No Chicks Yet, But Garden Doing Well

Well, the duck and chicken eggs proved to be too much for my little broody hen. Other chickens kept laying eggs in her clutch while she was out eating, and eventually it became too much for her little body to effectively set upon. Clearly I need to facilitate the process with a separate enclosure for the broody hens (if I ever have any more).

Meanwhile, I've set up the incubator again in my second attempt to hatch chicks without a hen. Keeping the temperature within an acceptable range to promote growth has been a trick, but after a week, veins and hearts can be seen by candling the eggs. With any luck, we'll have some young pullets ready for slaughter by fall (finally some tender chicken).

Egg sales have been slow, but we do have a few regular customers. We sold a bunch during the weekend of the Caribou City Wide Yard Sale, along with two large coolers full of fiddleheads (we picked more fiddleheads than we could can, so we sold the surplus cheap just to get rid of them).

Most of the vegetables I planted this year are growing. Some are doing better than others. I learned (after I planted) that lime is required to get a good crop of peas. Needless to say, we're not going to have too many peas this year. However, the string beans, corn, and cucumbers are doing quite well. Lettuce and spinach should have been started indoors and are not doing so well. Tomatoes seem to be doing fine. We bought them started from Phil's Florist in Caribou and they've already blossomed.

We do have a few unplanned crops in our garden this year. I found some onions discarded at the wood pile at the local landfill (I know). Some of them seem to be doing well in their new home. We bought two basil plants at a local greenhouse just a couple miles down the road from us. We've already enjoyed some of those in a tomato and basil pizza that Kim makes (yum!). We have also acquired a rhubarb plant from Kim's parents. It's producing small and very sour (and very delicious) stalks right now. I'm hoping for a nice big bush of it in a few years.

Sloooooow Cooked Chicken

Ah, the wonderful slow cooker. How we love thee. Eight hours in the crock pot turns those tough old birds into succulent dinners for two. We've had a few of them now and are ready to get crazy with new recipes for our chickens. The hens are laying at least a dozen eggs a day now, so we're rapidly running out of room in the refrigerator. Kim has finished a fantastic sign for the side of the road to advertise our farm fresh pastured eggs. I'll be putting some pictures of this up shortly. We'll start at $2.50 a dozen and see what happens.

As for butchering and cleaning the birds, I still need practice. I did the last one myself and spent about an hour on the job, which is far to long. Marcus watched me kill the hen, which he handled quite well. He missed most of the gutting due to homework obligations.

Dick gave us a dozen duck eggs from his farm, so I put them in the nesting boxes for the broody among the hens. I have one that's setting consistently, the one that hatched a clutch last year. A couple of the others have tried it, but seem to be on the fence about it and would rather be foraging. Hopefully we'll have both chicks and ducklings within a few weeks.

For a brooder, I'll be using a large wooden box I brought home from the dump. It's deep and long, perfect for a big bunch of chicks. We purchased a heat lamp from the new Tractor Supply Company store in Presque Isle yesterday. The one I bought last year fell apart completely (cheepie from Walmart).

Coq au Vin - 1st Attempt....Still Chewing...

Well, we finally got around to slaughtering some of the chickens. The first to go were a couple of red roosters that hatched last year here at the farm. Following were three of the older (retired) laying hens, making five birds in all. We had Kim's parents come over to the house to school us in the ways of killing, plucking, eviscerating, and cleaning the birds. It's quite an interesting process for somebody who has never had his fist completely buried in a chicken carcass.

After processing the chickens, we sent four to the freezer and kept one out for dinner that night, figuring it wouldn't get much better than a fresh chicken butchered that very morning.

This was the first mistake. We've since learned that the bird needs a little time to "relax" after being processed to allow the tissues to loosen up a little.

For our first meal featuring our own birds, we chose a time honored recipe sure to make a tender and succulent dish out of these tough birds (they get a lot of exercise out here); Coq au Vin, or Rooster (cock) with Wine. Surely we could cook a bird with a few onions and mushrooms as people have been doing for centuries before us. We found several variations of the recipe online and settled on the one that claimed it could be cooked and served in the same evening, whereas others require that you marinade the chicken pieces in wine for at least a day before cooking. Being hungry and eager to taste the fruits of our labors, we decided to skip the marinading and dive straight into cooking.

This was the second mistake.

We knew that marinading the bird in wine served to break down the tissues a bit and make the meat more tender. What we didn't know, having never cooked our own chickens before, was just how tough that meat was going to be. So off we went to the grocery store to fetch the ingredients.

We returned from the grocery store, near starvation by now, anticipating the feast ahead. Well into the cooking process, I reached for a can of chicken broth to pour into the pan with the meat, not realizing that we had accidentally bought a can of vegetable stock instead. Into the mix went the vegetable stock.

This was the third mistake.

After what seemed like an eternity of cooking, we finally sat down at the dinner table with the grand culmination of work that began almost a year ago with the hatching of that bird. This gleaming moment of pride and accomplishment was immediately shot down by what had to be the toughest meat I have ever masticated upon in all my days. While Kim could not tolerate more than a few bites, I sat and chewed on that bird, resiliently and bitterly, until every morsel of him was gone.

