Rohan Anderson's Blog, page 6

Methylchloroisothiazolinone – Because we care about your health

This morning, like most weekday mornings of late, I enter the bathroom sweating like mad. I’ve been jogging lately in an effort to loose this last legacy weight from my previous way of living. And quite frankly I’m tired of being called ‘portly’ or ‘big fella’. The truth is, that I’m desperate   to have a bikini body by next summer. I suppose it might have something to do with health and fitness. It’s no news that I’m looking down the barrel at forty in a few years, just look at my beard. I’m not far away from auditioning for the role of the shopping mall santa. Bad humour asisde, I want to at least feel the best I’ve felt all my adult life as I’ve been a slob since my teenage years. I’ve really had enough though. Slow learner eh.

Into the shower I go. Greeting me every morning, unavoidably at eye level is a bottle of shampoo. And every morning I read the same thing printed on the back of the product. It tells how the company is passionate about hair and caring for our hair. It tells how this passion and expertise have been significant to the professional salon experience worldwide. It kindly provides a tip from some expert hair care stylists, of which is to massage the shampoo into wet hair and rinse thoroughly. Which is a godsend I must admit. I’d be lost with out that tip. All these years I’ve been washing my toes with shampoo. How awkward.

Most importantly of all, is the list of ingredients printed in upper caps. Some of which are real doozies. Glycol Distearate, Cocamidopropyl Betaine,  Xylenesulfonate, Dimethicone, Sodium Benzoate and Hydrochloric Acid. It’s a Mr Whites shopping list for a weekend in the desert! Of course we don’t eat this stuff, it just goes on the head of the person that actually uses the shampoo. But I can’t help thinking that I don’t know what any of these ingredients are, or what they do once they reach my body. I can’t help but wonder if these synthetic ingredients cause any destruction to nature in their production. It’s just shampoo right. Everyone uses it. So it can’t be that bad, right?

 

I’m not in the business of shampoo bashing, because it just opens the doors to a world of pain. I mean the reality is that everything we have in our lives, from paper to plastic, lotions to plaster dry wall does have some impact on environment. Thats quite a paradox of us to consider. It’s so ingrained in our lives. It’s unfathomable to consider removing these things from our lives. Yes?

I’ve read somewhere about ‘off-gassing’ from common house building materials, and how it can impact on our long term health. I’ve read about high heavy metal levels in children that live in congested cities. The list of potential health impacts seems endless. Enough to give you an anxiety attack. Thankfully we have xanax, let me just pop one now.

Is there a possible solution for us many humans? Well I don’t think any one of us has that answer. I do, however see hope in world. Hope in the form of options for us to take. One option that burned brightly for me was to feed my families with food that didn’t have unrecognisable ingredient lists as long as the ones on that bottle of shampoo. If we as choice makers, are fortunate enough to have that magic combination of sun, soil and water, we have the opportunity to reclaim power over the food we eat by growing some of it ourselves. We also have many opportunities to buy or produce from people that give a shit about growing real food for the city folk, or people that provide an outlet for some real good food. At least with food we have some real fine choices at our fingertips.

There are people out there that are aware. Eyes have been opened and care is given in the from of  thoughtful choices. Ultimately, it’s our daily choices that can be the power of nations. We are makers of a better future. Our wallets and purses decide what we insert into our bodies (and our families bodies). There are so many good things out there, and yes, the vegetables I deliver are in that category, otherwise I wouldn’t get up at 5am every saturday morning to deliver them to Melbourne! I do it because I believe that the people that want to make change are like a good virus. Their choice to be better consumers can be contagious to the people that surround them, and the result will be a sway from unhealthy food. We have an opportunity to support these producers of real food.

 

With our support we can create an environment where many local producers can provide a ‘real food’ service thats more honest than the current one. My dream is to see young and old folk setting up micro farms growing food for Melbourne families. Farms that would exist just an hour out of the hustle and bustle, where the air is clearer and the soil fresh and pure. Food just like we grow in the backyard, free from the application of chemicals. Food that’s grown when it can be grown naturally, seasonally. I know that takes some getting used to because I’ve walked that path myself. Even now my veg boxes are reducing in variety of veg as the peak season winds down.

