Guest Post by Hardscrabble Farmer
I began writing the following piece several weeks ago and never finished more than a few sentences at a clip before becoming too tired to write another word. The work on the farm is difficult, it is labor intensive and it brings with it a deep, satisfied exhaustion that is hard to explain. None of it compares to the sugaring season when we make maple syrup from the collected sap of over a thousand mature maples each year. It begins in the deepest part of Winter when the snow pack can be three foot deep or more, on snowshoes across a boulder strewn landscape that rises almost a thousand feet from bottom to top and it ends with the budding of the maples in early Spring with the final cleanup of the gear and equipment only days before the first seeds are sown. I apologize for the erratic style of the chronicle and for the often technical nature of the piece, but I thought it stood on its own despite these flaws and I wanted to present it as I wrote it, rough and unpolished.
When we first bought the farm we didn’t know anything about the maple trees. The former owner had pointed out the derelict sugar house, it’s roof caved in, the back wall blown out from decades of inattention, but it hadn’t really occurred to me that we would wind up making maple syrup as a crop. The farm had a reputation for it’s syrup back in the early part of the last century, it’s sugar house was state of the art by the standards of 1900; indoor running water, dual evaporators, a finishing room and even tin lines. To my eyes all I saw was a gloomy ruin half buried in the mountain side of the farm, what I missed were the majestic maples that clustered around it and spread upwards for almost a hundred acres, row after row of closely cropped sugar maples, two centuries old.
When you’re tapping you carry your tools with you; hammer, drill with and extra battery and a couple of 5/16″ bits, ratchet tool, tie wire twister, insertion tool, 2 “stainless steel ring shank nails, taps, three ways, joiners, drop unions, caps and extra wire. There’s a small torch, assorted hose clamps, ratchet strainers, flat tip screwdriver, a flat bar and Y’s. You learn to carry your a folding Buck belt knife instead of cutters or a pocket knife because it’s easier to get at. You know to take an oil stone to it every night because plastic hose cuts cleaner with a well sharpened knife. Everything is packed into a canvas slouch bag, with three outside pockets and plenty of room for everything else in the main bag.
You carry the drill hanging off your right side belt loop and hammer hanging from the loop on the left side of the Carharts. I have no idea how many miles are walked in a single day, up the ravines and across boulder fields, down into the pastures on the south side of the farm and back and forth to the sugar house or the barn at least a few times a day for extra parts or something left behind. I do know that by the end of each day during the season by the time I finally shrug out of my clothes and make my way to bed there isn’t so much as a muscle left that hasn’t been worked to its limit. Sleep overwhelms, blankets and swallows me up.
It take at least four complete circuits of the maple orchard each season, one for each run; the primary inspection where each trace is followed from the end of the mainline to the very last tree at the top of each run looking for breaks, downed limbs, damage from moose, squirrel and bear. You carry a chain saw the entire way and by the end of the fifteen mile hike up and down nine separate defiles the weight of it doubles. This first look at how the runs have held up gives an indication of what to expect when the second round begins, repair of the lines. Some trees fail and must be taken out of production, others that were missed in previous years are added. Damage from dropped limbs wrecks tension lines that must be reset. Vermin with a taste for sugar will often chew through the smaller lines at the taps, the unions and even in the middle of the long runs so every step requires that you feel with your bare hand every inch on the lines for holes, cuts, splits or tears, each one to be repaired as you go, from the lowest elevation to the top.
Two thousand taps requires more than forty man hours to cover in a good year, with a deep snow pack wearing snow shoes the time required can easily double. Next comes the actual process of tapping, each tree being drilled with a 5/16 bit to a depth of three inches, above your head and then each tap checked for blockage and replaced if necessary then tapped home with a hammer listening for the sound- tink-tink-tink-tonk- of the spile being driven into place. When you drill the hole you look for the white shavings of live wood beneath to emerge and when the temperature is right and the sap is flowing you stare up at the bottom of the hole until you see the bright, clear meniscus of sap, welling like a tear in a child’s eye before it exceeds the limits of the tap hole and falls, drop by crystal drop, down the rough exterior of the maple. And then you drive the spile home, tap, tap, tap, tonk- the final tone of a tap set properly. Reaching up, placing the tap into the hole, watching the first drops of clear liquid run down the inside of the line is an endlessly satisfying act. One by one, tree by tree, each trace from the top to the bottom connected in an arterial web of blue lines in grey forest.