After all, one must maintain a dominance over his flock, and I wasn't going to let him win out in the end.

We learned an important lesson that evening. Never, ever take shortcuts when it comes to coq au vin. Between properly marinating the meat and using all the right ingredients, we will, someday, enjoy our cock with wine.

Spelling Lesson

For the record, what I have created is a poultry coop, not a poultry coup, as I have written about in past posts. I noticed this error some time ago and thought that I should point it out in case anybody thinks the chickens have overthrown their evil masters and installed their own government in Orwellian fashion.

Day-Old Chicks On The Way!

I just placed the order for 25 chicks a few hours ago! The order is as follows (all female):

• 15 White Leghorns (these will be kept for eggs, and five of them are for Dick, Kim's father)
• 5 Jersey Black Giants (these will be raised for meat)
• 5 Rhode Island Red (these will be primarily eggers but can be used for meat if needed).

This is my first time ordering chicks from a catalogue, so I'm interested to see what happens. It will also be my first experience brooding chicks; I've let the hen handle that in the past.

The slaughtering of poultry will also be on my list of firsts at some point (some will be meat hens), but that will probably wait until next year when we have some offspring to replace the broilers.

I have also made some changes to the renovations plans of the coop. Kim and I are planning some renovation in the sun room of our house and I'll end up with a whole bunch of lattice to use as chicken fencing. This will allow me to expand the room available for the chicken run. We're going to be taking measurements this week and a trip to Lowes will shortly follow. Woohoo!

Bitterly Cold Winter Claims Lives And Rekindles Renovation Plans At Daigle Farm

As our first winter at the cabin begins to wind down (I realize it's only February), I begin to think about the modifications I want to make to the chicken yard and also what breeds of chickens I want to add to the flock this year. This winter we lost the porcelain pullet, the female snowy duck, the buff Japanese banty rooster, and one of the big red roosters. This brings the body count up to nine since we began keeping birds.

Last summer I began drafting up plans for an expansion of the chicken yard to include more square footage using the existing fencing and a second coup using boards that had I hoped to procure from the local dump. Unfortunately, scrapping up enough boards from the dump to complete the proposed project turned out to be prohibitively slow, and the project was put on hiatus. This summer I hope to revive the effort and expand the operation to house more chickens more comfortably and hopefully reduce the mortality rate. Enhancements to the existing coup include:

• Insulating the walls
• Adding more ventilation for the summer
• Constructing a separate enclosure for ducks (they're messy)
• Installing a heat lamp
• Installing a sign over the door that says "Manure Happens"
  

One problem that I would like to address this year is with the height of the protective netting over the yard. The fencing around the yard is just under five feet tall. In the summer, the chickens are shielded from airborne predators (ravens, field hawks, and bald eagles) by bird netting that is run from the top of the fencing and covers the entire yard. This means that I have to stoop when I enter the yard for feeding or socializing (I enjoy spending time with my chickens). Being limited to the height of the fencing, I will have to devise a way of raising the "ceiling" of the yard to a height that allows me to stand upright while still thwarting death from above.

While all of my birds are well suited to survive in subzero temperatures, egg production completely stops when the temperature drops. I'm hoping that some insulation and a source of heat may promote another month of two of laying.

The new coup will house another twenty or so chickens. I'm also hoping to have a little storage room for feed and implements, if possible.

As for new birds, I'm anxious to see if any of the standard sized hens begin laying eggs this spring. Last year they had a pretty light yield, with most of them not laying any eggs at all. I'm not sure of their age since I got them second hand, so some of them may just be "retired". With any luck, I should also be getting some snowy duck and albino pigeon eggs. To really build up the flock, I'll be purchasing some eggs and incubating them with an incubator borrowed from Kim's father (he raises chickens and many other birds too).

Oh, the places you'll go...

Where The Hell Have I Been?

It's been about two years since my last blog post. In that time, my life has changed irrevocably and for the best. I have found love with a woman from Caribou. Her name is Kim Chabre and her and her son Marcus have become the most important parts of my life. Together, after having spent the better part of two years living at her house in town, we have purchased and settled into what is pretty damn near our dream house. A log cabin sitting on four acres of partially wooded land within thirty feet of the Aroostook River (our favorite place to explore and collect river junk).

What The Hell Have I Been Doing?

I don't spend nearly as much time aimlessly wandering around as I used to (see past posts) or sitting around watching movies, activities that seemed satisfying and even worthwhile at the time. Since I have acquired a family, virtually all aspects of life have changed. When I'm not working or spending time with my family, reading, writing, and raising chickens (oddly enough) are just some of the things I do with my time. More recently, I've become a user of the social networking site facebook.com.

Log Cabin? Chickens? Wha...?

Yup, the past couple of years have been a hell of a ride, and I look forward to many more.

More to come...

Drinkin' And Jivin' In The Big Smoke

I admit it. I harbor a wanton lust for whirlwind adventures in faraway places. Two things bar me from a state of perpetual travel; time and money. Granted, these are not small obstacles and my capacity to obtain either one shows no sign of advancement. Nonetheless, I manage to squeeze in a trip every now and again.