It’s a lot to digest I know. Every morning the back of that bottle of shampoo is a reminder to me that I’m awake. I’m aware. I question. Do you think we’re at a moment in time where most of our population simply carries on with each new day, leaving the thinking to the ‘stylist experts’ and chemists that invent our products? How do we wake everyone up for them to take notice? Will our future be ok if for the most part, we simply pour that metaphorical shampoo over our heads without asking what it’s is made of, what it is doing to our bodies and what cost it has on our environment. That answer will only be known to our decedents. In the meantime I’ll stick to living off mostly home grown, minus the Methylchloroisothiazolinone.

 

 

hunter of spirit

I remember my first time. I was huddled in the hollow of a fallen tree. Hidden from view, patiently waiting. I was alone, I was nervous as a school boy on a first date. I expected it to all go wrong. All go wrong in the sense that I’d likely to return home empty handed. It had already happened for a few weeks prior. When I’d got the chance, I’d been slipping away to the waters edge of the lake, laying in wait, but nothing came. Would this day be any different. My confidence in my ability was waining.

This day however would be different. It was only a few years ago, so I recollect it well enough. Just like now, Autumn had returned. The leaves reflected a different hue and the winds blew in cool and crisp.

On this day I had everything set. Like a good scout, I was well prepared. I had a thermos of home made soup. Some crusty bread, water and plenty of warm clothes. I had a box of shells and a brand new Spanish made Lanber, under and over 12 gauge scatter gun that was decorated with a detailed engraving of northern geese with leafy borders.

The morning turned into midday, not a waterfowl to be seen. It could have been boring for some, but the quietness and solitude where exactly what I needed at the time. Hours passed slowly, like drift wood on a river. I found myself questioning my ability to go through with the task at hand. I was nervous for a few reasons. Firstly I’d been against duck hunting since my early years as a result of seeing the yearly massacre that duck hunters were responsible for. The anti-duck hunting movement was in full swing in the 1980′s and 90′s and as a consequence I’d seen plenty of horrible footage on television. The images of hundreds of ducks shot with semi-automatic shotguns for sport, well it plain haunted me. But I was different right? I was hunting something that was natural. Something that had zero human intervention, other than the timing and duration of the hunting season. These birds I was hunting for food were born free. The ducks would have a few clutches over spring and summer, and by autumn the new birds were at adulthood and thats when hunting was permitted. It made sense to me. It sure as hell made more sense to me than factory farmed poultry.

Here I was, having returned to country living, and right at my door step was an animal that had not been raised in horrid factory farm conditions, it had not been treated with antibiotics nor had it been transported and packaged. It was as real as I could get. And it made a good change from the rabbit I was hunting so frequently. It was in my mind, a real seasonal treat. I once a year event.

Taking a break in my reflection, I’d pass time with a sip of the heartwarming soup, made from the last of my autumn zucchini. Time passed. Then it was in the early afternoon, that a flock appeared from the east, slightly out of view at first but it was their noise that got my attention. Closer and closer they came, close enough for me to see what species they where. It was clear they were Pacific Black ducks, one of the most common in this region. I’d recently passed the Waterfowl Identification Test held by the then Department of Sustainability and Environment, and as a result I’d been issued with my ticket for the season. Prior to the test one had to study all the birds in flight, and be able to recognise their call. With this information I was well prepared to identify the birds within seconds.

As the birds came into range, I selected one, took aim and shot just mico seconds in front of it. Bang! The shell exploded with a spray of shot. A hit, and the bird dropped in to the water, lifeless. I ran to the water, my jeans became soaked wet (this was prior to me owning waders). I was not going to let this bird get away after all that effort, so into the cold water in jeans I went. Dripping in lake water, I retired to my hollow log encampment to asses the bird. In my hands was the most beautiful creature. I cried. I may have just had some lake grit in my eye though.

My emotions ran a mix of joy and sadness. Just like killing a rabbit I was thankful for the meat I was about to receive. But somehow this was far prettier than a soft furred cotton tail rabbit. On the wing sat a set of bright emerald feathers that shimmered in the light. The detail in the head was more beautiful up close than what I’d seen in pictures and paintings. It’s hard to explain, I mean I’d just shot this bird and now I’m saying it’s beautiful? It almost doesn’t make sense. But there it was, bloodied and beautiful. It was everything about eating meat. Reality. No bullshit. It was the uncompromising reality of life and death.

I hung that duck for a few days and eventually plucked it, and made a roast duck risotto (which has become an annual favourite especially with the kids). The meat is very rich and can be used sparingly, let me assure you, it’s delicious. There’s is no mistaking that it’s the taste of Autumn.

