home sweet boat

Things are beginning to settle down here on the Marianna. First there was the band of bed bugs that hitched a ride with me from Corsica and the chaos that ensued to make sure they didn't make it onto the boat. We finally have that situation under control, thank god, because we were all losing sleep over it. Now we have new things to lose sleep over, but I digress.

So yes, you may have guessed it. I am living on a sailboat at the moment. Her name is Marianna and she is a beautiful Swan 62 footer; my father has been her captain for about seven years now. The boat has spent most of those summers in the Mediterraen, and she usually over-winters in a marina in Toulon, a place where I've actually spent quite a bit of time over the past few years, hanging out with my dad. I've been here for about a week and I have maybe two more to go, taking advantage of the good weather to get some much-needed work done around the boat. I'm on day eight of refurbishing the deck, a tedious process that has to be done with great care and concentration so that the expensive teak wood doesn't get damaged any further than it already is. The payment in Euros is a nice incentive, though, and since I am on month five of traveling, I am in no financial position to turn down work.

Thankfully, I have also been able to get into a good training schedule for my upcoming triathlon in November. I've been running twice a day, and I just found a great pool around the corner from the marina where I can put in some swim time. After four straight months of bouncing around -- from hiking in Yosemite to visiting friends Texas to making friends in Central America (not Kansas, I'm talking Nicaragua) and then road tripping all the way up to New England before jumping across the pond to Europe -- it feels really good to settle down for a few weeks and get into a routine.

It's funny; you never really appreciate the beauty of a routine when you are in one, but the lack of one over an extended period of time can make any person crazy. I'm thankful for things like going to the market on Saturday (post pending about this wonderful affair!), having a washing machine at my disposal, cooking my meals, and getting to know the characters in the neighborhood . For example, on my evening runs, I always pass by a little food trailer where a friendly French man can be seen kneading dough or pulling delicious pizzas out of his wood fire stove on wheels. Sometimes, he's shooting the breeze at the window with his delivery boy or hanging out with his dog at the back door while he waits for customers. He doesn't open until dinnertime, but I've caught him there midday before, prepping vegetables for the evening.

One funny thing about living on-board a boat docked at a marina is the whole privacy thing, or lack of it. The marina is open to all, and as a result, you're basically living your life in the public eye. For example, I'll be hunched over my sanding machine, only to look up and find a group of boat enthusiasts watching me work and gazing eagerly at our boat. It doesn't help that much of the time, we literally have our (clean) laundry hanging out to dry on the lines.

The marina is right next to the boarding dock for the huge ferries heading to Corsica and Sardinia. The roundabout to enter the marina is always swarming with cars and people lugging groceries and purchases to bring from the mainland to the islands. Each day, as I run by, I usually see a few tearful goodbyes as people board the massive ships.  Other townspeople will come to the marina just to watch the ships set sail; some will come on their lunch breaks, or to walk their pets after work. On the weekends, the docks are teeming with families coming to check out the action. The little kids are simply fascinated by the lines of cars driving into the belly of the ships at loading time.

There are a few others who live on our dock as well; we smile knowingly at each other when the people come to gawk at the boats. They don't have to hear the whistles blow at the break of dawn each day, or the incessant announcements made over the loudspeakers of the ferries, directing passengers and their vehicles to the right places.

Another part of public life on-board is the fact that you live extremely close to your neighbors, if you have any. Sometimes there might just be an empty boat tied up next to yours, or perhaps a loud group of tourists who have chartered a yacht to take them to the nearby islands for the day. Sometimes you get new neighbors in the evening, and they're gone by the morning, replaced by a new boat with a different flag flying from the stern. At night, I run into all sorts of people in the marina. Lone fisherman waiting patiently for that late-night catch. Groups of teenagers looking for trouble. Couples taking a romantic walk after dinner at a restaurant on the pier. The other night, my dad had to chase away a drunk man trying to get onto a neighboring boat. "It's just to sleep," he bumbled to my father as he swayed on the unmoving dock. My father wouldn't hear of it and made him leave.

And still I work, run, cook, do laundry, and generally go about my daily life amidst the chaos; this is life in the maria.

Up a Mountain Without a Back-up Plan!

