The Ash Borer Is Coming

The Ash Borer is coming and, according to my forester friend at www.theforester.com, there is nothing anyone can do about it.

The Agrilus planipennis, or Emerald Ash Borer as it were, is thought to have originated in Asia, riding the wood packing material in cargo ships making the long journey to North America where it continues to ravage our beloved North American Ash tree, the tree at the heart of America’s favorite past time. Because of this hardwood’s inherent traits of strength coupled with elasticity, Ash is the chosen wood for the vast majority of baseball bats (and bows, electric guitar bodies, office furniture and others.)

The frightening part, especially to landowners like me with nice stands of middle-age ash trees, is that despite a massive, multinational undertaking involving federal and state governments, universities, conservation groups and private landowners there is no known solution to stopping or destroying the ash borer.

While there are quarantines regarding the transportation of Ash timber, containment is failing miserably. Chemical treatments to affect or disrupt the beetle’s life style are largely ineffective. The EAB deposit their larvae under the bark. When the larvae begin to feed, their “galleries injure the phloem and xylem that make up the plant’s circulatory system¹”. Systemic insecticides must be transported within the tree itself making an already weak tree even more vulnerable much like chemotherapy used in the  treatment of cancer in the human body.

Many landowners have chosen to harvest their ash trees in an effort to hedge some timber value before the worst can happen. This may seem precipitous to some, however, like many landowners, I have lost every last hemlock tree on my land over the past 3 years to the Woolly Adelgid. The Eastern Hemlock is a magnificent tree with a tremendous heritage. Yet, the Pennsylvania State Tree is disappearing quickly to this fluid-feeding insect.

We could continue to lament the loss of the American Chestnut, the Dogwood, the Cedars, the Pines. There is now concern over the Beech Blight Aphid. To lose the American Beech, the exorbitant provider of mast to a diverse order of Pennsylvania woods inhabitants, would be crushing to see as I hike my favorite mountain benches in the Northern Tier.

I am working with our forester as to a course of action on our woodlot, however, the answers are not clear.

Yet, I cannot help but wonder about the socioeconomic forces of globalization that has brought this devastating destruction to our regional ecosystems. I cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, the boundaries of nations have been ordained by a Higher Power. And I certainly give pause over the purchase of more junk from a foreign, cheap-labor market when I imagine the little nasty’s riding in the packaging of my new big-screen TV or designer jeans.

¹http://www.emeraldashborer.info/files/Multistate_EAB_Insecticide_Fact_Sheet.pdf

On "Moving On"

The wisest man in the world viewed life through the contextual lenses of “seasons”. King Solomon perceived that there is a season for all aspects of the human experience.

To acknowledge that we are always in a season is to acknowledge that the current season will eventually come to an end and that we will enter into a new and different season. In fact, this is the premise of the promise of Hope found in the Gospel. This ideology may be just enough to help us get through a dark season. And it should be sufficient to help us make best use of a bright season. Because, ultimately, both are in the process of coming to an end.

This holds true for relationships, both personal and organizational.

Andy Stanley writes, “Leaders love progress. Progress is what keeps them coming back to the task. Nothing is more discouraging to a leader than the prospect of being stranded in an environment where progress is impossible. If we can’t move things forward, then it’s time to move on”.

Moving on can be very difficult. Yet, moving on, by definition, can be a valid even a healthy and necessary function of change.

Stanley continues, “Progress requires change. If an organization, ministry, business, or relationship is going to make progress, it must change. That is, over time it must evolve into something different. It must become better, more relevant, more disciplined, better aligned, more strategic”.

“Moving on” then can be a function of progress rather than a negative or even a failure. While the current season is ending, a new season is beginning for both parties. And, perhaps, with the sun rising on the new day, we enter into a period of time where progress follows and the sacrifices requisite for healthy relationships are but a blessing to claim.

The Boys' First Hunt

(Ben age 5, Gabe 3)

2 months prior to first day of rifle season:

Boys excited and talking endlessly about what we are going to eat in the tree stand.

1 month prior:

Gabe has a backpack, “go bag”, and plastic shopping bag packed ready to go for our hunting adventure.

Night before:

I help the boys pack their backpacks. After they go to sleep, I take the 5 lb. rock out of Gabe’s bag that was to be used to “drop on the coyotes and smash their heads”. I do this knowing that I will be the one who will end up carrying his backpack.