You have to have enough containers to gather the sap and that much more for storage. We have about 600 sap buckets, most of them are the old zinc, three gallon variety with either folded or curved lids. Each year we hang them up the driveway to the house and on all the big maples that surround the homestead; the backyard, along the slope next to the sugarhouse, along the edge of the paddock. The maple orchard is tapped using mainlines, seven major runs with over two thousand taps in total. At the end of each mainline you have to collect the sap in totes, three hundred gallon food-safe polystyrene cubes surrounded by aluminum cages that can be moved with a set of forks. Besides these there are more than a dozen 55 gallon drums at the end of another group of maple runs.
At the back of the sugarhouse itself there is a reservoir for holding the sap that tops out at just under a thousand gallons. We won’t even fire up the evaporator unless it’s full. We have two additional back up stock tanks, each about 325 gallons. Add to that the countless 5 gallon buckets for cleanup and transferring sap, stainless steel buckets for the hot syrup, 5 gallon storage totes to stockpile finished syrup, stainless steel stock tank, finishers, two 150 year old ten gallon dispensers, old milk buckets, glass bottles and plastic half pints, pints, quarts, half gallon and gallon containers to hold all of the finished maple syrup and you’ve got an idea of just what it takes to handle and store this precious crop.
Being alone in the woods in the tail end of Winter, when the first sounds of birds and the ever present cascade of snow melt down rock strewn runoffs is one of life’s greatest rewards. Spring, not as most people know it, but like the living world outside expresses it. Buds are swelling, skunk cabbage has begun to push from the black loam in the lowest spots, there are small black flies in some of the sap buckets, tree frogs have begun to find there voice and flocks of turkeys, thirty or more in size have taken to feeding on last years cattle pens, flipping patties to root out worms and larvae. The soil on the south side of every boulder is soft and loose, the air redolent of decay and life. I like the weight of the tools, the repetition of each act; inspecting the tree for health and vigor, looking for the old scars from old taps, making the wound and filling it with the tap. Watching the slow fall of the Sun, higher now each day, reaching westward as it falls, casting shadows on the floor of the orchard where the piles of broken branches molder in the half dark along the edge of the stream.
When all the tapping and line repairs are complete and the collection containers set in place the hard work starts. In a snowy year it’s trickier to move the totes full of sap up the steep grades back to the sugarhouse. We use the transfer pump to extract the sap from the collection tanks and move it to the carrier, mounted either on the forks of the tractor, the back of the gator or in the bed of the pickup. You can safely move 300 gallons at a time and each trip including the time it takes to get it into the stock tanks that feed the sugarhouse takes between half and hour to an hour. Collecting the sap from the buckets takes a little longer, especially if you’re working alone.
If I get dry I drink from the buckets- big, slopping swills of clear, sweet maple sap that feed you as well as quenching your thirst. When I first started to do this I would try and get the bucket dumped as quickly as I could so I would waste a single drop of sap, but haste makes waste and I’d spill more over the edges of the tote than I would have lost from the spile, so I learned to take my time and focus on the pour and consider the drip-drip-drip of sweet maple tears to fall down the glistening bark, a toll tax of sorts for taking the time to collect each bucket, filled to the brim. And as each one is set back on the hook the cadence of the drops falling into the empty bucket create a syncopated timpani in the cold, empty air.
The process of turning one thousand gallons of maple sap into fifty gallons of syrup takes about two thirds of a cord of dry firewood, preferably flat slabs of well aired pine cut from the outside of the timber when we make lumber and eight hours of standing in front of a raging fire that must be fed every six or seven minutes. The hot air is drawn from the front of the arch to the double walled stainless steel chimney at the read. Between these two point the super heated air passes beneath two finish pans and the main pan, or evaporator. Within minutes of lighting the seventy five gallons of sap is brought to a roiling boil, foam rising eight inches above the surface as hundreds of gallons of water are turned into steam, concentrating the sugar solution as it moves from the intake end of the rig and moves as it’s density increases. The sugar content of the sap can vary widely from tree to tree and as the season progresses.