The day started out promising. The last vestiges of the starry night were drowned out by a faint glow of daylight emanating from behind the mountain range to the east. I welcomed them from the tip of the rocky outcrop where I had pitched my tent for the night, but I did not wait around to see the sun show its face. Like the sun, I had places to go and many mountains to climb. I broke down my little makeshift campsite, home base for the past twelve hours, and packed everything into my trusty green backpack that has been with me through thick and thin during my travels on five continents. I stuffed my sleeping bag into its’ tiny sack, never ceasing to be amazed by the way this large comforter can be reduced to the size of an airplane pillow in sixty seconds. My tent poles were folded into themselves and then rolled into the tent fabric so that the whole package fit snugly into a small bag. The tent and my rolled up sleeping pad got strapped to either side of my pack, the rest of my belongings crammed into the backpack. I tightened the straps and I was on my way.

typical Corsica; pigs everywhere!

I was on my way to meet my friends Laura and Anthony in the mountains in the middle of Corsica. A brilliant idea, I know. They had begun the GR20 about a week earlier in Calenzana, and they were hiking southward on the grisly trail. The GR20, GR standing for “big hike” in French, is France’s most extreme hike, running the length of the island north to south; fifteen legs of six to eight hour days of hiking through rough terrain and even rougher weather. Because of scheduling conflicts, we had decided it would be best if I met them a few days in, at the mountain refuge of Manganu on this lovely Tuesday. I had started hiking from the town of Evisa on Monday evening, having made my way from the coast via bus and a very fortunate hitch-hiking connection. Laura and Anthony would be coming from a mountain refuge to the north, and they had more miles to make than I did.

The morning fog burned off slowly as I made my way across a ridge and up a steep mountainside to the Verghio Pass. I took my time going up, taking lots of breaks to enjoy the scenery and to snap photographs. I was only a few kilometers from the pass, and I made it to the top before midday. At the road, my trail joined the GR20 trail and I had a short moment of anticipation thinking that I might run into my friends here, if the stars really did align. (They didn’t.) There was a little hostel on the road where many hikers were taking breaks before continuing on for the day, either northward to Ciottulu di Mori, or southward to Manganu like me. The hostel sold a few provisions: cheese, bread, saucisson, and a few cans of tuna sat on wooden shelves that were much too large. I refueled with a snack and shouldered my pack to continue my journey. I considered waiting there for my friends, but decided against it; after five days of hiking, they were definitely in great shape and would surely catch up with me very soon, I reasoned.

she is a thing of beauty

Lesson number 1: don’t go into the woods without a map. I figured the trail would be marked, and it was, so I shouldn’t have a problem. Except that I had no idea what lay ahead of me – not about the mileage, not about the terrain, nothing. So I naively went on my merry way, encountering red-faced hikers coming from the direction in which I was headed. We exchanged hellos as we marched onward in opposite directions. I took my sweet time; I stopped to take pictures, and I even stopped to take an extended break underneath a particularly gorgeous shade tree. I pulled out my journal and began free-writing about the beauty of said tree – the hearty foliage, the withered yet tough trunk, the sprawling roots! I was on a roll. As I sat enjoying the afternoon breeze from the comfort of my new favorite spot, two gentleman passed me going southward, one very short and the other quite tall. They stopped to admire my tree for a minute. “That’s a good one!,” they enthused. I agreed wholeheartedly and continued writing. After a bit, I took to the path once again in direction of Manganu.

Col St Pietro with the ferocious climb in the background

So, the problem about hiking without a map is that you have nothing to use as reference. I was basically walking blindly in the wilderness, guilelessly following the red and white markers painted every 50 meters or so. By mid-afternoon, I figured I must not be too far from my destination. Don’t ask me how I reached this conclusion; wishful thinking, I suppose. Also, it might have been because I was feeling pretty battered by the elements at this point. Although the hike had started out woodsy and only moderately inclined after Vergio, it soon became much more intense. After a pretty steady climb up to the col St. Pietro, I found myself battling up a bare mountainside with a scary wind whipping around me, threatening to send me flying. In all seriousness, I was glad to have my heavy pack secured on my back to keep me grounded. The path up the mountain was all rock with no trees to shelter you (I’m sure trees had tried to grow here and had been unsuccessful from the intense wind!) and it zigzagged up the mountain rather than going straight up. This meant that at times I had the wind full force in my face as I hunched over trying to make forward progress, and other times I was virtually being thrown forward by the strong gusts pushing at my back.  This went on for about half an hour, but it felt never-ending.

