Bozeman

Yesterday we arrived in Bozeman, MT after a long and hot day of driving through the alpine desert of Idaho, then through big sky country.  It was a beautiful drive, from bottom to top we saw sage green plants, the occasional yellow or purple flower, golden then red rolling hills, gray craggy peaks, and finally, the wide open blue sky.  Not a tree in sight to block our way.  Our first stop in town was the local co-op to pick up a couple of supplies, treats that we have been looking forward to.  Andre made a beeline for the dairy section, where we met a lovely woman who helped us select a local hard goat cheese.  During our conversation, she pointed over to another employee who works on a farm, runs a CSA, and the co-op even sells some of his vegetables.  Not feeling the usual shyness and eager to talk with him, I ran right over after picking out a bottle of local wine.  I told him about our adventure just a bit and asked if he’d be interested in trading some greens for something we have, perhaps some mushrooms or homebrew.  He asked if we were interested in doing a work-share, coming to the farm to work a bit in exchange for fresh produce.  I was thrilled.  We’re going this morning, even though after our wildly successful dive last night we don’t really need any produce.

The farmer introduced us to another employee, a pretty regular dumpster diver who used to live in Santa Cruz where he fed hungry people rescued food and knows the local Bozeman scene.  He recommended the bakery across the street, a couple of markets, and, in a hushed voice, the co-op.  He told us about food waste at the co-op, how once in a while he rescues food from their dumpsters even though he knows that he is risking his job. Like me, he can’t stand to trash perfectly good food.  I get it.  I dive for philosophical reasons, not out of need.  I told him about the model at the Salem, OR store, where all of the employees get to take home the food that would otherwise be discarded.  A dream we share – wouldn’t it be amazing if we trusted each other so much that we didn’t feel the need to worry that giving food away would cause unnecessary waste.  Starting in childhood, we’re taught to fear others, stranger danger, breaking down our trust in the goodness of humanity.  The television, newspapers, billboards, media in general tells us that other humans are dangerous.  Shows like America’s Most Wanted, CSI, and headlines that read “'AK-47 Bandit' who shot Chino officer tied to three bank robberies “ (pulled from the LA Times today) remind us of the caution we should take when we leave the confines of our safe havens. 

We met a man, donning an American Legion hat, in the fairgrounds this morning where Andre and I slept last night.  Today begins the county fair here in Bozeman, with rides, funnel cakes, and gypsies.  We told him about the farmer we met and how excited we were to go to work this morning.  He chatted with us for a while then disappeared.  He came back a few minutes later with a gift—a banana and a granola bar.  He probably thought we were poor and hungry travelers, but maybe he was just being nice.  That’s most of humanity, folks—kind, generous, friendly, loving, caring—not at all dangerous.  A few bad apples… Don’t believe everything you read, hear, see, and most importantly, don’t believe everything you think.

plums, apricots, and berries = homebrews

Today we hit the motherload.  We stumbled upon what felt like an orchard filled with apricot trees, apples, plums of all colors, apples, elderberry (but only the flowers were ready, the fruits, when we found them weren’t quite black), service berry, and what I think was mulberry.  We also found blackberry bushes galore, which for the first time this trip were filled with ripe fruit.  I already made an elderberry flower cordial, soaking the flowers in everclear and water (basically vodka, but don’t say that to the Russians).  Andre isn’t in love, but maybe now that I’ve sweetened it in the honey jar he’ll like it more.  I think it’s pretty tasty, and most of all the color is a lovely golden green tint. 

He built a fire so I could start working on the sagebrush beer while I harvested dandelion greens for dinner. I think I’ll toss a few in the beer, too.  It makes a nice bitter, hops-like substitute, without the depressive effects of hops.  I heard that we can thank the catholic church for hops being ubiquitous in beer.  Once they prohibited alcohol production at home, and started doling out the booze themselves, they started adding hops to all of their brews.  Hops has known depressive effects, both psychologically and physically, perhaps most noticeable in sexual situations.  None of my brews have hops, just for the simple reason that I haven’t found it in nature, although I was given an opportunity to forage it from a friend’s garden but didn’t.  Dandelion does quite nicely.  Making beer on the fire is going to be a challenge, and lugging it around in Butter for the next two weeks might prove to be a real pain… we’ll see.

