The Sun-warmed Stories of Summer

Here begins my first proper seasonal update which I think will serve well as an alternative way to share and reflect on the goings-on of the year without the drip-feed use of common social media platforms. This style of blogging feels better to me, slower, more intimate, creative... a way of sharing that calls for a cup of tea while taking ones time reading, rather than just another square set of images scrolled over whilst waiting in line somewhere. 

Now I'll turn back the pages of summer, and pluck a tale or two for sharing here with you. So off we go!

A main theme that has coursed through the days of this summer has been gathering sustenance from the land. Though I've foraged for well over a decade, never have I taken it quite so seriously as this summer. Maybe it's the rising food prices, the rumors of scarcity and supply chain issues, and maybe it's for the sheer joy that comes with engaging in a relationship with the land that supports and holds you. Whatever your reason, I do know that acquainting oneself, intimately, with the seasonal rhythms of a particular landscape feels grounding, nourishing, and essential.

This summer was relatively nice and mild compared with the extreme heat and wildfires that usually characterize inland Northwest summers. We had rains well into July, and in fact on my July 4th birthday, we left an event early because we were chilled from the cool drizzle that fell all day. The land stayed green and lush until almost August, when finally the verdant mountains gave way to the blonde we're used to seeing. 

Corkscrew Mountain in the distance, which holds much significance, if you read on...

So moist it stayed that in June we came across a large puffball mushroom!-- requiring damp shady conditions, that isn't usually what my eyes are peeled for out here.  And what strange and fascinating lifeforms they are... larger than my head, weighing more, I spotted two side by side as we passed through Sinlahekin one afternoon. We took one and left the other, and I ended up turning it into pizza crusts, a process which you can see here.

On that same afternoon, we stumbled upon a lovely Elder all in elegant creamy-white bloom! And I took a few of those blossoms, too. These I made into Elderflower fritters, which you can also see.

They reminded me of elven food- a light lunch maybe shared amongst Rivendell inhabitants beneath an ivory gazebo while discussing the higher-natured nuanced details of life in Middle Earth...

Then, with the summer sun climbing ever higher, the wild rose petals came, and me and the pollinators were all abuzz in nectar-laden jubilee. With a friend and her children, we clambered along a lakeside trail, picking one or two petals from each flower, being careful to leave plenty for the bees and the promise of Autumn rosehips.

I used these dainty petals to add a subtle aroma to my fireweed tea, another big foraging foray this year. Ahead of even linen and fur, "Ivan Chai" was once upon a time Russia's leading export. You get this delectable tea by fermenting the leaves of the Fireweed plant, which grows abundantly here in the fire-ravaged highlands. It's a week-long process: gather, wilt, roll, ferment, dry. Warrior tea, it's also called. Born of fire. 

Fireweed tea has been studied for bladder, kidney, and prostate health amongst other things, and found to be very healthful, so we've been having a hot cup in the evenings and have found it to be especially good with a dash of heavy cream.

And then, as the summer wheel rolled on, the inarguable queen of the foraging season popped out in its sun-warmed purple-tasting glory...

...the huckleberry!

We spent many afternoons hunched over squatted down amongst secret huckleberry patches, with magenta-stained hands, the heat of the sun baking the forest and causing a euphoric aroma-cloud of pine and huckleberry to enshroud us. If summer has a scent here, in my mind, it is this. 

On those hot afternoons, after we had picked our fill of huckleberries, usually we'd go over to our favorite lake to swim. What a rich blessing it is to have access to these high mountain lakes, lakes of deep blue water, shimmering, clean, cold even in summer. I swam with my husband, I swam with friends, I swam alone, into the depths this summer, not lingering around the shore as I usually have, no- this summer, I let my body feel the silky weightlessness of a real swim, of floating looking up into the clouds, and it turned into such a looked-forward-to ritual, something I really grew to hold dear this summer. Looking back, these swims with the mysterious depths beneath me, were symbols of a giving in to the mystery, a kind of surrendering to the unknown, an exchange of fear, even if small, with trust. 

I'll cherish the blissful hours spent swimming this summer for a long time to come, and reach back to let them warm me during the dark cold days ahead.  

One night in June, on the way home over a mountain pass, we drove by what looked like a dead deer on the side of the road, but I happened to hone in on his face as we drove by and saw that his eyes were still... unfortunately alive. So we turned around, went back, and sure enough- the poor thing was still alive. He had just been recently hit. His lower half was mangled from the impact, he was unable to move, and he would've probably been in for a long slow death had we not happened by. Eric ended his misery and I called a salvage permit tag in to the department of fish and wildlife- we weren't going to let him go to waste.

Despite being already tired, we worked on him late into the night, then slept a few hours and got up early the next morning to go back at it. We ended up adding about 50 pounds of venison to the freezer for our efforts, which we deemed very much worth it. I've always heard that animals who die in these difficult ways, with prolonged suffering, release a lot of adrenaline and this makes the meat tough. But we both agree this is some of the most tender venison we've ever had. 

It always breaks my heart to see any creature have to suffer. This is one reason that, so long as I'm a meat-eater, I'd rather hunt wild animals, who get to live free and natural lives, and who hopefully only see one bad second (my bullet), rather than buy meat at a grocery where the animal has had to live life as a product, basically being born with a barcode stamped on it.