Early on the trees that run first are often the biggest ones on the edge of the fields and in the open where their large crowns tipped with thousands of incipient buds draw vast quantities of ground water up through their inner bark to the end of each twig. When the ground is still frozen early in the season the sap is released when the bound gasses release as the air temperature rises above freezing. The sugars are most concentrated and when the water is boiled off the syrup emerges from the process lighter in color and flavor. Because it evaporates faster than later in the season the sugars tend to carmelize in a golden range rather than later in the season when there is more water and the concentrate takes longer to move across the pan, turning the color a deep red and increasing the maple flavor that most people would recognize. The early syrup, graded as ‘fancy’ produces the best candy and a clean, absolutely clear sugar crystal that is far superior in flavor to the kind made by cane. The fire burning in the arch must be fed constantly to maintain a constant boil in the pans. Water boils at 211 degrees, but syrup need 220 degrees, a huge leap in temperature when you’re talking wood fired.
I bought the rig from an old farmer in Boscawen. I had to dismantle the shed where it was stored in order to get it out and when I asked him why he was selling he told me he was “too darn old to keep up with it.” He watched me the whole time and having never done it before I peppered him with questions the entire time. After a while he started to add things to the deal without asking for any more than we’d agreed to- spare parts, old buckets and spiles, an ancient bit and brace with a small wooden box filled with augers.
He told me about a business he had run back in the 1970’s where business men from Boston would come up to his place and stay at one of his cottages with their mistresses and before they left he’d pluck and clean a bag full of pheasants he raised in pens for them to take home from their ‘hunting trip’ as proof of where they’d been and what they’d done. He smiled at the thought of it and told me if you wanted to make it as a farmer you had to get creative, come up with a multitude of ways to bring in hard money. I could see that he was going to miss the evaporator and the annual rite of boiling, but he assured me that he wouldn’t and towards the end he even helped me with the loading of the fire bricks and stainless steel pans into the trailer.
“Mebbe I’ll come up and give you a hand the first time, make sure you don’t burn your pans.” he said, but after I left his place I never saw or heard from him again. I had refurbished and old stable on the property to accommodate the evaporator and serve as a replacement sugarhouse; poured concrete floors with center drains, running water, stainless steel triple sink for cleanup, new windows. I hired a mason to set the firebricks inside the arch, a tricky job that required a specific incline for the rear end of the throat to draw the flames at a constant rate under each pan.
The rig is a 1949 Small Brothers Lightning. It was well maintained it’s entire life and despite two warped doors to the arch, it looks and functions as if it were brand new. The quality of it’s construction, the clean lines of the main pan and the two finishing pans gives it an almost space age quality and if you had no idea what it was for, you’d be hard pressed to make a reasonable guess. It resembles a rectangular race car made entirely out of stainless steel and cast iron and when the fire is lit and the pans are at a full boil it transforms into a living thing, a metallic dragon tethered to the floor of an ancient building, billowing steam from the pans and a a column of grey smoke and florid sparks that spiral skyward in the inky black of a late Winter sky.
One evening after night had fallen, we clambered down out of the woods, treading as carefully as we could in the darkness, carrying out tools and bags full of taps and connectors. The sky was littered with stars and the milky smear of constellations and to the west the sliver of a new moon appeared like a smile in the evening sky. I sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of the pasture and rolled my head back as far as my neck would allow and stared up into the void, picturing the constellations as the ancients must have seen them, the never ending sound of sap falling into a hundred buckets up and down the stream edge, the cold rattle of ice melt flooding the brook. I watched until tears rolled down my cheeks from the cold and as I blinked them away I pulled myself up and headed back to the house, worn out, sore but as happy and satisfied as I had ever been before.
We boiled our first thousand gallons in the afternoon, stuffing dried wood into the mouth of the furnace every few minutes and drawing off boiling amber syrup in two gallon pails every twenty minutes or so. The flavor was like butterscotch, the air of the sugarhouse redolent with sweet caramel. Outside the doors the dogs curled themselves into furry spirals in the snow and every once in a while my wife would come out with mason jars filled with ice water to quench out thirst. In the six years we’ve been doing this the process has gotten more streamlined, and the production more consistent with each season. The magic hasn’t abated a bit though, the transformation of the clear sweet maple sap into hundreds of gallons of viscous syrup in colors that change as the season progresses; lemon yellow, amber, blood red, mahogany.
