Fish Tacos

On the menu tonight are fish tacos featuring northern pike from the Michipicoten River, upstream from where the grand tributary comes sliding off the Canadian Shield and empties into Lake Superior.  The package from the freezer is labeled “30 inches”, a perfect size for eating. I have no memory of catching this particular fish— it is just as likely Lee holds the honor— but even in its frozen form it conjures vivid images of a fine country and a fine river and the angry pike that inhabit it. 

I suppose they are not truly angry, but a bony ridge above their eyes gives them something of a furrowed brow, and their behavior typifies one whose patience is long exhausted. They often bump a lure, then strike hard, and if at first the hook doesn’t set they are likely to have another go at it, angry as they are.  Maybe the fish destined for our table was the one that lay hidden beneath a shoreline log and took the spoon within a nanosecond of hitting the water.  Or maybe it was the one perfectly camouflaged in a forest of potamogeton who found the jerk bait irresistible or just too annoying.  It doesn’t matter.  They all hit and fought with great vigor, and are equally appreciated.  

Our dinner plates will hold the very essence of that old voyageur route snaking through the Algoma Wilderness.  On a flour tortilla, in a fillet coated with spiced breading and fried to golden perfection, will lie the river’s black water holes, its shallow flats, its shoreline of cedars and spruce. There will be a smooth sauce of mayo and home canned salsa, our frozen corn brought to fresh picked sweetness with a dab of butter and simmer of heat, a helping of shredded cabbage, a spoonful of diced black olives, a finely chopped green onion, a sprinkle of Parmesan.  

I could go to the market and buy fish. It might taste as good or better than our pike, but it likely would have been harvested by some ocean going vessel equipped with the finest technology, towing a huge net that bounced across the ocean floor, destroying reefs while collecting countless non-targeted species.  And every year the ship travels further and works harder to locate its prey because populations are a fraction of what they once were. Overfishing and the destruction of mangrove shorelines and a general decline in ocean health has taken its toll. 

I know exactly where the pike came from, how it was harvested, how it was handled prior to eating.  I know it came from a sustainable fishery. I know of a quaint northern community that benefits when folks from outside come to spend money and time in wild country, and to catch fish. It’s a win on several fronts.  

It can be reasonably argued that there’s nothing local about fish that are 650 miles away, that no ecological good comes from our road trip, and after tallying up the costs of licenses, gasoline, gear, and assorted expenses, a market fish likely makes more economic sense.  We could fish locally, substituting panfish for pike.  But our trips north are more than the fish we bring back.  Over a couple decades we have made improvements to a simple off grid cabin, found lady’s slipper and calypso orchids in bloom, picked wild blueberries, watched moose and bear, wolves and lynx, attended area fish fries, developed solid friendships.  It’s hard to put a price on such incidentals. 

In the beginning were more innocent days, when true environmental costs were not at the fore, when a run up north was only dictated by arranging free time and justifying the dollars spent. Those days came with an illusion that we were living simply and independently while there, when in fact we were heavily reliant on gasoline, propane, and staples that all needed to be shipped to a remote community which was a half hour drive from our cabin.  In reality, we were more independent and would have made a lesser environmental impact had we stayed home with our garden and solar panels. 

The world has changed, and the travel and routines and conveniences we’ve taken for granted can no longer be assumed without consideration of environmental costs. It's a valuable and necessary change, long overdue, and begins with simple awareness. 

I haven't a clue where the olives for tonight’s tacos were grown, how they were processed, how far they traveled to reach my store’s shelf. I know nothing of the Parmesan cheese.  But the pike came from a reliable source which is under no critical threat, and in the fillet are sweet memories of a wild place where angry fish reside.  All things considered, it may cost too much, or it might be priceless.  

Maybe Not As Bad As It Seems

 I have a routine of enjoying a good amber ale in late afternoon.  On summer-like days I’ll sometimes take it on the deck overlooking the pond, where there is always activity in the form of a wayward muskrat with a mouthful of succulent iris, or a squabble among geese, or swallows dipping in low on iridescent wings to snatch insects at the water’s surface.  My wife and old dog join me, and at some point in the activity I typically generate a deep and satisfying belch which I blow in the dog’s face.  The dog recognizes this as a personal and powerful bonding mechanism and seems to enjoy it immensely.  My wife, not so much.

In the garden is a conundrum, first experienced a year ago in the sweet corn patch.  The seeds were planted as always but germination was very sporadic, with long sections showing nothing.  I decided to replant the voids and found a mole tunnel occupying the space where corn had been planted, so I filled in the tunnels and dropped in new seed.  A couple days later the tunnels were back and the seed was gone.  There was a third failed attempt, so ultimately the seed was started in flats, the freshly emerged corn transplanted to the garden, and in the end we had a successful crop. This year the corn was planted and the space between rows immediately mulched with a thick layer of grass clippings for weed control.  In about three days I again noticed mole tunnels running down the center of almost all the rows, and where the mole had been, not a seed could be found.  

The mystery is this:  Moles are insect eaters.  I have to date found no documentation of their seeking out a kernel of corn for food.  Instead, the references say, there is a vole traveling the mole tunnel and devouring the seed.  With 600 corn seeds planted in flats as backup, today I will experiment using a turpentine dampened cloth to spread some stink on the seed surface before replanting the patch.  I suppose the answer is immaterial because the objective is to raise a crop of corn, and vermin, in one form or another, is making it difficult. But I highly suspect that moles, regardless of their known food preferences, are the culprits.  Why else would they make parallel tunnels two feet apart?