Morning of: 5:00 a.m.

Boys pop out of bed raring to go!

Jill graciously gets up with us to make hot chocolate and help pack our tasty treats.

The hike to the stand: 6:15 a.m.

We are running 15 minutes late despite the fact that I woke the boys half an hour earlier than planned.

6:17 a.m.

 I'm perpetually blinded by the headlamps the boys are wearing. I stumble on.

6:19 a.m.

Gabe hands off his backpack. I carry it in addition to my pack containing 30 lbs. of snacks and beverages.

6:25 a.m.

Gabe trips and falls (again) getting his hands wet in a seep. It's 23 degrees. I hold Gabe's hand the rest of the way. I vow to bring the 4 wheeler next time.

6:27 a.m.

Can't get Ben to stop talking. No matter - could have driven a bulldozer through the woods in a quieter manner.

We arrive at our stand. 6:30ish a.m.

Ben stomps his wet, muddy boot on my fleece hat while climbing the ladder.

Manage to get all 3 of us into the tree stand along with 3 backpacks, 3 five gallon buckets to sit on, a small propane heater, and 1 rifle. I am soaked with sweat. It is still 23 degrees.

Gabe sits on his pack - I can hear the crunch of his bag of pretzels.

The boys scan the darkness wondering where the deer are. I advise that the deer are in the next county.

The boys wonder why we can’t see them. I advise it is still dark outside.

6:35 a.m.

 The snacks are now sprawled over the entire stand. Gabe is worried he didn't thank his mom for the snacks. I assured him we would do so upon our return.

I advise the boys that we will get out the hot chocolate when it gets light out.

6:35:15 a.m.

The headlamps are confiscated

6:36 a.m.

The boys ask if it’s light enough to get out their hot chocolate. I advise that it will be quite apparent when it becomes light out.

6:37 a.m.

"Gabe! You are standing on my glove!" “Ben! You are hogging the blankets!”

I advise that we are never going to see a damn deer if you guys can't be quiet. Ben advises he sees a deer. I advise that it’s still too dark to see.

In a desperate bid to achieve equanimity, I relent and haul out the hot chocolate.

We are hunting! 7ish a.m.

Can't hear a damned thing with Gabe chomping on pretzels and Ben’s open-mouth eating display of “ants on a log” (celery with peanut butter and raisins on top).

 "Shut up.”- my 13th warning that we are hunting NOT talking. Ben tries to whisper something in his ultra-abrasive, guttural, bellow of a whisper. I ask him if he wants to go back to the house. He advises he "hears something".

I pause and listen. I hear something too. A deer-sized animal is walking below our stand. Gabe dumps his entire bag of trail mix in our blankets and chaos ensues. We no longer hear “something”.

Still hunting... I think. 8ish a.m.

Gabe advises he forgot his battle ax. Ben gets out his cowboy six-shooter. I warn them of impending bodily injury if they start whacking and shooting each other.

Gabe stands up and knocks his head into the food shelf dumping Ben’s trail mix. Fortunately, the hot chocolate is long gone. There is a free-for-all of picking out cashews and raisins from our blankets.

Ben asks if I see any deer yet (for the 10th time). Ben advises that we'll never see any deer which has been my ongoing refrain.

Gabe finds in his bag his deer grunt call I gave him for Christmas and I let him make a few bleats. He likes that and wishes to continue. I advise him that we can’t overdo it or we will chase the deer away. 7 seconds later, Gabe asks if it’s time to bleat again. I advise that I will certainly let him know when the time comes.

Gabe is cold. I fire up Mr. Heater Buddy, a portable propane heater. After Gabe kicks it over on 3 separate occasions requiring 3, separate, noisy, ignition-button starts, we enjoy its heat. The boys take to calling it “Mr. Friend”.

 The boys want to lie down. I hang their 5 gallon bucket seats off the side of the stand to make room.

Gabe slips in another deer bleat call and I ask him if he would like to eat the call because that's the next step if he persists in calling.

 I have to pee like a race horse but don't want to start the assembly line process of fishing everyone’s apparatus out of 6 layers of clothing followed by an attempt of peeing over the tree stand railing. I acknowledge that this procedure is inevitable.