Back in present day and the season has returned. Once again I’ve been hunting alone. I walk the fields where I’ve permission to shoot, and I stalk the dams. I crawl up the embankments, I figure my shot and if there are birds around there is always a chance I’ll walk home with a duck under my arm.

So far I’ve bagged a few black ducks which have been stuffed with a garlic and sage butter and slow roasted whole. I’ve processed every morsel of that rich meat and it’s been getting the paella treatment with ingredients like eggplant, parsley, thyme, jalapeño, smoked pimenton and manchego cheese. It’s such an easy meal and very much celebrates the flavours of autumn. It’s food that makes sense. The peak season wild duck meets the peak season vegetables from my back yard.

This type of food, this type of living is what I’ve aspired to for so many of my adult years. It totally makes sense to me to live this way. I have a multitude of reasons that drive me, but none of them involve bloodsport or trophy hunting. Living with what nature provides is how I’m supposed to be living. I know to some my approach may seem archaic, after all it’s 2014 not 1814. I know I’m not going to save the world by taking this approach to food and to life, lets face it I’m just one man feeding his family the way he believes is right.

But to me it’s much more than that. This is who I am. This is what I was dreaming of when I was a child growing up on the farm. I always wanted to become a man that resembled a pioneer, living off the land, living with what one could get their hands on. A pioneer facing new challenges and flying by the seat of their pants. Thats who I’ve become. Thats who I am.

I also have to accept that my role in life now comprises of two things.

Firstly to live with nature. Secondly, to communicate that journey.

You’re an idiot. No, you’re an idiot. No you are. I said it first. Takes one to know one.

This post is a response to the comments for article #1

And a general observational piece. A reaction to article #2



The world is full of people with ill informed opinions. Opinions formed on what they see in the media. Often it’s an opinion not formed by experience or reality. Alas it’s one based on what’s fed to the mind via television, radio or print. Comfortable western lives have made us so ‘informed’ that we have become macro judgemental. We all have opinions for everything. That’s ok, but to have ill informed opinions is not doing anybody any good.

I have no need to justify what I do. I have no need to justify to people the choice’s I have made to live the way I do. However saying that, I’ve always made it clear that I no longer want to be part of the mainstream food system. Why? Well, go walk down the isles of a supermarket and admire the fake unhealthy food, then walk into a poultry/pork factory farm and admire the cruelty, walk the paddocks of the land hammered by intensive farming methods. Go study the carbon emissions resulting from worldwide food transport and research the chemicals applied to your food. Food that most people eat without a thought to what it’s doing to their health and the health of the planet.

The action I take to live a life away from that flawed system is what I to communicate with you, the reader. I photograph it and I write about it. The sole intention is to display an alternate lighter way of living. One that is practical and not particularly extreme.

I’ve always said sustainability is a buzz word. We need to focus on how we can individually reduce. Reduce is our future.

I’ve been left with so little hope for the future of the world that I can’t even live in house thats in close proximity to neighbours. Why? Because most people are fucking idiots. That’s a sad truth that quite frankly it pisses people off when I say it. But tell me this. If the world wasn’t full of mindless idiots then why do we have a resource hungry society that is still to this day, taking, taking, taking from nature? Go ask native indigenous tribes around the world how they feel about their natural world being raped. Talk to any old cocky farmer out in the bush and listen to them tell you stories about how they used to be able to fish in the rivers, when they weren’t polluted or empty for lack of rain.

How long can we sip our soy lattes and wait for something good to happen? Well I’m one of those annoying blokes that decided I would no longer stand for it. “Take some fucking action Rohan” rings in my head everyday. So I don’t eat supermarket food? Hell it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out how unnatural that food is. You don’t need pages of scientific data to understand that our mass produced food system is unhealthy for us and our beautiful nature. Hold a packet of cereal in your hands and tell me how natural that is.

There are two options for us humans. The future outcomes will sway towards repair and reduction or continuos resource exploitation. Lets imagine when all of us a dead and buried, say in a few hundred years time, what will the world look like? Will it be a utopia of reduced resource usage and love for nature or will it be mega cities, more pollution, more climatic problems and wars fought over natural resources?

I said recently that I’ve chosen to live off the land. The reality though is that WE ALL LIVE OFF THE LAND. The only difference is that some of us have an intimate relationship and appreciation for that land, some of us do not. Thus some of us have opinions formed by experience and some have opinions formed by the information has been selected for them.