GR20 markings on a tree

As I recovered on my rock with a snack of some dried fruits and nuts, the gentlemen pair that I had met earlier crossed my path again. I asked them, quite desperately, if we were almost there yet. One of them raised their eyebrows and said vaguely, “I think we have a bit more to go,” in a tone that meant we had a LOT more to go. The other got out his trail guide and showed me where we were on the map. “See here, number 33.” He then traced his finger along the red line, past numbers 34 and 35. He turned the page. His finger continued the width of the page, and he turned the page again, tracing the line to the very end of the page. “Number 40, that’s where the refuge is,” he told me with a big smile. Unfortunately, I couldn’t return the gesture. I was in shock. THREE PAGES OF TRAIL LEFT?! “Wow,” was all I was able to muster. “Yeah, today’s hike is a long one,” the taller one agreed. I’ll say.

We continued on our way together, crossing a rocky ridge and passing some spectacular views of the massive mountains all around us. As I found out later from other hikers, we were quite lucky to have any visibility at all. As we walked, we got to know each other. They were from the Swiss town of Luzerne and they had started from the top but were only going midway to Vizzavona, as was I. They asked me if I was traveling alone and I told them about meeting my friends at Manganu. “Have you met them, by any chance?,” I inquired to my new friends. “They started the same day as you, last Thursday, at Calenzana.” They gave it some thought and asked some other questions to help them identify Laura and Anthony. “I don’t think so,” said Jean, the shorter one. “Wait, could it be that couple that quit the trail on Saturday?,” exclaimed Pierre, his taller companion. I was horrified to hear this and assured them that my friends were “montagnards,” mountain people who hailed from the high Alps. There was no way they had given up already and these two middle-aged men hadn’t. But their description of the couple sounded scarily like my friends. They said the girl had gotten injured on the trail so they had to throw in the towel. It wasn’t likely that this was Laura and Anthony, but it was possible. Injuries happen, and there’s nothing you can do about them except thrown in the towel.

I contemplated the possibility of not finding my friends at the end of the day and considered my options. “You’ll continue with us, of course!,” my new friends offered encouragingly. It was a thought. I hadn’t come all this way to turn around, right? We passed the ridge and continued alongside another mountain, until we came to a wide valley opening up beneath us. The valley was filled with lakes, a whole smattering of them as far as you could see. It was a gorgeous view, but there was no sign of the refuge anywhere. There was a fountain nearby with fresh mountain water gushing out. We filled our bottles and descended into the valley. Pierre lagged behind taking pictures and video as Jean and I scampered up the path, commenting on the landscape around us. It was quite astounding- the colors of the changing leaves, the bright moss on the rocks, the gnarled tree stumps leftover from lightning storms. We noticed several distinct smells as we walked and tried to place them to their appropriate bush or flower. I had put the notion of not seeing my friends out of my head and I was downright giddy about arriving soon. 

Lac de Nino

Until now, the weather had held up beautifully, but the sky was beginning to look suspicious. At the first sign of rain, we all dropped our packs and put on our rain gear. I just had an old rain jacket that has seen several seasons of farming and many a downpour. The Swiss, on the other hand, were equipped with rain covers for their bags, rain pants (which they had to take their shoes off to put on), and rain jackets. Pierre even had a cute little rain hat to top it all off. Luckily, the rain didn’t stick and we barely got wet. A few minutes after the shower, the Swiss decided to disrobe out of their rain gear. Off came the packs, off came the shoes, off came the little rain hat. No costume change for me since it didn’t bother me to keep my rain jacket on. Plus, you never know in the mountains. A quarter of an hour later, the rainclouds were back for another round. Once again, the Swiss geared up. Hilariously, off came the packs, off came the shoes, on came the little rain hat. I felt like I was hanging out with two of the three stooges. At this rate, we were never going to make it to the refuge before nightfall. I looked longingly towards the other side of the valley, imagining what Laura and Anthony were doing at that moment. Hopefully cooking up a nice hot meal!

