year is always an interesting trip, even if the weather is fine and the fish aren’t yet interested. The highlight of yesterday’s expedition on Opinicon Lake (at Chaffey’s Locks, Ontario) was the huge deadhead below. Because it was unmoving in the wind and waves, I suspect that it is rooted in the silt 26′ below.
I posted the photo on Facebook (Opinicon Lake and Chaffey’s Locks Rocks) and a comment provides a rather precise location for the log. It’s a long way from the channel between Davis and Chaffey’s.
This picture is taken more in the middle of Opinicon Lake in front of Weatherhead’s cottage looking across the Lake at Bachenburg’s, Langlois’s and Burbank’s and Randall’s.
Dave Warren’s comment on Facebook leads me to believe that the thing may well be a local landmark. I hadn’t ventured up to Deadlock Bay for a couple of years, and things change on a lake over time.
The Black Walnut takeover
April 11, 2016
Yesterday afternoon I noticed that a black cherry seedling transplanted to the front yard last year had not wintered well, so I casually looked around for a finger-sized hard maple to replace it. Maples of this age seem to hide in places where they are hard to dig out, but I persisted in a casual search until a hen turkey meandered past me through the pine-walnut stand as I sat quietly in the cab of the UTV. The large bird worked her way west and was on the verge of entering the woodlot when she suddenly spotted food at the edge of the mowed area and frantically pecked her way around for a couple of minutes before continuing on.
With renewed resolve I searched two fence rows between the house and the woodlot. Every transplantable tree smaller than my thumb was a black walnut. In 2006 when we began the walnut project there were no volunteers in these areas.
Young black walnuts are now even growing in what I would have considered inhospitable terrain a half-mile north of the seed trees, across a stretch of open field. Gray squirrels are amazing seed propagators, and the local climate has changed enough that black walnuts can now grow in exposed areas of the drumlin where they had no chance of survival before.
A car lift is a mixed blessing.
March 29, 2016
When our son Charlie planned a shop for his hobby, he insisted upon a 12′ ceiling to provide clearance for a car lift. He had worked on his Porsche for a couple of years on a gravel floor in a crowded plastic hut, freezing in winter and utterly baking in summer until I took pity on him and cut the end out of the edifice with an exacto knife.
We mutually agreed that he needed a separate shop for automotive pursuits. He insisted that no sawdust make its way into his clean area. My preference was for a space not filled with used brake rotors for my woodworking.
In any case, Charlie, Martin, and other volunteers popped the garage up in a surprisingly short period of time. Charlie learned drywall and taping, then he and Roz painted the interior to a high standard of quality.
The centrepiece of the shop was the asymmetric-arm, two-post auto lift. Charlie located a beauty weighing a bit over a ton. My trailer easily hauled it down the 401 and home, thereby saving $500 in shipping.
Les Parrott lent us a heavy drill, I bought a 3/4″ bit for it, and Charlie drilled the holes for the many 6″ lag bolts which anchor the massive posts. Then we attached the beam across the top, and Peter Myers came over to assemble the hydraulics.
If you don’t mind that the left post is almost an inch lower than the right, things went together very well. A narrow vehicle looks a little tilted to me when up at the top, but everyone has either had the decency not to mention it, or else hasn’t noticed the flaw. Everything else is admirably straight, plumb, and torqued.
There’s a manual to tell the operator where to place the arms and pads to lift each model of car and truck. Safety instructions call for one to make a vigorous attempt to shake the vehicle on the hoist before raising it above knee height.
It works well for cars, not badly for UTVs, and not at all for garden tractors, but that is covered in another story in this series entitled Why It’s a Bad Idea To Raise Your Kubota On a Car Lift.
To get on with the current tale, I need to recount that our 2005 Lexus has had an exemplary career mechanically, but this week it broke down. The power steering mechanism began to make a lot of noise. A check revealed that it was low on fluid. Up onto the hoist it went. Into the bowels of the beast I crawled with alacrity, armed only with a penlight battery on a long, flexible probe with an LED at the other end.
After a few minutes of searching I located the power steering pump. Its belt was snug and looked new, but the reservoir was almost empty. With a turkey baster I topped it up with ATF. On Internet discussion boards Dexxon Automatic Transmission Fluid is the unanimous choice for Toyota/Lexus power steering repairs. Then I went looking for leaks.