 

Free Advice:

For those readers that will complain, saying that I should stop my opinion pieces on this blog and just write stories about fly fishing, hunting and building log cabins. Turn your computer off and take a walk in the bush. 

For those people that are going to say I’m too angry. I disagree. I’m not angry enough. If only you knew what our future is going to be like you’d be angry too. 

 

Approach to living

Passata day has come and gone. It signifies the passing of yet another year where we’ve worked for our food. I’ve set up new vegetable gardens, constructed a poly tunnel, hunting for our meat, collected natures bounty from the forest floor, the coastal cliffs and now finally time for another important food task. preserving. Autumn is marked on the calendar as the time our hands and feet are busy carrying out tasks that serve us well during the frigid oncoming winter.

Passtata day is the penoltimate event in the food calendar. It’s marks the beginning and the end. Most importantly though it’s the celebration of the harvest season. It’s hard to grasp that it’s all over again. The years are like a darting swallows, they fly by quietly and swiftly.

As I write about it this day that has passed, I’m covered head to toe in Pendleton. One knitted cardigan and one woollen blanket covering my legs. The cold wind comes in from the window, I can hear it in the tree’s outside. A messenger of the changing season. I could close the window but I’m enjoying this feeling too much. It’s a reminder of time passing by. That time that never stands still. Its role; simply to taunt us.

Passata day has become not only a day to make a store of food for winter, it’s now much more. In some ways it’s our pagan celebration. We play music, we eat well, we drink, we laugh and become silly. The day is well balanced.

Simply instructions for the day.

Add frivolity and hard work, then mix well. 

This year was the biggest and most festive of any passata day I’ve been to. At first I was grumpy about it becoming out of control. Later I accepted that this is the future for our passata day. Lots of people, lots more tomatoes and lots more passta turned. For me the whole aim of the day is to squish the summer out of those roma tomatoes, and bottle it for winter consumption. That job was done and dusted by mid afternoon. The rest of the day was allocated to fun. Now who can complain about that?

It’s amazing how a task has evolved to be a celebration. Food is such an integral part of our families life. The process of embracing a life of working for you food has brought about great benefits to our lifestyle. We look forward to annual food events in our calendar. Not food festivals, but family traditions that revolve around food. We’re no different to a family living in rural Spain, Italy or France in that each year we look forward to and then celebrate the arrival of something new, the harvest of something old and become excited the promise of future food. Does that make sense?

It’s a challenge to pen words to describe the benefits and enjoyment our lives are graced with by this type of living, my words simply don’t do it justice. I could lament for all those years being part of the mainstream food system, but there’s no point to that. Instead I can look to our future. Look to the many passata days, years ahead. Dream of all the new season wild mushrooms, the meat from the annual deer hunting season, the first new season corn, the first feed of tomato and so on. So many events in our lives are based around food. It’s a rewarding existence. I’m not sure it’s necessarily the best approach, but it sure works for us.

 

The Land of Too Much

Years ago I hired a jack-hammer and totally destroyed my backyard. Before I unleashed my wobbly electric powered fury that backyard space was a flatland of cement. The people the owned the place before me must have liked clean easy living. I can kind of understand that. But it was what lay underneath that easy to maintain cemented backyard that had me intrigued.

In a year my yard transformed from a lifeless slab of cement, to a jungle of food. It’s a great metaphor for the change that occurred inside of me. I was pretty happy eating McDonalds, KFC and any form of easy processed food that would fill my belly. I left that life and found something more real. I guess I had some sort of awakening. I wish it was more dramatic, like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, having his mountain building moments. But for me it was just lame and gradual. Each time I discovered something depressing about the food production machine, the more determined I became to remove myself from any association with it. I’m still not perfect. I don’t expect I’ll ever be. But I do enjoy where I am right now.

Under that concrete slab was soil. Soil in which I started to grow food. I learnt so much along the way. I learnt a great deal about growing vegetables. I also learnt a good deal about myself, and what I wanted in life. I learnt that you can grow too much of something (e.g. corn) and I learnt that it’s imperative to preserve it. Because just around the corner, lean times may lurk.

Committing to living off what is seasonal, means a bit of extra work. I wont lie. I figured out that all I had to do was shuffle some ‘priorities’ around and viola! I had time to be more useful. And I don’t mind it, the extra work that is. Sure I might grumble a bit, but thats just my nature. I’m a grumpy ol’ bastard at times. But when I have moments like this, there isn’t a chance in hell that I’ll be grumbly. My girls and I, spending time in the kitchen, blanching corn, cooling it and freezing it. A simple task for sure and it’s one in which we all shall enjoy the benefits of down the line. In winter I’ll make the kids many dinners of corn fritters. With a crunchy bread crumb layer and soft insides. Corn fritters where each individual corn kernal pops that sweetness of summer in your mouth. It’s a happy land, where the rivers are made of corn fructose.