At last, we crested a hill and on the other side – ta da! – a quaint-looking mountain cabin with lots of blue tents set up around in. There were even a few horses in a paddock surrounded by rock walls. It was an adorably bucolic scene. “Why are all the tents the same?,” I asked the Swiss stooges. “I think people can rent them from the refuge,” responded Jean. This worried me a bit, as I didn’t see Laura and Anthony’s green tent, but I was still optimistic. When we came to the log cabin, an attendant came out to inform us that she had cheese for sale. We noticed a different name written on the door. “This isn’t Manganu?,” we asked in French. “Oh no, this is a private bergerie. Manganu is just a little bit further. You can see it from here.” We strained our eyes to see the refuge; we could barely make it out shrouded in mist in the distance. “It’s just une petite demi heure from here,” the attendant assured us. The French have this adorable way of expressing time; a little half hour, she said. Not too bad. I’ll take it!

As we walked away from the bergerie, I tried not to feel too frustrated. I focused on the positive things. For example, my pants were almost completely dry! And just as I had that thought – the moment right after, I swear – the rain came out of nowhere and began pelting us with huge droplets. We were just far enough from the bergerie that it didn’t make sense to turn around and seek shelter. Plus, it was probably another fake-out like the past two rainfalls.

In fact, it was no such thing. We proceeded to get pounded by sheets of rain for the remainder of our hike. With clenched teeth, I concentrated my gaze on the ground in front of me to stay out of the puddles and avoid falling on the slippery rocks underfoot. After a while, I realized it was a futile effort. I gave up trying to keep my feet dry and was now haphazardly sloshing through a river of rain. My only goal at this point was to stay upright; falling with my pack in this storm could be disastrous. I was pushing with all my might to make it to the refuge. It was now plainly in sight, but still much too far away for my taste. I wanted to get there already! Yeah right, une petite demi heure, I thought to myself with a laugh. These Corsicans must be fast walkers.

At last, we crossed a bridge where another river was running (different from the river running below our feet that was once the trail) and finally made it onto the porch of the refuge. Jean pushed the door open into the main room; it was loud and packed full of people. We stood in the doorway because there was nowhere to go. I stood behind the Swiss, still completely exposed to the elements and utterly shell-shocked from the effort of running madly through driving rain for close to an hour on a trail of treacherous and slippery rocks. All of my hope had evaporated. I knew my friends wouldn’t be here.

Slowly, we were able to make our way into the crowded room. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had streams of water running down my body, my rain jacket having proved useless in the deluge. A giant puddle was forming around us. Exhausted but desperate, I scanned the faces of our fellow hikers, searching for features that might belong to my friends: Laura’s apple cheeks, Anthony’s spiky hair. My search came out negative. The Swiss had been right. Laura and Anthony had ditched the trail.

The Swiss tried to convince me stay in a bed in the refuge – “There is one extra!,” the assured me – but I didn’t want to spend the eleven euros to sleep in a tiny space with snoring retirees. Plus, I hadn’t hauled my tent all this way for nothing! I summoned all the energy I had left and headed out into the still driving rain to pitch my tent. The first campsite I tried was unsuccessful; there was no shelter and I ended up chasing my tent in the wind. The second site was cushy in comparison – a pallet hidden in some bushes. Perfect. The pallet elevated it off the ground to ensure that I wouldn’t be sleeping in a lake, and the bushes provided a safe haven from the insane mountain blasts that we were experiencing that evening. After that was done, I went back inside to make myself some soup. It tasted heavenly, even if it was just powdered soup mix from a bag. I slurped down the hot liquid and refilled my cup. As I ate and regained feeling in my fingers and toes, I asked the hikers around me about my friends. No one had any information, as I had suspected. The Swiss fluttered around me, making sure I was okay. Would I be safe outside in my tent? Was I absolutely sure? I could always come inside if things got too rough.  I was glad to have them looking out for me, but I was definitely not in a very friendly mood.

Dejectedly, I headed back outside to my tent. The rain had mostly subsided but the wind was still howling furiously. There was a school group staying in the refuge that night as well, and I could hear them making a ruckus as they ran around, the boys playing tricks on the girls and fighting in the heavy fog. Every now and then, their teacher could be heard yelling at them over the wind to behave and settle down. I read my book for a while, trying not to get worked up about my situation. I had completely lost my motivation to go on without my friends. And to tell you the truth, I was a bit pissed off, thinking they were probably laying on a beach somewhere, sipping margaritas while I was huddled in my tent braving a terrible storm on a mountaintop – alone.  