The threat of a storm came as Andre and I were biking through the neighborhood.  We spent the day trying to identify and learn the plants that live here in the high alpine forest of northern Idaho.  I managed to feel certain about 3 new ones—globe penstemon, fleeceflower, arrowleaf groundsel.  None of them edible, although the seeds of the fleeceflower were said to be ground into flower and used by the Pez Nerce tribe, and the roots were boiled.  We didn’t try them, but perhaps we will.  In the meantime, I'll finish up an elderberry flower wine, the sagebrush and dandelion beer, and some plum moonshine... good trades for future encounters with humanity, not to mention yummy treats for us!

connecting with the corals

Yesterday morning, I woke up feeling so connected to the universe, to nature and beyond, that tears came. As I lay sobbing next to Andre, I tried to explain my experience, but I had trouble processing it and experiencing it at the same time, so I just gave up on the words.

We spent the scorching hot day driving across Oregon, seeking out high elevation hillsides. The view of Three Sisters, Mt. Washington, and Mt. Hood, was spectacular, and the snow covered peaks gave me hope for morels.  Just because there’s snow doesn’t mean it’s the right season, but hope is exciting so long as you’re not holding expectations that will lead to disappointment.  

Instead, all we found were some coral mushrooms, one large pink and one small yellow.  After keying out the pink one, which was difficult to do without a spore print, we decided not to eat it as it makes some folks cathartic.  The yellow coral, sautéed on the campfire in red wine and butter was spectacular, and followed a delicious whole wheat pasta drenched in pesto and served with a big bowl of steamed greens… all foraged or gifted.  Sitting by the fire, sipping red wine and nibbling dark chocolate, we pointed out constellations, watched satellites move across the sky, and enjoyed the plantain flowers dancing in the evening breeze under the dim light of the moon.  For a change, we slept out under the stars.  What luxury time is when it means nothing.

24 hours with the Chinook Barbarians

We just pulled out of the driveway and are heading for the coast, going north to Lincoln City, Butter heavier than when we arrived.  Some of our hippie Christmas gifts include elderberry wine, elderberry port, blackberry moonshine, lotion made with an assortment of flowers, dried and fresh toothache flowers that stimulate salivation (and other mucus membranes, ooh la la), dried persimmons, pesto, and many more friends than when we arrived - all of whom I hope will be in my life for a very long time. 

Hobo Lee drew a lovely map to his friend’s farm house and suggested we visit since we’d be in the hood. At first, I felt hesitant to go for a visit since we’d planned to drive to Lincoln City to visit with my girlfriend, and didn’t want to stay too long when we finally decided to go.  That hesitation disappeared when our beautiful farm hostess greeted us at the car and immediately guided us to the river for a quick dip, which after “fighting traffic” on the drive, brought a much needed sense of relief and coolness.  We joined her sweetheart who was already swimming, and Pepper, the farm dog.  They invited us to a potluck at the Magical Forest Farm, owned by a collective where 11 people currently reside.  They grow food for themselves, preserve it using various methods, and somehow make enough money doing who knows what in order to purchase what they cannot provide for themselves.  Many of them make beers, moonshine, but most of all, the make nice wine—elderberry, apple, dandelion, and even good ol’ grape. 

Upon arrival, we took a lovely walk over the grounds skirting along a well-maintained garden filled with zucchini, an assorted mix of greens, beans, peppers, and tomatoes, which our guide called small relative to hers.  Even with people who are so connected to their food, to the land on which it is grown, to each other and nature, there is dialect of war—mine is bigger than yours.  Competition, I suppose, can be healthy, but like the innate preference for sugar and fat, consumption is evolutionarily adaptive, so must be competition.  Perhaps it increases motivation.  Or, perhaps it’s just a function of the individualistic economic structures we’ve built in this country.  Something to PSYCHinfo…

The garden is where I met a really amazing woman, who, oddly enough, looks so much like me plus 25-30 years.  She arrived on the land sort of by chance 41 years ago, married a lovely man, and has been living happily ever since.  We talked about the root of our social dilemmas being our disconnection from the land and food, the premise of my book, about the influx of youth coming back to the land, some of whom have difficulty letting go of their city lives.  You see this in the form of monster trucks and unnecessary toys, essentially bringing mass consumption from the city to the forest.  We talked about how and why things, material or consumable goods, have come to be what we seek for happiness.  Shopping therapy – we’ve all done it. The problem with this as a long-term strategy for happiness, however, is that it brings fleeting happiness, temporary, and it’s certainly not financially sustainable.  We’ll always be trying to get the next fix of dopamine (with a smack on the bend of my arm), and it’s going to cost us.