 A deer bleat emanates from the floor of the stand. I find that Ben spurred Gabe on and I asked Ben if he was desirous of eating the deer call.

 Ben is hanging over the side of the stand scanning the woods with his yellow, Fisher Price binoculars.  Gabe is digging around in a plastic shopping bag making a huge racket.

 I see a squirrel. I am stunned.

 Ben melts his glove on the heater grill. Tree stand reeks of burnt plastic.

 Gabe asks if I want to read his book to him. I advise that "we are hunting".

The boys are fighting over which guns they are going to buy someday as the leaf through my old gun magazine. I advise them they won't have to worry about it if I throw them out of this stand.

Time is just “flying” by! 8:30ish a.m.

 I find both boys "cooking" their Ziploc bags of sliced oranges over the propane heater. Plastic is only slightly melted. I'm feeling quite confident that I won't be butchering venison today.

Gabe pulls a plastic, toy, carpenter’s saw from his backpack and proceeds to hack away at the stand’s guard rail. I advise him that death is imminent. To appease him, I let him make a few deer calls. Ben yells that "he is not doing it right". The lone squirrel runs away.

I smell something burning. At this point, this is not unusual. The piece of old carpet padding laid on the floor to help keep us warm is leaning on the propane heater. I'm tempted to let the whole kit burn and go back to the house for pancakes.

 Gabe spills his bag of crushed pretzels. Ben knocks his binoculars on the heater again sending a metallic gong proclamation reverberating through the forest. I threaten him with death by asphyxiation.

 Another round of feeding is underway and the chomping and slurping sound like a pack of hyenas chewing on my thigh bone.

8:45 a.m.

Gabe gives up the ghost and advises that he is ready to go back home. His food is either eaten or spilled and, thus, the joy of hunting has departed him.

I help Gabe crawl down the ladder and watch him stumble down the trail in his over-sized, insulated, Carrhart coveralls. Through my binoculars, I see Gabe stumble and fall in the same spring seep, soaking his gloves. I acknowledge that if a deer was headed our way, it is no longer.

It makes me sad to see him go and I feel the loss of his presence. My hearts warms thinking of the moments I shared with him.

8:50 a.m.

Ben, twirling the thermos about, advises there is still some hot chocolate left. I pour him the remaining swallow. He knocks his just-filled mug off the shelf while trying to hang his Ziploc bag of oranges from a nail. Fortunately, I won’t have to get these blankets out again until next year.

Fast forward, 10:00 a.m.

I look up and spot a deer! I raise my rifle to verify with my scope. This is unexpected – shocking really. I’m not sure what to do. The deer eases across a shooting lane into the thick brush and I mourn my lost opportunity.

I make the mistake of telling Ben that a deer may come out of the thick brush on the other side. He starts whispering non-stop, jumping up and down trying to spot the deer with his binoculars. I keep telling him to be quiet or he will chase the deer away. He manages to pull his camo face mask (never mind that we are plastered in blaze orange) over his head, never missing a verbal manifestation all the while exclaiming that he sees deer – everywhere he looks. Except, by golly, he’s right. There are at least 3 deer in the thicket.

I spend the most stressful 10 minutes of my entire hunting experience shifting my attention from subduing Ben to keeping an eye out for the deer.

10:10 a.m.

Finally, our deer walks out of the other side of the thicket and we get our chance. Ben and I exchange high fives. I drink the last few swigs of coffee while Ben monologues a chapter a minute.

Standing beside the deer, Ben and I say a prayer, thanking God for the beautiful deer and for providing for our needs. I thank God for the morning with my sons and this special moment with Ben.

11:15 a.m.

Jill, Ben, Gabe, and Emily return to the deer with our 4 wheeler and trailer. We load out our blankets and heater and gear. It is much easier this time than early this morning.

3:00 p.m.

The venison is in nicely labeled wrappers in the freezer. The tenderloins are waiting for the grill for supper.

5:00 p.m.

The boys and I spend the last few minutes of our day around a bonfire, reliving our adventure. I sip a reposado blue agave while Gabe tries to burn his hands off by dipping strips of newspaper in the fire and Ben yells at him that the paper is his all the while he tries to burn his hands off by dipping strips of newspaper in the fire.