In other news, I was out collecting garden mulch the other day and happened upon a patch of wildflowers which, prior to this year, had gone unnoticed.  They covered the ground with a violet mist and occupied an area at least as large as our kitchen table.  I had no clue what they were, so in fading daylight Lee and I went to the spot for closer inspection and to collect a specimen.  Turns out they are a member of the waterleaf family and known as Miami Mist, which is a reasonable common name because their delicate and heavily fringed petals indeed have a misty appearance.  They are also known as Scorpianweed, which is a name having no logical sense.  They occupy rich woodlands throughout much of the Midwest, east, and south.  I am not at all sure how they found their way to this property but am happy enough they did.

The heat has come on strong in this latter half of May.  We have resumed our daily swims in the pond, which for me is synonymous with nightly leg cramps. But somehow an hour of flailing about in water, gasping for air as my pulse triples, feels like a good thing. The garden, with the exception of sweet corn, is literally exploding.  We had fresh picked strawberries last night alongside generous portions of an asparagus, rice, and cheese casserole, infused with chopped green onions and garlic sauteed in butter and wine, smothered in a thick chicken broth and cream sauce, and topped with cheesy bread crumbs baked to a crisp.  

It’s a great time to have a working mouth and functioning gut.  It’s a glorious time to stumble upon a heretofore unknown wildflower illuminating an area of woodland, to ponder garden vermin and challenge conventional wisdom on the food habits of moles, to watch a little green heron, frozen to a log, poised to pluck an unsuspecting minnow.  In a world that is barraged with threats mostly of our own doing, there is real contentment to be found on a pondside deck following an invigorating swim, a chilled ale in hand, a good wife, and an old dog looking for an intimate bonding opportunity.  Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.

The Best of Precarious Times

 My wife and I are both of German descent, with parents and grandparents directly linked to our ancestral home.  I’ve never made much effort to explore the family tree, to become familiar with individuals or their values, how they earned a living, why they left the motherland.  Maybe if I looked I’d find some explanation for my quirky behaviors.  Sometimes I think I should learn the language as a way of paying homage, or to be ready in the event the ghost of a dead relative appears in a dream and says, “Joe, wir sind eine Familie. Können wir reden?” but I understand nothing so the opportunity is lost. 

Some spiritual teachings claim we have always existed in one form or another and select a period or multiple periods in earth’s history to live our human lives.  We choose, seeing a particular opportunity or purpose. It’s an interesting concept, but what could be the motivation to be born into abject poverty, a life of slavery, plagued by incurable illness?  

If I’d had a choice, I would have joined the family tree as part of an early Germanic tribe and lived in a community of farmers, keeping a wary eye on the Vikings and Romans. Or I would have been on an early boat and among the first settlers moving west across a perceived untouched country, thrilled by the prospect of receiving land given freely by a government that simply claimed that land with little regard for its occupants.

But maybe, as a Marcommani or Ostrogoth or some other Germanic tribesman, I’d find discontentment on the farm, grow tired of beating out a living with primitive tools, perpetuating an existence that had endured for millennia. Maybe, as an early US immigrant, I'd be less interested in the welfare of a seemingly inexhaustible wilderness than on tools and practices that promised an easier and more efficient livelihood. I may have shared the ill conceived notion that native Americans lacked sophistication and were incapable of appreciating the better life we offered.  

I don’t believe I had a choice of ancestors or a time in earth’s history, but simply hit the jackpot.  I appreciate a good metal tool, even more a hydraulic machine that delivers tons of force at the flick of a lever.  I appreciate advances in medicine that cure disease, replace worn bones, allow a rogue virus to be tamed in record time.  I like hooking up our popup camper and driving 6000 miles.  I love the internet, with all the knowledge of the world at my fingertips.  I like cooking with gas, a well stocked grocery, refrigeration, glass jars, endless conveniences.  I don’t like supporting the world’s richest man, but when I order an item from Amazon and get it in two days, I‘m happy. I live in a world where in a matter of hours I can be anywhere in it. 

So much of what we have and take for granted comes at an environmental cost that can not long continue.  A fox that raids the henhouse nightly will one day find it empty. Rats in a New York alley live large until resources run scarce and they turn on each other.  What our ancestors averted for tens of thousands of years we have brought to bear in a couple centuries.  Our concern for the welfare of the planet is not good enough, but if we had it to do over again and without the knowledge of today, would we do anything different?

I like sliding into an electric car charged to full power by sunlight, and growing food using the same simple principles and methods practiced by ancestors.  I like recycled products  and for our future’s sake nothing should be made that cannot be totally recycled.  Cradle to cradle, zero waste. I like the promise of hemp products, everything from clothing to carbon negative construction materials.  I’m thrilled by the almost daily advances in renewable energies, agriculture, and other sciences that meld with natural systems and offer genuine hope for a long and sustainable future.

 

This morning the sun rose on a sparkling spring day following a gentle two inch rain. The crabapples and lilacs are in full bloom, oak leaves are the size of squirrel ears, three broods of goslings are exploring the yard, asparagus spears are in need of picking.  We watched as 13 hooded merganser ducklings leapt from a nest box, urged on by a nervous mother. The entire countryside is literally exploding with life. I took photos and within seconds shared them with the world. Thanks to a string of Germans who kept the lineage alive I am here to see it all, in the best of precarious times.