Last week, upon returning from a business trip in Fort Pierce, Florida, which was about as much fun as a weekend at a leprasarium, I set out to visit a couple I know living in Toronto, ON. This was the third year in a row I had planned to take this trip. Each previous year, my vacation was thwarted by work related projects. The elusive "work/life balance" has always proven to be subject to the requirements of the company. However, this year I held fast and managed to escape for two days, making a four-day weekend.

Day One - "The Open Road"

Driving. My god, how far I did drive. So far, it is the longest single road trip I have undertaken, not to mention the most money I've blown on petroleum distillate in a single day. After getting a late start and drastically changing my route an hour into the drive, I crossed the Canadian border around 10:00 EST. I made good time, staying within the $250 fine range (about 80-85 mph) most of the way. Traversing the Trans-Canada is scenic and relatively hassle-free, given the fact that there are only a handful of major cities between St. Leonard, NB, and Toronto, stretching roughly 1,200 kilometers. Twelve hours later, I arrived at my destination with no hang-ups (i.e. I didn't get lost).

My arrival warranted a small toast of wine, Crown Royal, and more wine, compliments of my host and long-time friend. In addition, I was given a fascinating glimpse into the world of Samurai swords. I held a seven-hundred year old sword my hands, forged over a period of six months by master swordsmiths to serve as a showpiece in high-society ceremonies of an ancient oriental era. And I was drunk.

Day Two - "Movin' & Groovin'"

After a good night's rest, Marc (my friend) and I set out for breakfast and a quick tour of his little corner of Hogtown (otherwise known as Toronto). One plate of steak and eggs over-easy later, we arrived at one of the many parking centers for the city's service vehicles. Marc works as a paramedic for Toronto EMS.

He drives one of the ERUs (Emergency Response Units) and is usually the first on the scene of an emergency. I got a quick tour of the ERU, a Chevy Tahoe, retrofitted with state of the art navigation and communication equipment and all the basic implements of emergency medical services (except a stretcher). It even has a portable defibrillator, which I had the privilege of being hooked on to. Just a test, no actual defibrillation, thankfully. For my role in testing the machine, I was rewarded with a printout of my heart rhythm, which now serves as a bookmark in a book I acquired at a yard sale on day three entitled "The History Of Torture."

After verifying that I have sufficient cardiovascular functions, we drove into the heart of Toronto. Specifically, we visited a couple of large stores selling outdoor recreation equipment; biking, hiking, camping, canoeing, kayaking, rock climbing, etc. Coming from a land where a selection of outdoor sporting goods of this magnitude is only available through the internet, I felt obligated to take advantage of the opportunity for instant gratification offered in this holy temple for outdoorsy type people. The place I ended up buying all my goodies was Europe Bound Travel Outfitters. While not exactly spacious, they've managed to cram just about everything I could possibly need to have fun outside and extremely knowledgeable salespeople to tell you everything you could possibly want to know about their wares. I highly recommend it.

Nearby sits Rogers Centre, a gigantic stadium for football and baseball games, equipped with the worlds first fully retractable motorized roof and a built-in hotel with rooms overlooking the field. As we drove by it, Marc told me of how the tax payers of the city of Toronto were ripped off after the stadium, which cost$570 million CAD to build, was sold to Rogers Network for $25 million, roughly %4 of the construction cost. Merde. As Marc pointed out, this is just one example of how the city pisses away money, a pattern which he predicts will bring about a great economic recession in the city. Another example is the overloading of the city with new condominiums without the accompanying upgrades to services such as sewer, electricity, and roads. Buildings are coming up and plans are in the works by city officials to tear down the primary route in and out of the city (to fit more condominiums). Of course, being a bit of a doomsayer, he loves the city and all the controversy it has to offer.

Later in the evening, I ventured out on my own in search of the Beaches Jazz Festival, which happened to be occupying a section of Queen Street East that very weekend. The street was filled with people marveling (as I was) at the great culmination of music and culture that has entered it's nineteenth consecutive year. The music ranged from professional jazz orchestras to local garage-band talent. Many shops opened their doors to the crowd. Restaurants and bars flourished. I had a burger and a few glasses of Guinness at the Lion On The Beach, a quaint little establishment suitable for getting drunk and socializing.

One band that particularly caught my attention was Zed Head, a Canadian rock group with Texas style. They reminded me of ZZ Top (see bass guitarist on the left). They kick arse playing live. A friend of the band even jumped in for one of their songs (pictured on right), producing an amazing jam session. I purchased their debut album entitled "Texas Cufflinks". It made for good driving tunes on the ride back home.

Walking through the festival, I noticed there was no beer to found anywhere. And I looked. Helga (Marc's wife) informed me that drinking in public in Toronto is very illegal, which I'm sure attributes to the city's comparatively low crime rates. Although it does make it a bit difficult to get a beer. In fact, there was point in the night that I was hard pressed to find a bar that wasn't filled to capacity and rejected you at the door. Regardless, I enjoyed the festivities.