It’s amazes me what I can grow. It amazes me what WE can grow. At times, I think if we all did some of this kind of living then we’d all have too much. The possibilities are pretty amazing. Just like the potential of that soil laying restfully under that concrete backyard.

 

Stealing eggs and wrangling trout

The engine roared as it worked its way through the central highlands. Morning mist perched itself motionless on the hills, the valleys of tan coloured grass sat crisp, punished by a dry summer. As we covered more ground, the darkness of morning gave way to early light. The glow of the rising sun, poked its head up over the ranges to the east. The light rudely shone straight through the windscreen, sharp and bright, forcing us to rub away the slumber from our waking eyes. Within a few hours we reached the highway town where we’d set our rendezvous with Raynor. Before long we were transferring his gear from his truck to mine. We set about for a place to grab some last minute camp supplies, mainly the staples of bacon, eggs and sausage. We hit up the butcher, but I didn’t like to look of the eggs. Cage, factory farmed eggs, not good for the chooks that work their so we opted for the fruit and veg store a few shops down. The two boys went in and found the same deal. Damn cage eggs. We decided to put some road behind us and keep a look out for a road side stall selling farm eggs. At least I had a dozen from home, but with three blokes on camp they wouldn’t last more than a day.

There was one last stop in town before we’d be highway bound for hours. Gas. Whilst I was filling up the truck, a car sped into the station. An angry looking man ran towards me in a feverish pace, anger set in his eyes. “Those two boys with you?” he asked hurriedly. “Yes…..why?” I replied.

“I believe they stole my eggs, and I have the CCTV footage to prove it. Can I check your esky?” Knowing that the boys wouldn’t have stolen the eggs I didn’t hesitiate to open the esky. Inside was only food we’d brought from home, no stolen eggs. “Who are you again?” I asked. The man explained that he owned the fruit and veg shop, and his wife had seen the whole event ‘go down’. The man headed for the cabin of the truck, and proceeded to talk loudly and angrily at Sam and Raynor (who had no time to figure what the hell was going on). I continued to fill up while the man yelled at Sam, “You covered the eggs with your jacket” then pointed to Raynor “and then you slipped them under yours jumper and walked out!” We where all scratching our heads as the man huffed off in his car, after he’d taken down my number plate, heading for the police station across the road. Dumbfounded I went to pay my bill.

I returned to the truck, where a combination of laughter and puzzlement ensued. The mad grocery store man had my details so I needed to go sort the situation out. Clear the air so to speak. I pulled up out front, the truck rumbling, subtly announcing my frustration. I picked Sam, the bigger of the two friends to accompany me into the store to chat to this fella. I did all the talking, presenting my case not allowing for rebuttal. I explained  why we didn’t buy his eggs the best way I could. I turned to Sam and asked him “why DIDN’T you steal the eggs?” Sam quickly answered “because they weren’t free range, let alone organic”.

As soon as I started explaining my beliefs in regards to food, that I’m an real food advocate blah blah blah, the angry man started to realise that I was more of a hippy than a redneck (as my appearance initially suggested). The clincher was when I stated with concern, that I required eggs because I was planning on cooking zucchini fritters that evening. I needed eggs to bind the whole meal together. It was then that I realised what a total hippy douche bag I sounded like. In slow motion, the words came from my mouth, and in slow motion, I realised there was no going back. In the end I’m not sure what the guy though of us, but I gather that it was a stark contrast to what he initially thought of us! Zucchini fritters WTF.

With that ‘interesting’ start to our trip we headed north east, slowly humming on the Hume Highway. Its a deadly highway, a boring road. It can lull you into a robotic state, crosses mark where people have fallen asleep behind the wheel and subsequently crashed into the roadside trees like a back handed volley. Thankfully we had a hilarious event to keep us entertained. We laughed most of the way up.