The work hasn’t gotten any easier, the tapping and tubing and limbing and cleaning. Gathering the twenty cords of firewood and stacking and stoking it, the emptying of a thousand brimming buckets that fill themselves over and over, a cross between Sisyphus and the Sorcerer’s apprentice, the cleaning and polishing and scrubbing of the pans and the pails and the bottles and cans, the washing and the sanitizing, the bottling and the labeling, the power washing and the rinsing, day after day, twelve, fourteen, eighteen hours at a clip in either the freezing cold or the searing heat in the front of the arch that reaches 150 degrees for eight hours at a clip. It is a labor of love, a ceaseless and slavish devotion to the first crop of the year and it’s successful completion, whether a great year or a bust.
The work is constant and unremitting- there are no bailouts, no government assistance or insurances to cover loss, no free labor, no gimmes, no freebies. You put in the work and the bear the cost and if it works out you break even and if it doesn’t you eat the loss and hope for a better yield next year. It is the tradition that counts, the one form of agriculture that can never be industrialized, never taken over by robots, never outsourced to another country, never duplicated. It is something that draws you in and every person who has ever come up to the farm to stick their head inside the sugarhouse when we’re boiling breaks out in a smile and every sip from every vintage is as sweet as the first one you’ve ever experienced. It never gets old. And in many ways it’s a lot like a life well lived; difficult at times, heartbreaking at others, but immeasurably sweet and rewarding, filled with memories and ties to the past and the hopes for the future, and all of it coming from the source of life itself, one drop at a time.
Post Script: The season has been sparse although it is not quite over. This morning there was a snowfall that covered up all the worn out spaces and mud covered ruts in the landscape and though it will likely be gone by afternoon, this morning it is a blank slate out there, clean and open. If the above tale interests anyone at all in trying some of the syrup we’ve produced I encourage you to contact us to order some today. This is not a subtle suggestion, but an in your face plea to help us continue this tradition for one more season by your support. I can promise you that the product we deliver will be as sweet and flavorful, as unique and wonderful as any other agricultural product you are likely to encounter in your lifetime.
There are a myriad of health benefits and uses of this spectacular product that go beyond the traditional pancakes and waffles meme and I will share any suggestions and recipes freely at your request. You can make your friends a spectacular Maple Manhattan or a Rock Maple Martini at your next cocktail party and enthrall your guests with a recounting of just what it took to concoct the delicious potion they’re about to imbibe by reading a passage of this essay out loud, like a I do whenever anyone makes the mistake of accepting a dinner invitation to the farm. If you live within driving distance of our farm I encourage you to stop by and visit and allow me to take you on a tour of the maple orchard and the sugarhouse as long as you buy a gallon or two of the latest production, whether Fancy, Medium Amber or Grade B Dark. I am always available to fill your order or answer any questions you may have,
Sincerely,
Hardscrabble Farmer
Orders can be placed by email at [email protected] or you can speak directly with the hardscrabble farmer himself by calling 603-748-6917 or drop us a card or letter @ Hopewell Farms
3 South Road
Newbury, NH 03255
When Marc and I met for a beer awhile ago, he generously gifted me with a jug of his famous Maple Syrup. After eating mounds of pancakes smothered in his delicious syrup, my diabetes disappeared, I lost 40 pounds, I became as virile as a 22 year old, my looks improved, and my boss told me I deserved a raise. 🙂
But did it solve all your ED and IQ deficiencies?
Who cares? As long as it cures Corona, good looks is just a side benefit.
“there are no bailouts, no government assistance or insurances to cover loss, no free labor, no gimmes, no freebies. You put in the work and the bear the cost and if it works out you break even and if it doesn’t you eat the loss and hope for a better yield next year. It is the tradition that counts”
Thanks for writing this. Sometimes it’s easy to lose perspective on why you labour at such things.
It has been a lean year for us in our business by previous years standards. It is easy to lose sight of why we do what we do some times. I have to constantly remind myself it isn’t just about the money – sometimes it’s about doing what you love and simply doing God’s work.
Appreciated.