Day Three - "Waltzing With The Queen And Gettin' High (about 1,465 ft)"

The previous week or so of traveling and working ludicrous hours had taken a toll on my body and, without consulting with me, it decided sleep until about noon the next day. Thus, roughly one quarter of my daylight hours in what is reputedly one of the most culturally diverse and artistically centered cities in the world was spent lying unconscious in the guest bedroom. After having coffee and pancakes with Helga, I set off to walk the length of Queen Street, east to west, back into the heart of the city to ascend 1,465 feet above the streets to gaze at the magnificent panoramic view of the city of Toronto from the top of the world famous CN Tower...and maybe have dinner while I was up there.

One key feature of the tower (besides being the tallest man-made land-based structure in the world) is the section of the floor in the observatory that is made of glass. Actually, it is a little known fact that the entire floor of the observatory is made of glass. However, when the tower was opened to the public, reactions to the transparency of the floor were less than alluring to other tourists; people started freaking out, being unable to see any barrier between their feet and oblivion. In response to the concern that nobody would visit Toronto's largest tourist attraction, the owners carpeted the floor, leaving a small section for people to "optionally" feel the thrill of looking straight down and seeing the ground more than a thousand feet below them. In reality, the entire floor is glass just below the carpet. Mind you, the glass is about a foot thick, can withstand the weight of over a dozen adult hippopotami, and is not likely to crack under the weight of the millions of tourists that trample over it each year. I even watched as a large man jumped on the glass repeatedly while several small children rolled and tumbled carelessly over the floor.

Having walked seven and a half miles down Queen Street to get to the tower, I was ready for a grossly overpriced meal coupled with a million dollar view. After having seen the entire panorama and watched part of a football game in the stadium directly below the tower (Rogers Centre), I headed up to the 360 Restaurant, which actually revolves in a complete circle to offer you a view of the entire city for a unique gustative experience (pictured on right). A quick glimpse of the menu reminded me of the fantastic economic opportunities to be found in the civilized world. Fantastic enough to be able to spend upwards of $600 on a single meal, not including at $300 bottle of merlot to cleanse the palate. Of course, as stated on their official website, "Elevation is complimentary with the purchase of a main course." Yah.

My meal was not nearly as gratifying as the price tag suggested it might be (although it was not on the high-end of the menu). I've had better meals at my grandparents house. But the view...!

Day Four - "The Journey Home"

Not much to say about the final day of the trip. Again, I made pretty good time and nearly had to sell my soul to fill my tank.

I would like to thank Marc and Helga both for their hospitality and hope to see them again very soon....hopefully to show me a good place to go scuba diving.

Arnold Brook Lake

Nevermind the contradictory name. Arnold Brook Lake is a peaceful little man-made lake located just southwest of Presque Isle, Maine. There are no camps on this lake. Just a few public boat landings and picnic areas. It was this random locality that I chose for my after-work paddle on Monday evening.


Casting off from the concrete boat landing, I paddled some distance towards the middle of the lake, scanning the shoreline for something interesting to investigate. I found a nice swampy area full of dead trees and stumps and headed in that direction. I continued to follow the edge of the lake for a while since it's usually more interesting than sitting in the middle of the lake.

As I paddled, I watched a bald eagle soaring and circling overhead as it hunted for fish. It wasn't long before one doomed little fish found itself being hauled away in the talons of it's predator. Some time later I watched a hawk fishing for his supper, and several loons floated around as well, seemingly unconcerned by my presence.

Then, with the help of my handy monoscope, I spotted a moose feeding in a swampy nook across the lake. I power-paddled to get the other side of the lake. As I drew closer, I slowed down to a crawl and barely moved my paddle as she munched away at grass. With her muzzle half submerged in the murky water, she kept a watchful eye on me as I crept closer and snapped pictures. Eventually, she decided that she wasn't comfortable with the oddly shaped, fiery colored object gliding in her direction, and moved on into the trees and out of sight.

All in all, not a bad way to spend my evening.

Memorial Day Weekend

Ah, the splendid quietude of a remote lake in early summer. Loons call wildly to each other after the sun sets. Old men putter around in boats and drown worms, smoking cigars longer than the fish they catch. Ducks float among the dead trees in the shallow areas where the first and second lakes are joined.

And a young man paddles through and around the lakes wondering how much money some people dish out to visit a place of such beauty and remoteness, such as the one he is now enjoying free of charge. As he floats aimlessly across the water, he reflects that the only thing better than owning a camp in this particular location is being related to people who own a camp in this particular location.

It has been many years since I have visited this place. I used to come here with my parents and another family with whom we did a great deal of camping, canoeing, hiking, biking, etc. They had two daughters and we were practically raised as siblings. A visit to the camp never failed to provide some interesting discoveries for children of our ages; snakes, frogs, endless clam shells, and in one instance, a large stack of Playboy magazines.

Sadly, there was nothing new to discover during this visit so many years later (Playboys were gone, too). However, the lack of stimuli was compensated by hours of reading and floating on the lake. The Wallagrass Lakes are not a high traffic area, which means there are no giant high-speed motor boats roaring across the water or Sea-Doo's zipping from one shore to another. A person can actually sit out on a dock and hear nothing but the movement of air through the trees all day.