As we got closer to Ray’s cabin we where welcomed by valley country. Where the river snakes its way through the country one turn after another. The river floats through paddocks dotted with diary cows who meander about, feeding on irrigated grass, bolstering their already plump udders. The valley country was shadowed by grand mountains, dressed neatly in eucalyptus. The mountains stand watch over the valley, as they have for all ages. One final bend and we enter the small town of Mitta Mitta. A town boasting two outstanding waterways, the Snowy Creek and the Mitta Mitta River. Behind the town, perched on a hill, sat a humble pine cabin, our home for the next few days.

Without hesitation we unloaded our gear and set out for a session on the water. The Mitta was flowing fast, it seems a lot of water is being artificially fed from the Dartmouth dam to help farmers irrigate the last of the summer crops. This made the fishing tricky as the water was fast, in fact it was too fast. Most of the spots that would normally be good fishing where under deep, heavy flowing water. River crossings were dangerous and after a few hairy river crossings we decided it was best to fish the slower water and not attempt any further crossings. By late afternoon we found ourselves on the Snowy Creek, where the water was slow and calm. The creek snaked its way through the ranges, its flow more subdued than the wildness of the Mitta. I looked for any sign of trout, a splash, a rise. Nothing. After a long day on the road, the egg incident, and no sign of fish, we were all a bit drained.  A good idea was clearly to head back to the cabin and cook those zucchini fritters. Maybe we’d wash them down with a few quiet ales.

The following day we spent mostly on the upper reaches of the creek. By the afternoon, dark cloud rolled in above us, eventually dropping a payload of rain as we fished the creek. It’s been so long since I’ve been caught in the rain, so I relished the experience. It’s been a dry summer. What a feeling it was to be fishing a river so remote, so wild with cool rain dropping down on us, washing away summer from our minds. We had no luck on the creek and decided to check out the Dartmouth dam. As we drove higher up the hills, the clouds firmly set in. The rain became consistently heavy enough to make instant waterfalls on the cut out of the enormous dam wall. Looking out across the dam the hills where now blanketed by fog, clouds and rain all hinting that our summer had suddenly turned to Autumn. It was right on cue too! The second day of Autumn and we had this cool rain arrive. Amazing. I don’t think it will last though, it’s more of a sign of things to come.

The dam was a pretty as a postcard. We sat still, leaning against the truck simply absorbing the vista.

Our final day on the water was upon us. Still no fish had graced our nets, but somehow we’d pushed that aside and we were still filled with optimism (possibly blind stupidity). We fished the big river, with its fast runs and bubbling turns. Cast after cast, one fly change after another and talk of clever strategic approaches all garnished zero fish. It was during one of those moments of rest, where Sam noticed a large trout in the water close by. A chunk of flesh had been removed, possibly from an attacking cormorant. The fish was lucky enough to have survived, but then came another predator. Me.

Without much thought I jumped in the water to make the most of the presented opportunity. This fish was lively, and slimy too! I couldn’t get a grip so I yelled out “GRAB THE NET!!!!” Sam raced up to the truck where Raynor was, the two of them looking desperately for the landing net. “Its not here!!” someone yelled. This fish was not getting away, we where desperate men, hungry and desperate fishing men! I tried everything, fingers in the fishes mouth, two hands front and back, I even tried using my hat as some sort of net. Water was splashing everywhere, it looked like I was wrestling something big, it was a Steve Irwin moment. Suddenly I got enough of a hold to toss the damn fish clear out of the water into the long grass on the bank. Down she went, with desperate Raynor following behind with a rugby spear tackle “I’VE GOT IT! I’VE GOT IT!” he screamed. Covered in water I got to the bank and held the fish. A great size fish, enough to feed us for dinner. Sure our new approach to fishing was slightly unconventionally, but our mission was to acquire fish. After the fish was literally in the bag, we paused to realise the hilarity of the situation. The mud and the blood, the screaming and the yelping. Three fully grown men trying to get a fish for dinner, three men ready to do anything to get that fish in the bag!

That night we sat around the fire, laughing at the weekends events. We talked of the beauty of the creek, the rain that shifted the season from summer to autumn. We laughed about the egg incident and the trout wrangling.

 

The stars came out brighter that night. Our friendship all together a bit stronger from our experience. Late into the evening we sipped single malt whiskey and told tall tales. Sure our fisherman’s bag had been filled with a catch of pure random opportunity, we all agreed that its not always about catching the fish. Sometimes its just about the time you spend on the water. Its about spending time with mates. Its about spending time in the deep country, away from everything that blocks us from living with nature. Oh and it’s also about stealing eggs.