Francis
Apparently those who followed the Old Farmers Almanac had better crops this year than those who followed the calendar.
http://www.unionleader.com/article/20160320/NEWS02/160329952
Tapping early is risky because the wounds begin to heal as soon as you finish drilling. If you do it too early, you miss the big runs later in the season, if you do it too late it can warm up on you and go buddy (a bitter flavor).
You just have to play it by ear.
I assume you can only drill once per season?
Yup.
I was wondering about that. Also wondering if you could have problems with your lines freezing up if you tap too soon. I’ve also been wondering if the trees are going to bud earlier this year, shortening the season even more. We’ve only done “hobby” maple sugaring (50 taps with buckets one year), but I do remember the buddy taste of that last bucket of sap!
That year (2011?) we made about 16 gallons of syrup from the 50 taps. Even with giving some away we still have some left. Maybe we’ll do it again next year.
HSF, great essay. Just reading it makes me tired! Set aside a gallon for me if you will and I will try to pick it up this weekend – will email.
Down here in Flatlander, NH, the private high school in town produces syrup as one of their major income streams. Of course they have free labor from their students. They put buckets all over town and collect every day in large plastic bins in the back of pickups. They told me they are doing better this year than in the last two. Maybe if varies by microclimate.
[img]https://www.instagram.com/p/BC6RICtMoBK/?taken-by=emmbeephoto[/img]
That’s JQ on the right in his MAGA hat?
Climate, elevation, age of the trees, sugar content, orientation of the sugarbush, length of day, snowpack, temperature- all the variables come into play. I’d guess that it takes about 50 years to get any good at it. Maybe more.
My friend’s wife is a great photographer, I tried to load a pic of the sugarhouse, but it didn’t work, so here’s a link to her site and it’s sub genre on our farm-
https://www.instagram.com/explore/locations/749083175/
I’m a beekeeper and I can relate. Convincing 20,000 stinging insects to give up their hard-earned nectar is not easy. Between black bears, wax moths, small hive beetles, as well as all the pesticides in use today, it’s hard to turn a small profit. We run 30 hives, a very small operation, but we keep at it. Thank you for sharing.
Me too and as I have mentioned on HSF’s previous posting our season starts just as his ends. Those buds that make his syrup bitter are the desperately needed nutrition that pulls the bees from winter survival to spring buildup and summer swarms.
My father had the great idea WE would make syrup when I was a child. By WE he meant that he would tap 50 or so trees and I would take my sled and 40 gallon container a mile to the woods everyday after school to gather sap. It was truly a miserable experience for me.
When we boiled it off we got maybe 2 gallons that he was proud to show his friends and tell them WE made syrup, even though his involvement was 1 day of drilling and one day of boiling.
hardscrabble — Very well written, enjoyed the info. Thanks
Great post HSF. The title brought this lovely little tune to mind:
SRV used to put cocaine in his coffee. Quit drugs, wrote a bunch of songs about his drug issue an then died.
Too soon, too fast.
What warm glowing memories your story has brought back to me. Thank you.
My Dad, Grandad and my three older brothers, did the major work. I was too small they said, but still my job was cutting and stacking the kindling for the daily sugaring off. Your operation sounds quite modern (stainless steel) to me. Our three concentraters were large cast iron caldrons, suspended by tripods of chains over the fire pit. To prevent dangerous boil overs, he would suspend a fist sized chunk of fatty pork on a thick wire from the chains, to just under the surface of the boiling sap. It worked. Grandad said this was the “secret” ingredient that his syrup so good! When time to change the rendered down pork, the piece was highly sought after as an extreme delicacy!
Grandad was the one who looked after the fire and I was his helper. He used to keep a cast iron dutch oven pot near the fire, with very thick syrup in it. Thinning it now and again with a ladle or two of finished off syrup, when canning (square 1 gallon tins) the final product. The highlight of my day was when he would take some his highly concentrated syrup and drizzle it on some clean snow! Instant maple syrup flavored snow toffee!
All gone now. The farm was sold when I was still quite young. Grandad passed soon after. My Dad and three older brothers and two sisters are gone now also. I asked my Uncle years ago of what happened to those big cast iron caldrons, as I had an idea of saving them. Alas, he told me they went with the iron monger to the scrap yard. Such a shame.
Great read! I’ve never been around a syrup operation so this filled in a lot of blanks. Thanks for taking the time to write and post it.