There are actually three Wallagrass Lakes. The first and second are pictured here. The third lake lies four miles to the west of the second lake. The water flows eastward, which makes it interesting when a kayaking neophyte tries to paddle westward from the first lake to the second lake and then on through Wallagrass Stream. The shallow passage which bottlenecks the two lakes is easy enough to navigate, even for me. Extra effort is required to keep the current from sweeping you to either side of the inlet. Paddling demands a bit more attentiveness in water that is no more than six inches deep and fraught with rocks and dead wood.

Upon crossing the second lake, I come into Wallagrass Stream. The current is swift and moving against me. The way is filled with shallow spots only a few inches deep and rocks big enough to stop my boat dead in the water. There is no actual whitewater, but there are enough obstacles to provide a beginner with some practice in maneuvering his kayak. I retract my skeg and proceed.

I did surprisingly well navigating through the rocks. I pressed upstream until the current was such that I could no longer keep the kayak in a straight line and move forward, which wasn't very long at all. I turned around and began paddling downstream. It was then that I discovered just how quick the current really was as I barreled towards the mouth of the stream at close to ten miles-per-hour. The rocks and shallow spots which I had carefully maneuvered through a few minutes earlier now presented hasty, and sometimes unsuccessful, negotiations. A few bumps later, I was back on the calm waters of the second lake.

It wasn't exactly Indiana Jones riding a raft over the edge of a cliff and into a roaring river of rapids, but it was pretty fun.

Ode To Sunlight

It's been pissing rain for the past two weeks or so. The break in the clouds this morning inspired this little rhyme.

The sun shone it's radiance
Upon a cloudy place.
Beams of light did sing and dance
On each beholden face.

The brilliant light did bring about
Great merriment out of doors.
To kayak, bikeride, or catch a trout
And imbibe on Killian's or Coors.

Another New Toy...

Necky Manitou 14 (click for more details)

Yes, this is yet another addition to my growing collection of leisure time implements. Purchased at Ski Rack Sports in Bangor, Maine, this baby puts the lakes and rivers of Aroostook into my domain. I took it out for it's maiden voyage on the St. John River this past Sunday, May 14. This was my first ride in a kayak.

Casting off from the small landing area behind my grandparents house near Grand Isle, I paddled upriver to a small island not more than a quarter of a mile away (pictured). A nice little sand beach awaited me where I sat and watched the water flow by for a while. After some time I set off again and headed back downriver, taking time to put my feet up and let the current take me for a while.

I still need to get my paddling technique right and find the most comfortable position for the seat, but I believe this will prove to be one of my favorite investments yet.

Exposed Skin Causes Teenage Girls To Lose Lunch

I'm not a big sports buff. I don't aspire to shave my body and paint it in the team colors, guzzle down Bud Light until I can belch "The Star Spangled Banner", and overturn vehicles in the stadium parking lot out of pure, unadulterated, beer-fueled ecstasy when the home team wins the big one.

But dammit, I like the cheerleaders. Those two and 7/10 of a second they appear on the television (thank you FCC) can make watching a game at a friends house all worth while. The scantiness of the outfits which young slender women are adorned with during gameplay serve as the drawing force of what I believe is a significant percentage of the viewing audience; me.

However, the powers that be without a clue have handed down yet another commandment.

"Thou shalt not show thy midriff."

Why, you ask? Isn't it obvious? Millions of impressionable young girls would rush to the nearest toilet and purge themselves of all the nutrients they ingested from fast food and microwaved dinners. Mercy. We might lose all that academic potential. Lord knows we need all the credit-card-carrying cell phone addicts we can get. Especially the ones who's need for social acceptance transcend general health and well being.

I question the logic behind this decision. When I see cheerleaders on the field, tossing my bean and rice burrito isn't the first thought to enter my mind. The beer-bellied sasquatch with the Viking helmet, however, might elicit some emetic response.

Western Crepomelette at Cora's

On a recent trip to Fredericton, New Brunswick, I discovered a cozy little eatery on bustling Queen Street. 476 Queen Street, to be exact.

Myself, I prefer a breakfast to all other meals. Breakfast is my meal. Any time of day. This place serves a kick-ass breakfast (all day on weekends). Their specialty is serving loaded omelettes wrapped in crepes. Oh yes. Nice looking waitresses, too (don't laugh, this is important). Upon my first visit (implying that I may one day visit them again), I ordered a Western Crepomelette. A western style omelette (cheese, peppers, onions, ham, etc.) wrapped inside of a whole wheat crepe. Oh, rapture.

I did walk around the town a bit. Lots of shops, art galleries, towering cathedrals, blah, blah, blah. If you go to Fredericton, be sure to pay a visit to Cora's and try one of their delicious selections.

I'd walk 11.86 miles for a Pizza Deluxe Sub - Concluded

(Announcer) Yesterday, our hero embarked on a journey into the wilds of rural America, and pretty close to the Canadian border. Today, the final chapter in this modern day odyssey comes to a close.