It wasn’t so bad, really. I had a good book. Warm, dry socks. A safe place to sleep for the night. The Swiss stooges had my back. I really can’t complain. After a while, I headed back to the common room to make some tea and hang out with hikers before everyone turned in for the night. I tried with all my might to find a space to hang my dripping clothes in hopes that they might be less soggy in the morning, to no avail. Everyone else had the same idea, it seems. My shoes were a lost cause, I knew that much to be true. The following day would be a difficult one on the trail.  First off, hiking in soaking wet shoes is never fun. Secondly, a hiker hates going back on their steps, but alas, I had decided that was the best choice. I didn’t want to continue in terrible weather without my friends, and I really, really wanted to see my friends! So I decided to head back to the Col de Vergio and get in touch with them – somehow, hopefully, maybe, possibly? If that didn’t work out, it was back to the beach for me! Having made my decision, I headed back to my tent and fell asleep immediately, despite the shrieking middle-schoolers and screaming wind.

Retracing my steps the next day was less terrible than I had anticipated. The weather held up, and although my shoes remained hopelessly wet, the rest of my clothes dried off by late morning. I decided to take my time again and smell the roses. Or rather, hang out with cows, take more pictures, and write more poems. I wasn’t in a hurry seeing as I had no idea what my plan was beyond Vergio. 

I finally made it to my destination around noon (civilization! cell phone service!) and asked a stranger if I could borrow his phone. “It’s urgent!,” I promised. He obliged disdainfully (these French can be so unfriendly sometimes!) and I quickly dialed Laura’s number. My heart fell when I heard her voicemail message. I told her where I was, asked where she was, and told her she better call me back ASAP or else. Miraculously, she called back about a minute after I had handed the stranger his phone, and I responded gleefully. “Laura!! Where the heck are you?” She asked me the same question. It took a minute for both of us to figure out what had happened with the plan. (Whose stupid plan was this anyway?? Oh yeah… mine.) She and Anthony were still on the trail (I knew they hadn’t given up!! Those crazy Swiss guys…) but they had doubled up a few days so they were already in Vizzavona. They had tried to get in touch with me via my father, but that plan hadn’t worked since I hadn’t checked in with him since I got to the island (bad daughter move on my part, now karma was coming for me!). Luckily for me, Vizzavona is one of the few places on the trail that is reachable by a road, so I told her to stay put and I was on my way! How, I had no idea. I was, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I looked at a map to figure out which route was my best bet, threw my bag over my shoulder yet again, walked across the street, and stuck out my thumb emphatically. I had a plan, a new destination!  

It would take me the rest of the day, but I finally rolled into the train yard in Vizzavona just as the sun was setting behind the mountains, casting everything in that glorious, vibrant light. Laura and Anthony were standing on the platform, waving at me frantically as we waited for the train to slow down so I could jump out and smother them in a bear hug. After a bit of confusion, a lot of rain, and many miles by foot, car, and train- we were finally reunited. My feet were killing me from being in wet shoes all day, but it didn’t matter. They snuck me into the hostel they were staying for the night and I was able to take a hot shower – heaven on Earth. Snuggling into my sleeping bag nestled on the floor amongst all of the packs, hiking poles and smelly boots, I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. It had been a bit shaky for a minute there, but everything had turned out fine in the end. And just as I was drifting off to sleep, the chorus of snores started. Ah, the joys of traveling.

Laura, Anthony and I, happily reunited at last!

Scaring yourself silly

Have you heard that old adage, “Do one thing every day that scares you”? I’ve read it a thousand times and always agreed with it wholeheartedly, without ever really thinking about what it meant.  Today, I was shown the true value of this saying.

The day started out on a sailboat at anchor in a little bay on an island a few miles off the southern coast of France. We weren’t too far from land, so I strapped on my snorkel and mask, jumped in the water, and headed for shore. As I meandered through the waves, scouting the landscape for interesting plants and colorful sea life, I came across an octopus waving its tentacles in an elegant dance. Upon seeing me, it quickly lowered itself down and tried to hide in the grassy sea floor. If I hadn’t caught it in the act, I surely would not have noticed its’ googly eyes peering out at me from the algae as I swam over it. I hovered above the octopus-in-hiding, waving my arms to try to scare it into dancing for me again. But the googly eyes just blinked at me from that big, bulbous head, tentacles tucked underneath; unmoving, it did its best to blend in with the surroundings. Although I wanted to swim down to get a closer look, I kept my distance for fear it would spray me with its secret inky weapon, or worse, strangle me with all eight of its scary, slimy limbs. (I have an irrational fear of octopus; something about those suction cups freak me out!) 