The sun does shine, thru your door all day
March winds will blow all your troubles away
You are a headlight, on a northbound train
You’ll shine your light thru that cool New Hampshire rain.
I know you rider
As a teen, I got to help my father fulfill a dream of his by “helping” when he restored an old sorghum cane grinder and purchased a multi-sectioned copper pan to turn the “squeezin’s” into molasses.
I was inside on the skimming team, where each section of the simmering juice is constantly stirred and skimmed, tossing the slimy stuff that is NOT molasses aside where chickens and squirrels feasted for days. Like Maple syrup, it was an all day affair and several acres of cane yielded perhaps 50 gallons.
I just sent an email about buying a gallon. My friend Brenda and I were going to split a gallon and I was just about to order it this week — I kid you NOT.
I wasn’t going to order from you… I was ordering from another place but will be delighted to give your syrup a try.
Hardscrabble-
Very informative post and well written. I enjoy reading your articles, they flow incredibly well and you are a talented writer.
HSF…may I assume you can ship the syrup?
He even ships it on the honor system. Huzzah!
Articles like this (and the economic ones ….. and the friday fails … and the people of walmart) are what keep me coming back to this site.
Thanks much for the transport, I don’t think I have ever seen a maple tree, but I would love to get my hands on some of your syrup!
HF
Sorry I haven’t commented sooner — not that it matters —- but, I waited for Ms. Freud to read it first. Her comment — “What a wonderful writer! I can see why you spend much time on TBP.” Yup!
Now, the significance of that is just the other day she suggested I take a long break from TBP after reading the vile stuff “silent majority” wrote. Ha! Yeah, the GOOD stuff on TBP from many writers outweighs the shit-flingers, and keeps me coming back.
Good stuff, man, good stuff.
BTW … we DID land on the fucking moon!!!!! heh
Stucky coming from you that is high praise indeed, thank the Mrs for me.
And no, we didn’t go. To the Moon.
“. . . The sky was littered with stars and the milky smear of constellations and to the west the sliver of a new moon appeared like a smile in the evening sky. I sat down on a fallen tree at the edge of the pasture and rolled my head back as far as my neck would allow and stared up into the void, picturing the constellations as the ancients must have seen them, the never ending sound of sap falling into a hundred buckets up and down the stream edge, the cold rattle of ice melt flooding the brook. I watched until tears rolled down my cheeks from the cold and as I blinked them away I pulled myself up and headed back to the house, worn out, sore but as happy and satisfied as I had ever been before. . .”
THAT was M O N E Y !!!!
You stir my soul with your writings, HSF! It rarely fails that you are the literary high point of my week!
The Steinbeck of TBP.
HSF says: “I apologize for the erratic style of the chronicle and for the often technical nature of the piece, but I thought it stood on its own despite these flaws and I wanted to present it as I wrote it, rough and unpolished.”
_________________________
Sometimes I think “erratic”, “technical”, flawed, “rough and unpolished” is the best way to go through life.
HSF – you are living in an epic way that most of us could never understand, save for your writing.
Thank you.
In my opinion, there is no need to ever apologize or even “qualify” what you write. May the “spelling and punctuation police” go to hell. It’s about content and it’s from your heart.
Like all your stuff before, I loved this piece.
Also, because of my family’s appreciation for a good breakfast, and, because I consider myself to be an expert french toast and pancake “chef”, I plan to order some maple syrup from you soon. 🙂
Thank you again…
And – I might just order some extra as well (for beyond breakfast). The Maple Manhattan and Rock Maple Martini sounds awesome! I’m in.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgB25WBeBxA
I took a 2 hour nap after reading this, HSF. Such timeless, descriptive prose. Thanks for being here.
I’ve got a two hundred year old stone farmhouse with a few acres, there are half a dozen sugar Maples in front of the house and a couple of years ago I tapped them.
When we were done, I figured out that the astonishing amount of work that came for one gallon of syrup cost about $15 a pint. Stripping out capital costs, my labor was saving $0.43 per hour over buying it on Amazon.
” I figured out that the astonishing amount of work that came for one gallon of syrup cost about $15 a pint. Stripping out capital costs, my labor was saving $0.43 per hour over buying it on Amazon.”
It’s a labor of love.
All shipments have gone out and I wanted to say thank you to the people of TBP for your support, it has made a big impact on our family.