This deer wasn't that fortunate. I know accidents happen, so my intention is not to pass judgment, but if you're someone who speeds through the roads where wild things roam, and you get behind someone like me, who is taking it easy, and maybe going slower than you'd hope, know that this is just one reason why. Behind any tall grass, stepping out from any forest edge, or around any curve could be a creature, just trying to get across (our roads do intersect their foraging grounds after all). Traveling slower affords one more time to react to anything unexpected, and not only save the life of a creature just trying to pass through, but could very well save your own. Just something to consider when driving, though I know we all have our own hierarchy of concern, and quota of care, and the world is in such a hurry.

Then one Sunday morning in early September, my friend Dana killed a black bear with her bow and arrow (at just 12 yards!) and made a deal with us: help her process it and she would give us a portion of the meat. A deal was struck and off we went to glean some more experiential knowledge- this time how to skin and process a bear! 

The bear is such a symbol of the wilderness for me, a primal force that I have a lot of respect and admiration for. I'm still thinking on whether or not I want to actively hunt them myself, yet at the same time--as long as I'm a meat eater--I would like to transition to only eating wild meat, animals that have lived out their lives naturally and hopefully only experience one bad moment. The beef, pork, and chicken that fuels modern America is at such an industrialized point that I can't in good conscience consume it anymore. Even those labeled "organic" or "cage free" or "pastured" are usually still existing in conditions I wouldn't be okay with were I there to witness it, and even in the best farms the animal is still a product, its life comes with a barcode, it lives a quick life to die and become a quick meal. This is not the case when you hunt in the wilderness.

In the wild, most animals feed on one another. There is a hierarchy, a natural order, a dharma, that still rules the wild. The more you immerse yourself in that and away from the industrialized pseudo-civilized way that we consume meat these days, the more you see the true harmony of being a hunter. Most animals die in horrible ways, usually at the mouth of a predator where they're eaten on while still alive. A bullet or arrow is swift, the transition much more graceful. Here in these material bodies we do not live on and on, each of us fulfills a role, a symphony, a cycle of life, and since death is certain for all creatures, we can use our human intelligence and moral compass to make it as painless as possible, to eliminate as much suffering as we can, and to be thankful and reverent toward the animal. 

Hunting large animals reduces the suffering even further. One deer and one bear, for example, could carry us through an entire year. If we aren't able to procure those sources, there is more need for grouse, rabbits, turkeys, and so forth, and therefore more taking of life. So, ideally and morally, I should hunt black bear. But, I've digressed...

We were given the heart of this black bear our friend killed, so I cooked it up the next day for everyone as we all worked to process the animal.

No one else had much interest, so we took all of the fat from the animal too- something bears are chock-full of, especially in Fall. We had pounds and pounds of bear fat, which I spent a few days rendering down. This will replace a great deal of our need for butter or any kind of cooking oil over the next year. 

Rendering bear fat in my clay crockpot. Only one of many pot fulls!

"This devouring of Kind by Kind is necessary as the means to the transmutation of living things which could not keep form forever even though no other killed them; what grievance is it that when they must go their dispatch is so planned as to be serviceable to others?" --Plotinus, The Enneads

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Most evenings when it's just me left awake, I sit quietly, a hot mug of Ayurvedic spiced milk or Rooibos Chai beside me, and I embroider. It doesn't take long for the punctures of my needle through the linen to become a rhythmic meditation. Before I know it, an hour has passed and I move on to reading and then prayer before finally going to sleep. I don't know why I started embroidering all those years ago, but I'm glad I did. In truth, I don't even know if it's proper "embroidery" or if it's something else altogether, or even nothing at all. I'm not trained, I don't follow any specific stitches, I just move my needle and thread in and out for dozens of hours until it feels complete. Over time, this craft has morphed into what I think is a very original expression of my own- sort of a 'folk' embroidery with esoteric undertones as I do enjoy ancient and alchemical symbolism and that, along with arcane ideas and beliefs, certainly inspires these stitched pieces of mine (<< click that link to see more).

So as the green summer land gradually turned to gold, I spent most evenings stitching fields of flax. This particular work took me far away, somewhere and somewhen else- a place that felt like Pillars of the Earth, and like a Pieter Brueghel painting. A place that felt very familiar...

This one I've named simply The Flax Grower. Though, the golden halo around her golden head seems to imply there's more to it than just the physical labor or occupation we see. More to her than just a flaxen-haired commoner... something happening beyond the mere observable doing. But I'll leave the rest for your own interpretation. Who is this woman? What does she know? 

.:*:.

This region we call home is a subtle enchantress, whose spell takes hold deeper and deeper over time. The sky here is clear and free from chemical trails left by airplanes, the waters flow clear and cold and healthy, the wildlife and the mountains constantly call for your respect and attention, the land pulls you into its stillness, and we fall ever more unquenchably heart-taken with Here. 

And there you have it, summer stories from green to flaxen-gold. Little microcosms of the macrocosm.

I close this book of summer, a little dusty and sunburnt, tired but happy, ready to embrace these cool Autumn winds, to be ensconced once again in this favorite season of mine, open to receive the golden crimson blessings of yet another Fall on this earth. The scent is on the wind; I pray you'll breathe it in deeply with me, as you sink into the passing of your own days. There are stories still waiting to be told...

And as Autumn's carpet unfolds before us, I leave you with this to listen to. May you take time for woodland walks every season, but especially this; and get to know the trees by the sound their very leaves make blowing in the wind. And perhaps you'll sing back into the wind a song of your own, of your heart, a hum that can only come from and through you. 

And also a list of films I've enjoyed lately and that you might too as the nights grow ever longer.

Take care.

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Films:

Tree of Life

Room

Queen of the Desert

The Lovely Bones

The Secret of Roan Inish

Under Milkwood

The Wall (Die Wand)