Once ashore, I made my way down the beach past the tanning tourists and up the hill to the abandoned fort on top. I climbed around the crumbling structure, inspecting the walls built into the rock, hoping to find some secret passageway – perhaps leading to a vault full of treasure? I found no such thing, so I gave up poking around and wandered over to the far side of the hill for a better view of the bay. From here, I could see down into a cute little cove below, sheltered from the bay with big beautiful rocks rising up from the achingly aquamarine water. I knew I had to get down there somehow; I absolutely needed to explore that cove and swim in that crystal clear oasis! I slung my snorkel over my shoulder like a purse and began picking my way down the rocky ravine, wincing from the pain of sharp stones digging into my bare feet. As I ouched and ahh-ed my way towards the water, I contended with the fact that I might not be able to find a safe place to slide into that dreamy blue lagoon once I reached the bottom of the incline. If the boulders were too big or the jump down too dangerous because of submerged rocks below, I would simple have to give up, turn around, and wince my way back up the mountainside to the fort on the hill. I took my chances and kept going.

I was finally just a body length away from the water. Ecstatically and optimistically, I surveyed the scene to determine my best point of entry. The water looked so enticing, but I could also see slippery rocks and a collection of jagged driftwood lying dangerously just below where I stood. Only one giant boulder stone in between myself and my swim, and if only I could get onto it, I would be home free. The problem was, it was just a bit too far for my short legs to reach. I stretched each one of my limbs in turn, trying to elongate and contort my body, but it just wasn’t happening. My only option at this point, besides the unfortunate alternative of turning around, was to free climb my way horizontally across a jagged rock face providing the only link between myself and the boulder.

Now, anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am no rock climber. In fact, I dislike heights very much and I think it’s inane to climb rock walls for no other reason than getting to the top. Maybe if there was a bear chasing me, or a very fine feast awaiting at the summit, I would be interested in shimmying up rock faces; without those incentives, I’m not game. I quite like to have earth beneath me, rather than empty airspace. Call me crazy. So, with all of those reservations swirling around my head, I decided to tackle the task at hand.

I didn’t have so far to go, but it was just enough that it required several thoughtful maneuverings and well-placed footings to make it to the safety of the boulder. At first, I would reach out one hand and one foot, steadying myself and feeling around to acquaint myself with the rock face. Then, I would freak myself out and retreat back to my starting position to gather my strength once again. Each time I reached out to try again, I would get a bit farther; I’d figure out another way to place my feet or find a new craggy nook to clutch desperately. My knuckles shone white as they clutched the rock for dear life and my knees quaked furiously beneath me. Step by tiny step, I tiptoed my way across, my heart in my throat.

It might have only lasted a few short minutes. I have no idea. Time seemed to stand still as I fought the grasp of fear in my mind, trying desperately to ignore that voice telling me I was going to fall from the rock and crack my skull open. I didn’t realize how hard my heart was pounding until my right foot finally found the big, strong boulder I was aiming for and I was able to sit down to catch my breath at last. As I regained my calm and took account of my body and my senses – only then did I realize that I wasn’t breathing and my heart was beating so violently that it was threatening to bound out of my body and into the salty waves below. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt such an intense sensation of visceral fear.  As I took in the beauty of my surroundings, I smiled to find that fear melt away, exposing a complete sense of satisfaction, accomplishment, and sheer contentment.  I looked up from where I was sitting, safe and sound atop my rocky throne, to the top of the ravine where I had started my steep descent. I examined how far I had to free climb on that rock face to make it to where I was now sitting. It didn’t seem so bad anymore, but I knew the effort, the will, the raw strength it had taken to make that short traversal. I began to understand that infectious high that pro athletes talk about when they fight and finally succeed in overcoming their inner fear, the wall, “the beast.” It is indeed a rewarding and irresistible feeling, to have conquered such a nasty demon as fear. You get a little taste, and you want more.

With a big, silly smile pasted on my face and a residual buzz coursing through my body, I secured my mask and dove into the crystal cool water. Finally, I got my reward. That first second, when your face hits the water and you’re suddenly privy to a whole crazy world of secret wonders below the surface – that moment is pure magic. I spent the rest of the afternoon moseying along the crooked shoreline, exploring rock caves and diving down to scatter schools of fish like a child running wildly to scatter pigeons congregating on the playground. 