Thank you very much, every one.
I’m well into my 2nd gallon of the dark gold. I don’t eat pancakes but I like to drink and can taste every word of your story in every drop. Replenishment soon.
HF, a fine essay on all the work involved to produce the magical syrup. I contacted you about two quarts of the fancy. As I told you I have been handling the three quarts you sent in the past like the gift of the magi no matter what grade sent. I have requested wife read the essay to open her eyes on the labor that is involved. When one has tasted yours the LL Bean, Costco and the rest are also rans.
Thank you. It was a pleasure to read.
Beautiful article and it really is the best damn syrup ever made. If you’ve never had it you’re missing one of life’s simplest and purest joys. I’m going to post this tonight and see if I can get HSF some well-deserved orders.
Thank you, Farmer. This was beautiful. Every time I read one of your stories, I am transported to another time. I caught myself grinning like an idiot many times while reading this. It gave me a warmth in my soul. A memory of a home long ago and of grandparents long since passed. I feel a bit contemplative now, wrapped in the shroud of the past that you helped to conjure. I thank you deeply for these stories and I will be contacting you for some of that syrup!
I have two sugar maples on my property here in Memphis. I do not know why any sane person would plant trees like those in this climate. They are water hoarders and spread surface roots viciously. I am now looking at removing the one in the front yard due to the roots invading my sewer line between the house and the city main. The invasion of the sewer line by the sugar maple roots have caused my home to be flooded twice due to clogs in the line. This flooding ruined a floating wood floor in the home. Currently we are living with bare concrete floors because we fear another clog induced flood. Another concern is the roots damaging the slab foundation of my home.
Mowing the front yard is a nightmare even with the mower blade housing on the highest setting, the roots are hit by the blade. On the plus side, my yard is mostly weeds. This is because the tree limits the amount of sunlight hitting the ground and the tree soaks up all surface rain water to the point that no grass will grow. Mowing the front yard results in clouds of dust reminiscent of the dust bowl era. Wearing a particulate mask is required. As an aside, I watered the front yard for 30 minutes one day and before I finished mowing the yard all the surface water was gone and the dust returned.
Removing this sugar maple monstrosity in the front yard will cost me a small fortune. I have estimates ranging from 2000 to 9000 dollars from local tree companies. One company suggested I cover all the roots with soil. Of course, they will eventually grow out of any soil placed on top of them. I am on a fixed income so even the smaller removal figure is a considerable hit on my budget. However, it is considerably less than the 11,000 dollar quote I received to replace the sewer line from the house to the street. Not to mention what the projected cost of the eventual repair of the slab of my home might come too.
The remaining tree in the back yard splits a property line and while I can have the portion that intrudes into my back yard removed, that will not solve the issue with the roots. They are so bad instead of grass around the portion of the tree in my back yard there is ground cover, which by the way covers 25% of the back yard, planted to cover them. As long as the tree is alive, the root system will spread and damage anything in its way.
My current plan is to get the sewer line replaced, the tree in the front yard removed, grinding the stump and roots down to the yard surface then sodding the front yard, new floors installed and the then sell the house! All at a projected cost of about 30,000 dollars. Afterwards, the object is to get out of Thug Land aka Memphis, Tennessee!
Sounds like you should build a tree house instead…
A nice memory was a school field trip to a maple syrup farm. The article was great.
Drilling above your head? Really, HSF?
My grandfather’s farm was in the far East of Ohio … in and around Amish country … and we’d see countless maple trees with buckets being filled.
All of those buckets were just above waist level … so what’s the difference that makes you drill above your head? I’m truly curious …
Anyway … enjoy the day … enjoy the life you’ve got …
We get a lot of snowfall in our region, sometimes there’s as much as four foot of snowpack at the beginning of the season. The harness (the drop lines and taps affixed to the trunk of the tree) has to tie into the mainlines which are set at a fixed height above the snowpack- set the mainlines too low and get a heavy snow year and all of your work would be buried and inaccessible.
When you have 3,000 taps and half a dozen mainlines you can’t just go out and reset everything if you have a year like this one when there’s virtually no snow left when we begin to tap so you work with the harnesses as they were originally set.
Some years you have to get on your knees to drill the holes, other times you have to bring out a small step ladder. Vagaries of the season.