 

 

 

 

 

Making ready

Its easy to forget, time passes, we busy ourselves with the daily chores of living. Half a year drifts past, a gentle flowing stream, meandering away each day, lost forever. The cold of winter is a distant memory this time of year. The warm days of summer are bewitching, lulling us into a comfortable slumber. Summers daily priority is getting water to the plants, the animals and quenching our own thirst. The thought of warming ones body against the flames of a fire is as distant as an ocean horizon. However it’s imperative for us to be prepared, for when that weather does return, when we encounter that bone chilling south westerly our bodies will crave the warmth of the house fire.

 

There is nothing like a warm fire. The flames red, orange and yellow. They dance, don’t they? With a flicker and a hiss, it has powers to mesmorize us. That same fire has joined us together as people. It has been the centrepiece of many of mans greatest community and family moments. It has warmed our fathers and their fathers before them. In every corner of the world, it’s provided us with comfort and heat for cooking. It binds us together. Well I guess it used to much more in days past, but not so much these days. In my previous life I lived with gas heating, which was fine, but out here on the hill, where I currently reside, there is no gas plumbed to the house. We rely on bottled gas which needs to be delivered. It becomes vitally more precious a resource. The reality is, we need wood as a fuel for heating. Thankfully this house is equipped with an efficient ‘modern’ wood heater. It’s small in size, but don’t let that fool you. It’s an efficient wood burner i.e. it burns slow and hot. The heat in that room is magnificently heart warming. The girls have dubbed it ‘The Cosy Room’. Its the room we gather most days when the weather outside is just plain ugly. Its where my kids snuggle into me on the sofa. It’s where we lay, under a few Pendleton woollen blankets, not having a care in the world other than staying warm.

 

 

To keep the home fire burning I need to source wood. Mornings after an evening of big wind I head out and scout for fallen timber. There is plenty about. Trees gift us our fuel. A large branch here, a half rotted limb there. It’s a fantastic resource you just need to keep your eyes open. You need to embrace being opportunistic.

I spot fallen timber, fresh, green and soft to saw. A large branch weakened by internal rotting in the join, finally succumbed to the strong wind and dropped its heavy load. I fuel up the saw, and pack it in the tub of my truck. If I have anyone else around with a saw I’ll drag them along for help, it gets the job done faster. This time around it’s Sam. He has this great old Stihl, its a heavy old tool but it was made to last, it’s still useful. The saws buzz loudly for a spell. Limbs become neatly cut logs, custom cut to a size to fit the home fire. The wood is too green to split, its like striking an axe onto a bonnet of a car. It just bounces back. So it needs to be seasoned. It will be ready next year.

 

 

In my truck I carry a pair of leather riggers, they come everywhere. The stories they could tell. They’ve been a companion, a partner. In a small country hardware/outfitter store somewhere deep in the hill country of Vermont, I picked up the gloves off the shelf. My mate James told me the story behind them. They’re made from tanned deer hide in Vermont itself. Manufactured by one of the last family companies making the gloves and other leather items I imagine. After hearing the background story I didn’t even bother looking at the price which I later found to be a mere $17. If its a family business making something great, competing with mass produced alternatives I figure they could do with my support. I’ve been rewarded with that purchase. They are another useful tool, like Sam’s old saw. It keeps doing as was intended. They protect my hands from many things. Again on this day, they come along, helping in the process of loading the cut wood into the truck, and then finally stacking it for a year of seasoning. I hope they last forever. But I know one day, like everything good, they will eventually wear and fail me. But that wood will still need to be cut. Maybe I should go back to Vermont and get another more pair.

 

 

It may pay me to return in more ways than just a new pair of gloves. Last time I was there, that New England pal James, gifted me with my favourite work vest. Its an oldy but a goodie. He found it for 60c at a New England thrift store. Keeps my arms free for work also keeps the core of my body warm with that cosy wool lining. You wouldn’t know it was summer today. A cool change had set in. It has me wearing wool lined vests and chopping firewood for the winter. The winter thats not supposed to be here for a few months yet but feels like its arrived early.

 

I know I’m too literal, I don’t imply as much as I do mak...

I know I’m too literal, I don’t imply as much as I do make things practically clear. Let me introduce a new graphic that represents what I’m about.

The red is blood, its life, its death.

The pine trees that provide us the important wild mushrooms but also represent all vegetation and its importance to our livelihood

The ripples, the land and the water where all good things come from

The spear head, the hunting thats important to me

The snow peaked mountains, where my heart belongs. My childhood memories of looking up at Mt Baw Baw

Thanks to Joel for his work in designing something that artistically implies so much about me.