After what felt like a mile or two on the icy trail, my eyes beheld a sight I had anticipated since I crossed the bridge in Caribou - the Fort bridge. Salvation was at hand. I finally came upon an exit - a trail that led back to the main road. I had grown impatient with the unpredictable nature of the icy crust below me and wanted to spend the next mile or so on solid pavement. By now my stride had turned into a slight stagger on uneven ground as I made my way through a short and winding ascent past the water treatment plant and back onto route 161.

From here it was smooth sailing into downtown Fort Fairfield. A sidewalk presented itself and I gladly stepped onto it. Now onto business, I thought to myself. Where to eat..... Arriving at the main intersection of the town, I made my way through the traffic and headed down Main Street. Passing various shops and empty buildings, I set a course for the only restaurant I knew of in Fort, The Village Restaurant. As I neared the building, I noticed a sign on the sidewalk in front of the building that read "All you can eat buffet!" Now I can tell you there is no better sign to come across when you have just walked eleven and a half miles for your supper. The only thing that might kill your enthusiasm is the sign next to it that says the restaurant is closed on Monday, the day you happened to be walking by.

Crap.

Then it came to me. A vision of myself sitting in a booth devouring a twelve inch Pizza Deluxe sub from the Subway shop just down the street, which I had recently learned had been built as an addition to the existing Irving station. God bless the franchise. Thirty minutes later, I had inhaled the holiest of subs and was relaxing in a booth, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. After a while I thought about what I should do next. I finished my coffee, stepped back onto Main Street and walked to the Harvest Market on the other side of town (about a five minute walk). There I borrowed a phone directory and called a cab from my cell phone. Thirty minutes later I was sitting at home again.

I wonder what I'll do tomorrow? I ask myself.

I'd walk 11.86 miles for a Pizza Deluxe Sub.

Details at Motion Based.



Remember the old Camel slogan, "I'd walk a mile for a Camel"? Chances are you don't because I believe the ad first appeared in 1921. Nevertheless, I would like to take this moment to suggest that Subway, the sandwich makers, should consider taking a similar advertising approach.

Today, I walked from my apartment in Caribou to the Subway shop in neighboring Fort Fairfield. Why? Because I felt like it, dammit. The excursion started out like any other; aimless, unplanned, and ill-equipped. I toted all the battery powered technological marvels I could muster, such as a GPS receiver, cell phone, and digital camera. However, I lacked food, water, compass, map, and basic first aid supplies, all of which are strongly recommended to have on one's person for such outings. Such are the characteristics of my walks; long distances, hunger, mild dehydration, and uncertainty. Although I would strongly hesitate to recommend this manner of day-tripping to anyone, I wouldn't have it any other way.

For the most part, I followed route 161 south (although as you can see from the map, I was heading southeast). For the last mile or so, I jumped onto an old railroad bed, which now serves as a snowmobile/ATV trail, which runs adjacent to route 161. Upon setting off at 12:19 pm, the sky was partly cloudy, the temperature was in the thirties, and the gusts of wind coming from the north were to my back. No sign of inclemency showed itself on the horizon (or on the weather report). Perhaps an overcast of clouds and a dusting of snowflakes later in the day; hardly anything to turn my heels to. Having no pre-determined destination in mind, I set off in the usual direction, which was north on Main street, turning right on Birdseye avenue, and right on Fort street (which is actually route 161). When I reached the intersection with route 1, I elected to cross the bridge over the Aroostook River and make for Fort (which, in these parts, is short for Fort Fairfield). What the hell. I hadn't been that way for some time.

There is a distinct lack of stimuli for both the eye and the mind in the space between Caribou and Fort Fairfield, particularly during this time of year. One must look to the mountains on the far horizon to see anything of interest. The foliage of last fall has been lying beneath the snow for months and now lies exposed and half-decayed on the saturated ground. The surrounding potato fields are empty and the trees are bare, save for the evergreens. Of course, that's the point. Everyday life has it's own extremes, and it's nice to indulge them. Working in the software industry, it is often desirable to have a hobby that can be practiced with little or no cognitive effort. I find walking to work wonderfully in that regard.

I should also mention my ulterior motive for venturing out today. I recently purchased a new pair of Merrell hiking boots. My previous pair had been subject to similar outings in the past year and were due for retirement, with it's seams coming apart, it's heels balding in certain spots, and it's water-resistant qualities nearly gone. The temptation to break in these virgin boots was too great. I'm not made of stone.

Having driven and pedaled through this area, indeed this very route, numerous times in the past few years, I had a rough idea of how far I had to go before I reached the next oasis (that is, market or restaurant). It can be said that within the area of land that I can normally be found walking or biking periodically throughout the year, which covers four towns and approximately 130 square miles, you are never more than 10 miles or so from the nearest town, which means that food and water are usually available to purchase within reasonable distance, depending on the hour and your own physical condition. In today's case, I would find no sustenance until I reached my stated destination. The first signals of hunger came within the first hour of walking. To resist common sense and turn back was an exercise of discipline to which I have become accustomed over many years.

