August turns a corner in the North Country, surprising us with a hint of the autumn coming. I remember this sense of the mutability of the season from my childhood. I'd be out haring around on my horse, and the wind would suddenly have an edge, reminding me that school was going to start soon. A big alarm clock telling me that it was time to brush my hair, get some appropriate clothes, buy fresh notebooks and pens.
This August, we are at the Would-Be Farm, smiting the weeds, checking on the trees, and making improvements to the infrastructure (rain barrels! a gravel pad for parking!). Then came the first autumnal cool front, and suddenly summer seemed to be slipping away.
With the cooler weather, we moved out of the luxury of my sister's house (Hi Sis!) and into Base Camp. I haven't yet installed the solar, so we must get by without the civilization of a fan to blow the mosquitoes around. When the sun goes down, it's all bird noises, frogs, and the faint, mysterious night sounds outside the little tin cottage.
Except for the racket of something large-ish on the deck.
Maybe a cat, maybe a racoon, maybe a skunk or the possiblity of bears –– a pair has been spotted a few ridges over, according to the gossip. The trail cameral shows this series:
We still aren't sure. Is this visitor a raccoon or is it a martin?
About the Blog
A lot of ground gets covered on this blog -- from sailboat racing to book suggestions to plain old piffle.
Trying to keep track? Follow me on Facebook or Twitter or if you use an aggregator, click the RSS option below.
Old school? Sign up for the newsletter and I'll shoot you a short e-mail when there's something new.