The Cane Boil

Inside it was warm while we layered in fleece, old sweatshirts, knit caps and gloves. This is Alachua, Florida and it's 19 degrees. The dogs ran circles around us turning the frosted grass to green mush as we approached the tool shed for our machetes. Why? Because sugar cane grows well here. Because even two acres is enough for a family-sized year-round cane crop and victory garden here. Because if you have ever tasted home grown, home juiced, home boiled sugar cane syrup, you will never be the same again.

R.G. Peattie carrying harvested cane to the cutting pile

 

Tapasvini feeds pieces of cane into the Vijay juicer while Nadia keeps the supply coming. Both the feeder and the catcher of squeezed cane are covered in cane juice in no time.

The girls take a break from algebra equations to sample cane juice cut with lemon.

Eventually the December sun overwhelmed us. Jackets, hats, long underwear were cast over fences as we moved through preparations for Saturday's Community Cane Boil: juice enough cane to get a full cauldron ready, make sure firewood is dry, gather enough machetes, kitchen knives, bowls and buckets; split enough harvested cane. Visiting friends and a handful of students from Gator Nation will pitch in at various necessary chores in the process. But they must be fed, so bisquits and a huge pot of soup have to be made.

 Jim Crack glares at his human friends from the cabbage, fixing them with one green, then one blue eye, wondering why the dogs are getting more attention on Cane Boil Day.

R.G. keeps the juice circulating in the caste iron cauldron as it begins to boil down. This is the place to stay warm, beside the fire.

Call it community involvement, call it a spiritual connection with Nature. For me, physical labor in pursuit of dirt under the fingernails and blisters from hand tools are a form of meditation. Cane leaves slice like paper cuts, and sugar in a wound stings as much as salt.

When others have gone, the family works into the evening to finish the juicing.

The aroma of sweet cane syrup warms the clear winter sky.

Maybe it's having happily  labored to get to this goal. Maybe it's appreciating all the robust taste of all things organic. Maybe it just is what it is: one finger full of warm cane syrup elevates the senses, and they will demand to know, why have you been keeping this from me for so long?

Just a small plot of sugar cane in a Florida backyard, a small juicer from India, and a hand-me-down cauldron yield endless cane juice and more than six gallons of cane syrup.And many many perfect pancake breakfasts.

Picacho: Hidden Treasure by Moonlight

A trail of dust followed as we rode 20 miles of washboard through open desert and narrow arroyos to the banks of the Colorado River at Picacho. Ghost-like on the prairie, a wild mule, glowing white in the moonlight, watched us pass.

Looking north up the Colorado River

Despite a piercing icy wind, we launched at midnight, ferried across a 3-knot current to the other shore where we wove our way through tunnels illuminated only by moonlight penetrating dense tule and cane forests. Following the wooden clacking of night birds, we emerged into a wide open lake. By daylight eight hours later, the tunnels, the lake, the birds, were no less magical.

Picacho Peak Sunset

The razorback ridges of volcanic birth concealed an endless labyrinth of mule trails dotted with mesquite trees; the only shade come summer time. But this is winter, and the shadows hang low. Come February, thousands of winged visitors will stop to rest at this hidden treasure along the Pacific Flyway, competing with resident osprey, eagles, hawks and egrets for catfish and bass in these clear waters. The nights will be even colder. Perhaps not a single human will sit beside a roaring campfire then, witnessing Picacho's most vital season.

Stewart Lake

Stonewall and Cuyamaca Peaks in the Clouds

Who says there's no weather in San Diego? Two weeks ago trains of clouds ripped across the Cuyamaca Mountains for two days and nights while dropping half a foot of rain on the county. A perfect time to head for the hills! Hiking up Stonewall, then Cuyamaca Peaks, I was walking up into, then over top of these cloud layers. Glimpses of one peak or the other were absolutely fleeting: one frame and the peak was again in clouds for half an hour. It was magical. Only a few other hikers were up there braving the cold conditions. Awesome the things in our own backyards!

Ferns looked like they were on fire along the Cuyamaca Peak trail

The perfect shot, but it was only there for one frame!

You can really see how the fire devastated this landscape, and it is still having trouble recovering as new trees are succumbing to the drought with no forest service staff to water newly planted trees.

Santa Cruz Island kayak adventure Oct. 15-17, 2010

Such a beautiful getaway; so close, yet so far away from it all!

That's me, happy kayaker, among friends and kelp. Nice photo John.

Lisa Marie noses into the bufadora.

Calm day at "Surging T" cave near Potato Harbor.

Amazing cliffs on the east end.

The fog rolls in.

Paddling east from Scorpion Anchorage.

Sunset from the cliffs above Potato Harbor.

This beautiful island shows signs of a hot dry summer. The grasses that were brilliant green in spring are now tinder dry brown, none too soft to sleep on, but fragrant. Our fleet of colorful kayaks stood out like Easter eggs against the grey palette of muted ocean and sky under the cloud cover that never left us, but kindly held off raining on us till the very last hours of our visit. The endemic foxes stole our hearts but not our food, and the spotted skunks tickled our ankles but kept their perfume bottled up for the most part. Our luck was with us on the water, as the swells were strong enough to keep things interesting in the caves, but mild enough to allow us access to everything! We truly felt we were out beyond the edge of a continent; leaving people and politics far behind.

Adventures in the Desert

Not being a desert person, I was skeptical, but I had an excellent tour guide who took me to an amazing slot canyon over Butte Pass down Highway 78 just north of Ocotillo Wells. We walked through a canyon that I sometimes had to squeeze through. Beautiful. Then we turned off 78 onto Split Mountain Road, drove a few miles to a dry wash, jumped on a motorcycle and rode up the wash a few miles to the Wind Caves. This is where the aliens landed, I'm sure of it! Sandstone cliffs full of intricately carved tunnels and enclosures, lit with the warm afternoon glow that only the desert can offer. I'm hooked.

Where the heck is Macon, MO?

Pig bales... who says farmers aren't creative?

Randy Olson and Peggy Peattie at the Macon picnic... smiling during the calm before the storm.

 A cadre of brilliant photo editors and eager photographers have inspired me for five days, here tucked away in the Elks Lodge on Rollins Street down wind of the ConAgra processing plant in rural north-central Missouri for the 62nd annual Missouri Photo Workshop. Roscoe the Elk is watching over us and Angus the neighborhood cat is scooping up spilled M&Ms.