There was a smattering of rocky outliers all around me and, of course, I had to explore.  In between rocks, the ground would drop from beneath me and I would find myself bobbing on the surface of the water, like a fly caught in a wine glass. The speed of my stroke would quicken, for fear of scary sea creatures emerging from the dark bottomless ocean.  As I reached my destination, my arms and legs would slow down from a frantic kick to a more leisurely canter. I found comfort in the fish milling about and the sea grass tickling my body as I absorbed the changing seascapes all around me.

I spent the rest of the afternoon this way, swimming hard for a spell and then taking my time to explore new territory. Every so often, I would poke my head out of the water to make sure our little white sailboat was still within sight, bouncing merrily in the waves. My peaceful afternoon at sea was even more delicious after the dramatic events earlier. It seemed as if I had faced some tough inner demons to get there, and this was my compensation: a few sweet glimpses of life as a mermaid. 

new home for farm blog

Continued coverage of season 2011 can be found here!

Enjoy the season :)

summer twist

June 1, 2011

High Season Begins

Today, we continued the transplanting frenzy that we’ve been on all week. Tomatillos, herbs, thirty different varieties of hot peppers, eggplant, lettuce, okra, husk cherries – anything we could get our hands on. Towards the middle of the afternoon, we noticed that the sky to the west of us had turned an angry shade of steel gray. The rest of the sky was a beautiful fiery orange, an “end of the world sky”, remarked my co-worker Jackie. It’s best to transplant before rain, and weed afterwards, so we continued our tasks of getting seedlings into the ground. As the winds picked up around us, our hands worked quicker in the soil, pulling dirt up around the stems of each plant to make sure that it stood strong and upright. Even when the storm broke and the first fat drops started falling to the ground, we kept up our pace, bringing the last of the trays out of the greenhouse to be buried into bed-rows.

Finally we decided that it was a good time to stop, and we returned to the house to watch the storm from the porch. A friend called to inform us that tornado warnings had been issued for our area - news to us - but we stayed outside, fixated by the impressive lightning bolts touching down on the hills around our sweet little farm. At one point, a bolt came so close that I thought it struck the tree in front of our house, and I ran inside with a yelp. Without television or the internet, our knowledge about the storm was sparse. The uncertainty of the next few hours was a bit scary, but luckily we came out unscathed (as did our crops, and most importantly, our chickens! I was worried about those ladies being picked up by a gust of wind and flying away forever!). Unfortunately, the residents of Springfield were not so lucky. For more information and videos of the twister that hit that area, click here.

And so, it is as such that we usher in the first days of summer- rather dramatically, I should add. Yesterday, we were sweltering in the fields (until the rain hit) and today I was back in my scarf and hoodie to shield me from cold wind gusts. It's hard to say what this season will bring... Nevertheless, our first CSA pick-up starts this weekend sooo -- welcome to the high season, folks!

Here are some photos to acquaint yourself with the place!

getting remay (row cover) over the cucurbits (melons and winter squash) to minimize pest damage. notice those nice straight lines? yeah tractor work!

a few of the crew (adam in the back, emily and dave in the middle, and me up front)

view from my back porch a few weeks ago - the leaves have since filled out and the grass is about as tall as I am! (Not very tall, some might say. but i'd argue with that accusation.) See the chicken coop on wheels in background? That's the ladies' summer home...

high tunnel in the setting sun

barn glow

That's all folks!

tractor time

This morning, I went on a long walk around a nearby lake and when I returned to the farm, the sky had darkened and a storm was threatening on the horizon. Jarrett was tracking the bad weather on the radar and he said it would only last an hour or so, short and sweet. After a few days of intense heat, this rain was rather welcome, but we had lots to do. Plants were keeling over in the greenhouse, ready to be transplanted from their tiny trays into the wide open space in the field, with lots of room for their roots to stretch and grow, and for their stalks to reach for the sky.

Yes, planting was the priority of the day. But in order to get plants into the ground, we had to get beds formed. For this, we have a bed former, an implement we attach to the back of the tractor. I was a total tractor newbie this time last week, so for all you others who may be as clueless as me about these machines, let me clue you in. Basically, a tractor is a super-powered vehicle to which you hitch "implements" or heavy duty farm tools to do a big amount of field work for you that would otherwise take you your entire lifetime to finish. We have a relatively small farm, only about 7 tillable acres, and even we would find it nearly impossible to get our fields prepared and ready for growing veggies without a tractor. Some of the tractors out in the midwest are GIGANTIC, with heated cabs and cable television! They are also steered by satellite GPS because those fields are so enormous - thousands of acres! - that they need more perfect precision than using just their eyeballs can provide. It's hard enough to go in a straight line for 200 ft, I can't imagine conquering those mondo fields of grain out in Iowa and South Dakota...