To make a tedious story shorter, I concluded that I needed a 42″ hose to carry high-pressure oil from the pump to the steering rack. RockAuto.com had it for $94. The Lexus dealer wanted $900 for the Lexus model, but suggested an after-market equivalent for $480.
I promise: the Lexus dealer comes out o.k. on this. Keep reading.
Grudgingly I agreed to the expensive hose and Brian Madeley ordered it for this morning. Derek prepared the car while Brian picked up the part from the nearby dealership. Derek didn’t think the wet spot I identified as the source of the leak was bad enough, so he kept looking, only to find a split metal tube on a low-pressure return line which he promptly repaired with a length of hose and a pair of clamps. Total bill: $250.
While it looks wonderful in the shop, the hoist is not the whole deal in auto repair. It takes experience to know when a blemish on a line is cosmetic and when it’s a broken part which needs to be replaced. Had I tried to do this job myself I would have ordered parts from RockAuto.com, an admittedly excellent parts source, but they would have had to make it across the border and couldn’t be returned if they turned out to be the wrong ones, or not needed. The car would have been out of service for at least a week.
For an evening I ranted freely at Lexus and Toyota for the outrageous price on their hose, but is it wrong to put a very high value on a part if it lasts the life of the vehicle and nobody ever needs to replace it?
What’s more, with the use of the hoist in this case I was able to make a prompt diagnosis of the problem and prevent further damage. My wife suggested having Brian do the repair regardless of the potential cost in order to get her car back into service quickly. In this case while its benefit proved far from clear-cut, the hoist offered more advantage than liability, a balance I’ll ponder while switching out the winter tires and admiring this tall, red icon of the do-it-yourself culture.
Canada Tea
March 10, 2016
10 March, 2016
It’s a ritual during sugar season. Tea never tastes as good as it does when the bag is doused with boiling sap obtained by turning the spigot on the main pan. Visitors who discovered this unique taste experience dubbed it “Canada Tea.”
For more details about sugar season at the Croskery Woodlot, see the page to your right entitled “A Few Notes From the Sugar Bush ’16.”
BTW: This is an entirely recreational activity. We do not sell syrup, though my neighbour George Sheffield on the Thousand Acres Road does. You can find his number in the Portland directory.
The Seventh Annual Newboro Lake Ice-out Contest
March 6, 2016
In closing I’d like to offer a special thanks to Geordie Kitching for his advice and encouragement in the administration of this contest.
1 April, 2016 7th Annual Newboro Lake Ice-out Contest winner responds:
Hello Rod,
It is with great humility that I accept the bragging rights mantle for this year. During my tenure I will endeavor to keep my swaggering to a minimum, my sage advice to myself and the air clear of smug self–satisfaction. Please note however, the auspicious date on which I accept this great honor.
Now, with that out of the way: thanks Rod for organizing, updating and officiating the Ice Report and Ice-In / Ice-out contests. I really enjoy following the posts throughout the winter. I’m looking forward to exercising my “rights” this summer!
Best regards,
Jim Waterbury
31 March, 2016 5:50 p.m.
5:44 p.m. Jim Waterbury of Lewis Island selected March 31st as his entry in the contest, and subject to overwhelming evidence that an ice floe has continued on Newboro Lake past sundown today, I hereby declare him this year’s winner.
Congratulations, Jim.
2016 Ice-Out Contest entries will be accepted up until 11:59, Saturday, March 12.
Has it been eight years since the first Walnut Diary posts about putting in Tony’s dock?
The first attempt at guessing the ice-out date followed in the 2009 to 2010 season.
Okay, enough maudlin stuff. Let’s get to the action. What you want to know here is where you need to post your comment in order to register for your favourite date.
Click the COMMENT button at the bottom of this post and key in your details. Entries will come to me in the order they enter the email cue, so if there’s duplication, the earlier missive will prevail. If the date immediately following the duplicate entry is still available, I’ll assign it to #2, and so on, if space permits. I reserve the right to ask you by email to select another date if no obvious solution to an overlap presents itself.
Of course this means that you must familiarize yourself with your opponents’ entries at the bottom of this page before you cast your own into the fire, so in your comment I’d like to see a usable name of at least two words, a geographical reference, and of course your chosen date for ice-out. I will edit comments which look as though they have been keyed in bright sunlight.
Unless someone has a better idea, I see no reason to depart from the basic criterion for ice-out of no patch of floating ice of an area greater than 100 square feet on Newboro Lake, Ontario.
It’s good to be back. Let the contest begin.
the Walnut Diary 