About halfway through, I came to the town line dividing Caribou and Fort Fairfield. Town line signs are curious things. I hardly ever notice them when I'm driving. They seem to appear out of nowhere, as if they sprung up from the ground, when I come across them as I trod through familiar areas. When walking from one town to the next, these signs bear with them a certain degree of futility. I know I've made it to the next town, but it is likely that I have several more miles to travel before I reach any sort of developed area. The sign seems to say, "You have reached the point that you can now claim to have traveled to this town and not be lying. However, it is only the outlying perimeter you have reached, and does not constitute an actual visit to the town in the sincerest sense of the word. Keep moving."

As if to further taunt me, I later arrive at the "Welcome To Friendly Fort Fairfield" sign. Again, this sign is the precursor of at least a few more miles before I have the satisfaction of a comfortable seat and a meal. However, the sun still shone and the ravens still circled overhead, prompting me to press forward. A couple of squirrels in a tree near the road provided some light entertainment for a few minutes as they chased each other up and down the tree, yelling little squirrel obscenities and calling each other names. Probably a territorial dispute. Whatever it was, it was certainly no business of mine so I continued to make my way southeast.

Further down the road, I came upon a familiar sight. Granted, the entire route was very familiar, as I mentioned earlier, however this particular spot bore special significance. It was a patch of ground beside a barn just a few feet from the road. Here on this spot, about seven years ago, I was lying on my back staring into the sky. It was probably around midnight and I had been walking for several hours. It was my first walk of any significant distance, not to mention considerable pain. I had come from Presque Isle where I was attending school at Northern Maine Technical College (now called Northern Maine Community College). That day, I had come to a breaking point of frustration with one of my classes and set off for a walk; aimless, unplanned, and ill-equipped. I traveled northeast on route 167 for a few hours, grumbling to myself and being pissed off at things in general. Being far less familiar with The County (Aroostook County, that is) than I am today, I had no idea to which town I was headed, or indeed if there was a town to be reached at all on my present course. From route 167 I turned onto Conant Road, and then onto route 1A. After reaching Fort Fairfield and purchasing a soda from a vending machine (which was probably the only thing that could be purchased in the entire town at that hour), I stood and deliberated the direction I would take next for a while. I decided, or rather, chose at random, to head northwest towards Caribou. The sign indicated eleven miles between my position and Caribou. I made it about three miles before I reached this point by the barn and where I finally acquiesced to pain and exhaustion on the cool grass. It was at this point that I decided I should return to my dorm room before classes began the following morning. I had nearly forgotten what I was pissed off about anyway. I made it about 7/10 of the way back when I was picked up by a police cruiser who had received reports of a drunken man stumbling along the road between Presque Isle and Fort Fairfield. I denied being inebriated (endorphins maybe, not alcohol) but my staggered manner of walking after so many miles may well have made me look half in the bag. I don't think the officer believed me though, for he dropped me off about two miles from my dorm room, letting me walk the rest of the way, presumably to work out the alcohol.

Anyway, I have digressed from the walk at hand. We now return to it.

About forty-five minutes later, I came upon one of the many historical records dotting the roadsides in Fort Fairfield. They depict the sites and trails that once existed in the area before most of the population (and money) drained out of it. Faded by the sun, the plaque told of an old lumber mill which supplied work and electricity for much of the town in the late nineteenth century. After this brief history lesson, I noticed the sun was now hidden by an overcast of clouds and the wind was growing colder. Time to move on. Beside the historic marker lay a trail that connected the main road to the adjacent snowmobile trail. For the sake of a change of scenery, I decided to hop onto the trail.

I knew the surface of the trail would be packed hard by snowmobile traffic, however, I failed to anticipate the slick blanket of ice that had formed, probably during the last few sunny days and frozen nights we've had. Not only was the ice especially slippery, but it was inconsistent, breaking under my weight every fourth or fifth step and making the trail generally unpleasant. Regardless, I persisted over the treacherous terrain. I've never been quite certain whether this manner of thinking can be defined as disciplined, stubborn, or just plain stupid. However, I did need to test these new boots over the myriad of surfaces that I am likely to encounter, so it can be said that there is method to my madness.

The character of the day had turned bleak with the passing of the sun behind the clouds. The colors of the world around me became limited to grey, white, and a few shades of brown. The trail which I now followed was lined on either side with thick patches of gnarly brushes and dogwood, most of which was covered with a dark fungus resembling animal dung, or smothered by Wild Cucumber bearing vines (Echinocystis lobata).

(Announcer) Will our hero survive the unrelenting dullness of the road ahead of him? Will he ever make it to Subway before he bores us to death with his damn stories? Tune in again tomorrow for the exciting (and hopefully short) finale!