So anyway, back to Belchertown. The field that we call the "barn block" had already been plowed and disc harrowed over the weekend, so it was ready for bed forming. Basically, this field had been in "cover crop" all winter; a combination of winter rye and vetch had been planted in the fall as a cover for the bare ground (better not to leave soil bare because of erosion and nutrient loss) and would be tilled back into the soil in the spring (now) to add organic matter to the soil. As an added bonus, vetch is a "nitrogen fixer", meaning that it removes nitrogen from the air and stores it in nodules in it's roots. When that plant dies and decomposes in the soil, that nitrogen is released and becomes available to other plants - free fertilizer, without the nasty chemicals!

First, a plow goes over the field of cover crop and essentially picks up a strip of soil and turns it over, displacing the organic matter that was growing on top of the ground and covering it with dirt, beginning the decomposition process. After that, the field gets "harrowed" by an implement- in our case, a disc harrow- that breaks up the lumps of soil and levels the field. After this step, which I have done on another occasion with much difficulty, the soil is ready to be made into neat beds into which you can transplant veggie crops from the greenhouse.

Now, the bed former is not as difficult to use as a disc harrow or even a plow because by the time you get on the field with the bed former, the ground is level, making everything much easier. The bed former pulls soil from the sides and flattens it into a bed, and a rolling mechanism in the back makes holes at certain intervals for easier transplanting. All you have to do is plop the implement down at the end of a bed and gun the engine and try to make it to the other side in as straight of a line as possible.

Let me tell you one thing, folks. Driving a tractor in a straight line is no easy task. And these beds I was forming were actually double the length of a normal bed, making my task even more challenging! Oh and not to mention the rain, the lightning! Farming is so hardcore, can't you tell? Haha. For all my complaining, the beds came out just fine (well, generally decent enough) and I didn't get struck by lightning and I felt like a complete badass, as I do anytime I'm driving the tractor (I really should give him? her? a name). Also, it's a great feeling of accomplishment afterwards, looking at my lovely lines of garden beds, just waiting for us to dig our fingers in and free these plants from the confines of their trays, to let them roam free in the field!

I always joke that the plants are living the cushy life in the greenhouse, getting watered everyday and babied by our greenhouse queen, Emily. When we put them out in the field, there are no more frills. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and the fight for survival isn't always easy. It's going from the penthouse apartment to living out on the street.

Today, we brought sweet potatoes, watermelons, and waltham winter squash out into the real world. Let's hope they can hack it.

Happy memorial day!

springtime on the farm!

Hello lovely blogworld folks, so sorry to have been completely MIA for several weeks? months? I have no good excuses this time, just good old fashioned busy-ness/laziness? Since the last time we have "talked", I've road-tripped up the eastern seaboard and am currently living in a barn in western Mass. Wait, let me explain. I moved back up here to work as an apprentice under farmer Jarrett, owner and manager of Stone Soup Farm, and I'll be here all season - from mid April til Halloween! I am one of 3 budding young farmers to be sharing this awesome experience, and so far, the job has been going exceedingly well. The weather has generally been holding up quite well, with the exception of nearly 2 weeks of nonstop rain. (The sun has since come back out to play - whew!) I have developed a strange yet beautiful affinity for driving tractors, more specifically the John Deere 1050 --

which I will get into at a later date. My biceps are growing by the day and no amount of handwashing is able to remove the dirt from underneath my nails, and I like it that way. Life is good, I can't complain. A bounty of organic veggies at my fingertips, most still in their seedling stage, but the potential for deliciousness is huge! At the moment, we've been munching on mostly green things - leeks leftover from last fall, early chives and scallions, spinach galore, and finally salad mix - yes, summer is here! The tomatoes have been transplanted from the greenhouse into the field and we await with abated breath as those tiny yellow flowers will eventually turn into luscious pomodoros - can't wait!

So that's a quick recap on my life at the farm, and hopefully there will be plenty more news updates to come. Stay tuned, and make sure to sow your seeds for summer!