At dinner, one of the nice hippies told me about a mushroom growing down the driveway, and eagerly guided me over to his find. Having seen nothing of its kind, I immediately thought “shaggy parasol.”  From out in the forest, a man shouted, Agaricus Augustos.  It smelled of anise, had chocolate brown gills and spores, and a yellow-staining shingled cap with a smooth yellow-staining stem.  What a beauty.  I couldn’t wait to show Andre.  This began our foray for its friends, but no others were found, so we walked back to the party just in time for dessert—chocolate cake frosted with chocolate icing and sprinkled the edible flowers, two berry pies, banana bread, and more wine.  The musicians were still playing, kids were running around like a wild pack of dogs, and every conversation sounded full and deep.

We went home and headed straight for bed, having kept the farmers up past their usual bedtime. In the morning, the heat of the sun forced us to rush out of the bus, so I started in on preparing breakfast—frittata with fresh eggs, potatoes from Herbie, onion, garlic, and greens from Johan, and shredded cheddar cheese from Ram. Andre toasted some fresh, dense bread that our hosts got as a trade and loaded it with jam I made from rescued blueberries and Valencia orange slices foraged from campus, and we rang the bell to signify to the farmers that food was ready.  I love feeding people, especially when my efforts are appreciated, and even more especially when I’ve got such fresh ingredients.

This brings us back to the start of my story, hippie Christmas.  I can’t wait to try the moonshine.

logging in Oregon (alternatively, toilet paper in America)

We woke up to the sound of transport trucks zooming past the turnout that we slept in last night. He counted three by the time I woke up to hear my first. Andre told me they were loggers; fellow foragers in some strange way, harvesting logs like Andre and I do for our evening campfires. After breakfast, a medley of rescued and foraged dried fruits (blue and blackberries, raisins, and coconut) topped with our delicious granola, we biked up the hill in the direction of the trucks. The coastal forest was dense and rich and decomposing, covered in moss, ferns, foxgloves and hedge nettle, and slimy snails and slugs. After a few miles, biking through patches of sun and moist crisp air, we reached the site of destruction. Two men, one clearly the boss, greeted us with the same hesitant smile as the farmers we encountered.  Like the farmers, they quickly warmed up to Andre’s friendly curiosity. Bossman answered all of our questions.  He told us that they are thinning, a job offered by the U.S. National Forest Service that goes to the highest bidder. This particular job is a 5-year project, and the contractor who won the bid hired the contractor to whom we were speaking. He told us that they are currently running two trucks, and that each truck carries out 8 loads of felled trees a day, with about 50 or so trees stacked high on the truck. Right now, they are not running at full capacity.  He said once the yarder comes, a system that acts as sort of a conveyor belt for felled trees, they will be able to haul twice that amount. They can only work for 6 months a year, from June to December, when they are required to break so that the marbler bird can reproduce. On the ride down, I calculated what that means… they’re hauling out at least 104,000 trees every year in this site alone, and more than 200,000 when they are operating at full capacity. He told us that because of “strict” regulations (200,000 trees a year doesn’t sound so strict to me), they have to plant as many trees as they take, but it’s hard to believe that actually happens.

After chatting up Bossman for 15 minutes or so, we hopped back on our bikes and rode to an area of the forest that had not yet been cut. Compared to the skeleton of a forest we just left, this patch was lush, the floor blanketed by thick moss that depressed 4 or 5 inches with each step down, bouncing back easily as I walked along. From beneath the moss, mushrooms sprung up next to rotting logs. The sound of logging equipment filled the air as we walked carefully around the hairy trees and large ferns, a constant reminder of what was happening just a hillside away, what would soon be happening here.