A Walk In Caribou

Behold the timeless tradition of rural perambulation coupled with the wonders of modern satellite technology (click the image to see a larger view). Can life get any better for a wandering idiot? Perhaps, but I certainly can't imagine how. In addition to tracking my movement, speed, pace, and heart rate with a device small enough to strap to my wrist (Garmin Forerunner 301, buy one), I am also given the ability to broadcast my wanderings to the world, compliments of www.motionbased.com. Here the data from my GPS receiver can be uploaded and tied to vast databases to produce a complete statistical analysis of my walk in the countryside, including maps, weather, pace, elevation gain, elapsed time, etc. Check out my last walk by following this link:

http://trail.motionbased.com/trail/episode/view.mb?episodePk.pkValue=523279

From there, you can view my route with various overlays, such as topographical maps, street maps, and satellite photographs. A myriad of other statistics are also available to study for those who really have an interest in such things.

Freedom Poodles And Such

I awoke this morning with the strangest thought in my head; "freedom fries". Do you remember freedom fries? That brief moment in American history when it seemed as though some members of our government had finally lost their minds and Stalin's ghost materialized, pointed his finger at us and said "HA HA!"

It must have been an afterthought to the article I posted last night regarding Newspeak and it's effects on society. Incidentally, after Googling "freedom fries", I found an interesting article in Wikipedia covering the topic. Curiously, it provided a link to another article covering Newspeak. Apparently, I'm not the only one who finds evidence of the worst possible form of manipulation in our daily lives. The article on Newspeak provides a much better explanation of the principles behind it than I can offer. It even cites examples of Newspeak existing in English today.

Here are both of those links. I enjoy reading Wikipedia articles and following the trail of links from one topic to another.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freedom_fries
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newspeak

Alarmists Anonymous

Today's Alarmist Topic: The Great IM Debate (Instant Messaging or Intellectual Minimalism?)

Well, maybe it's not so great. Nobody's really talking about it that I know of, but I feel that the point should be brought up all the same.

It came into my mind after reading about George Orwell's "Newspeak", the language of a grim totalitarian future, intended to minimize and eventually eliminate the capacity for abstract thought and individualism in the subordinates of the state. The premise behind the dehumanizing design of Newspeak is the idea that language is the primary mechanism by which human thought is driven. The richness and divergent possibilities of contemporary languages present the mind with more freedom than can possibly be exercised, stirring the soul into a torrent of ideas with the potential to spread like wild fire across the entire globe. Such is the danger perceived by the ruling class of the fascist led society wishing to crush the spirit of the ordinary citizens, reducing them to mere slaves.

Newspeak seeks to eliminate all unnecessary words, often by removing the opposite form of a word and modifying the remaining word to represent an inverse meaning. For example, "bad" becomes "ungood". "Great", "wonderful", "glorious", and "magnificent" become "moregood", or "goodest". Every conceivable emotion or condition that could once be expressed by a multitude of words is compressed into a single word with a few modifiers to express degree. This compression posits a grave threat to those who adopt it as their primary means of communication. Having a severely limited choice of words has a detrimental effect on one's manner of thinking. Eventually the scope of individualism is narrowed until each member of the populace is indistinguishable from each other by their ideals.

Basically, it sucks the life out of life and turns your mind into soup.

Now to the point. If the concept of "language compression" sounds vaguely familiar to you, it's probably because you've already seen it and experienced it's effects to a slight degree. I am referring to emoticons and other abbreviated expressions popularized by users of instant messaging software (myself being one of them). Are these not the precursory signs of the diminishment of intellectual engagement among the masses? Will we continue to forsake words like "funny", "humorous", "amusing", "hilarious", "witty", "silly", and "clever" for ":-)" or "LOL"?

They say IM brings people closer together. I think there's a double meaning in that. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid :-)

Abortion Doctor's Life Ended By Pro-Life Extremist

I need a little help here...

What system of measurement is employed when a decision is made to end the life of a doctor who performs abortions? Obviously, pro-life advocates must assign a value to a human life that is greater than a mothers wish to bear any or more children. It must also be greater than any governing principles set forth by a society engaged in population control (likely fueled by economic necessity, food shortages, etc.) In short, it must be great.

A pro-lifer may argue that by murdering one doctor, hundreds of human lives are spared from an otherwise premature end. Let us boil the argument down to a single baby. Would a pro-life extremist murder one human being for the sake of another? If so, one human life apparently has more value than the other. How can that be? There must be some system of depreciation in the value of human life, given that the extremist is presumably unacquainted with the doctor on a personal level (which would indicate that their only connection is the topic of abortion) and the only discernible difference between the doctor and the baby is age (and possibly gender, which is another topic altogether). This idea effectively negates the romantic notion that human life is of inestimable value. Not only does it have a value, but it depreciates over time like an automobile. How depressing.

On the other hand, pro-choice advocates stress the need to provide a method of reversing the inevitable effects of human reproductive organs fulfilling the task to which they were ultimately designed for; to perpetuate the evolution of a species. Talk about going against the grain.

Maybe it's better that I don't try to make sense of a debate that has endured for centuries and remains a sore spot that even federal governments have difficulty grappling with.

In other words, don't ask me if I'm pro-life or pro-choice. I don't know. I don't have the world of facts necessary to make such a decision, and if I did, you probably wouldn't like the answer anyway :-) However, if you're fanatical about it and need to decide for yourself, here's a link to more information covering both sides of the issue:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abortion_debate