Maple sugaring - that's what we're doing right now - is an exciting mix of frenzied work and long hours which culminate in a deliciously satisfying reward of full-bodied maple syrup.
We excitedly anticipate it even though it leaves us exhausted at the end. In fact, when I add up all the time we spend on it, I’m not sure it even pays to do it.
But we, especially Bill, can’t stop because we are addicted - me to the taste of the syrup; Bill to the process of making it. He loves heading out to the cold, often snowy woods which inevitably turn to a thawing mess of wet slush and slippery mud before the trees bud out and the last of the sap is hauled up the logging road to come home. He transforms before my eyes. If winter represents a slower time of reflection and planning for warmer seasons, sugaring represents a jump-start to action. And Bill epitomizes it.
He isn’t averse to enjoying downtime in the winter. He becomes more sedentary. His beard gets scruffier with more white showing every year. He wants to go to bed as it gets dark (Really? You’re going to bed at 6:30?). I get a glimpse of the old man he’s just starting to become as he relaxes in his rocker.
Then the weather changes a little. The sun shines a little brighter, making the days warmer even though the nights remain below freezing. Magic happens. Bill and the trees awaken. Changes of pressure inside the trees force the energy-filled sap, which was stored in the roots for winter, up the trunks to fuel the budding process, and then back down at night. And Bill feels his own kind of pressure: he doesn't want to miss the fleeting impending sap flow.
He gets up before the sun to rummage around in his syruping equipment. He checks and re-checks the weather outlook, trying to predict exactly when the sap will begin running. He puts together new taps and cleans old ones, he washes the 250-gallon collection totes with the pressure washer, he checks over the 4-wheeler so it's ready to haul the sap out of the sugar bush, he sets up the evaporator, and he splits wood in anticipation of the coming cook.
Then he heads to the steep ravine of our sugar bush, kids and me in tow, to check and repair sap lines knocked down by fallen trees, the wind, or deer. He directs us to bring him tools and supplies as he moves up and down the treacherous incline. He drills holes in the bark and screws in the taps. He places the collection totes at the ends of the lines in the bottom of the ravine.
I huff and puff as I climb, my legs feeling rubbery, not sure if I should be worrying more about having a heart attack or the possibility of slipping and flinging myself down the hillside - slamming into rocks and saplings on my way to the bottom. Yet while I know it is affecting him the same way, it doesn’t show. The aches and pains in his back and knees, which the kids and I are intricately familiar with, seem to disappear. I don’t know if they really do, or if he is just running off adrenaline for a month straight. Is that even possible?
All of a sudden Bill seems 20 years younger. The impending old man fades, and I see Ponytail Bill (as my Aunt Lee affectionately called him before he started losing his hair and cut it short). He tells us stories when as a kid he would get up, pack a knapsack of water and snacks, and disappear into these same woods, not coming home until dark. Sometimes his family life and school were hard; the woods gave him a needed respite from it all – a chance to feel space and let stuff go. He learned much about life and himself during that time. It all comes back and rejuvenates him.
But eventually I get impatient with Bill’s maple syrup mistress. When she comes to visit, practical matters are forgotten to him. Meals, other cho