And for what do we need all this wood?  Well, 90% of all paper pulp is made from wood, and production of paper accounts for about 35% of all felled trees.  Only about 16% of the trees cut each year were planted for paper production, 9% comes from old growth forests, and the remaining comes from second- or third-generation forests. We use paper for all sorts of stuff, about 30% of it gets used for packaging, much of which gets trashed immediately after the point-of-purchase. The average American office worker uses about 500 disposable cups every year.  Writing in a coffee shop just outside of Salem, Andre and I are drinking out of ceramic mugs that we brought in from the car, a habit I formed years ago in an effort to curb my own consumption and waste.  The average American also uses about 50 pounds of toilet paper each year, roughly 50% more than the average of other western countries or Japan. Given that 1 tree produces about 100 pounds of toilet paper, and there are almost 3.1 billion of us, roughly 153,502,775 trees are felled annually just so we can wipe our asses! 

Toilet paper use is relatively new cultural phenomenon.  I remember my mom telling us stories of how she and her sister wiped with Sears Roebuck catalogs in the outhouse on their family farm. In fact, the first product designed specifically for wiping our derrieres were sheets of manila hemp that were infused with aloe, which were invented in 1857 by Joseph Gayetty. He claimed that his medicinal sheets prevented hemorrhoids, and was so pleased with his invention that had his name printed on every sheet.

His success was limited, however, because like my mom and her sisters, Americans used the catalog. After all, why pay for something that came for free in the mail? Eventually, fancy hotels and drugstores started carrying the product, soon made by the Scott Brothers, but because our culture is so terribly embarrassed by bodily functions, people wouldn’t buy the stuff. According to Dave Praeger, author of "Poop Culture: How America Is Shaped by Its Grossest National Product,” even the Scott brothers were too ashamed to take credit for their innovation until several years after they started production. “No one wanted to ask for it by name," says Praeger, like the modern-day condom or vaginal cream. By 1930, Hakle, a German company, began using the slogan, "Ask for a roll of Hakle and you won't have to say toilet paper!"

How, in just 80 years did we go from complete rejection to using 50% more than other western countries?  Toilet paper is just an example of how much we consume and waste in this country relative to others.  In fact, no one produces more trash than the U.S (insert reality TV joke here); we are just 5% of the world’s population and we generate 40% of the world’s waste.  Out here in the forest, the fact that waste is a manmade concept has never been more apparent.  Nature has no landfills, after all. Plants grow with the help of nutrients in the soil, animals eat the plants, then insects and bacteria eat and decompose the animal dung and animal remains. Finally, the decomposed waste nourishes the soil, and the soil helps plants grow. A perfect, closed-loop system… nature seems to be ahead of the game here – all the green builders and designers are talking about closed-loop systems and she’s been at it forever.  Hmm. 

on time

The only reason I know what day it is today, is because we went to town yesterday.  It’s amazing how time seems so meaningless out here. We rise with the sun and go to bed with the stars.  What day it is carries little importance.  We need clocks because, first, we are slaves to our jobs, second, we are so disconnected from each other and ourselves that we have to make plans in order to fit each other in (we even have to make time for ourselves), and, third, we seek comfort in a vertical hierarchy.  Clocks are the man, the authority.  Just like my telephone tells me to name something that I am grateful for each day with an alarm that I cleverly set years ago in response to a series of studies showing that expressing daily gratitude results in increased happiness, clocks tell us what to do, or rather, when to do what we “need” to do.

It happens to be the 4^th of July, our day of independence from the tyranny of the Brits.  Today, however, I am celebrating my independence from the tyranny of time.   

Foraging with family!

Driving Butter on windy, steep mountain roads isn’t trivial, but I’m getting better.  This morning, after a nice leisurely breakfast, we left camp and headed north in hopes of finding better mushroom territory.  A truck started following me, and got a little too close for my comfort.  I slowed down hoping they would pass, and when they didn’t, Andre made a remark that maybe their breaks weren’t working, which made me even more anxious. When they started honking, I nearly broke into tears.  Finally, they pulled up beside me.  There were Ram and Camila, and Sam was driving.  Running into them here, in the middle of the national forest, was really a spectacular coincidence.  They were on their way to the general store on a stopover heading to a wedding up north. After I calmed down, got lots of apologetic hugs and laughs, we jumped into the truck and drove to the general store, but it was closed on Mondays.  Still, we were gifted with our fourth forage—a triad of hospice nurses on vacation and some young guys offered us hamburgers with mustard, freshly cooked the night before, salami, cheese, and crackers, and some beer to wash it all down.  Finally, real food, which was followed by a handful of dandelion greens to satisfy our vitamin needs.  Bitter, already going to seed, I passed them around like medicine.  Even Sam ate some.