 

Radness to the power of gnarly

“When are you going to start hunting more Ro?” one of the little ones asked. My response was clear. There is no need to hunt as much in summer, simply because it’s this time in the yearly cycle of practiculture, when nature helps us out so much. All this fine weather delivers prolific produce from the garden. It’s the time of year when you check on the patch daily for any signs of development. You eye over a plant, hoping to spot a new set of open flowers, a bulging red tomato or a crisp pea. Anything that signals food.

What an amazing system it is! You place seeds in the soil, they do the rest for you. It makes so much sense that it seems laughable! And I giggle sometimes with childish/madman excitement with the state of the garden. Sometimes I’ll shake my head and mumble “look at this, I did this” (followed by my crazy laugh). Rows and rows of vegetables, all in existence because I planted the seeds. Those tiny little seeds! They look so inanimate. So nothing, however they possess secret information and power needed to grow a plant. Its mind boggling! In fact it freaks me out as much as when I try to contemplate the cosmos. My mind starts having an anxiety attack within an anxiety attack. I’m amazed I haven’t soiled myself yet.

Think about it. This is fuel for our bodies. It’s fuel that harnesses the energy from the sun, turns it into a different kind of energy then gives us food in order to spread its seed, then some of the seed remains so it can do the whole process the following year. Look at a pumpkin seed for example. A seed that is hard to the touch. It has a unique shape like no other. Potentially you can eat the pumpkin seed, you get a little energy and nutrient value from just that. But like many other edible seeds you can plant it and get even more nutrient value! Inside that shell, that membrane of seediness is the blueprint for future food. Fuck me, my brain hurts.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think of these things when I did most of my shopping down the isles. But now, jeebers! It’s what keeps me up at night. I spend nights thinking of how bloody beautiful, how astonishing the whole system of nature is. And to think, to consider that we had nothing to do with it. It just invented itself. Life just trucks along, with or with out us. Phenomenal.

It’s pretty ace when you cook a meal from this produce you’ve been lucky enough to be able to grow. It’s not a chore, it’s a pleasure to grow it and then eat it. And when that plate of food steams in front of you, waiting for your drooling mouth to masticate it, your brain doesn’t think at all about the cosmos, the complexity of nature. Instead it diverts attention to the pure joy of eating. I’m getting goosebumps writing this. My eyes may even discharge a salty fluid. I could never successfully write how I feel about this process, and how much it’s changed my life for the better. My god, for the smell of that fresh summer basil. That’s enough to make a grown man cry with joy.

Saying that though, I must admit I’ve been enjoying the veg from our veg box scheme. It fills the gaps I have in my patch. For example I tend not to grow kale over summer, purely because its one of the rare veg that can withstand the hash winter here. I figure I may as well grow summer veg in summer, winter veg in winter. Lately though, I have enjoyed the odd bunch of in the veg box. Kale crisps with paprika and sea salt. Hipster delish! I went the extra step and added some Avocado oil from Barham Avocados, seemed to take it up a notch. They didn’t last long, especially paired with a cool brew to wash down the crisps.

These little food moments keep me happy. This system makes sense. If I could show you all how rad it is, I would. Maybe one day I might find a format to present it to you. I wish everyone could experience this radness.

 

there is no going back

 

There comes a time when you realise that your life has real purpose. I took me sometime to get there. All those years I was starving my soul, my spirit or what ever you want to call the subconscious of emotions. I spend much time thinking about life, and equally thinking of death. I don’t know why I do, I just do. I’m surrounded by evidence of both. I guess I could have my eyes closed, I could dismiss the things I see, but I cannot. Observing all the details of nature’s system is just a part of me.

Some mornings I walk the dog up and over the hill. We steam up the mountain, I pant, pushing myself in an effort to improve my fitness. With my clumsy arms waving in a hurried motion, I pass evidence of both life and death. Ahead plump rabbits will scurry for cover, ravens and magpies craw and squawk in their ugly manner, eagles and hawks graceful in glide, wings and feathers stretched out like fingers. At my feet animals lay dead, hit by speeding cars. The remains of their once magnificent bodies gorged open often lying in horrid pose, disfigured by the event of their death. Grasses dry from the harshness of summer, display a pale tan hue, whilst neighbouring paddocks glow green from constant irrigation. There is no escaping all these signs of both life and death.

I follow the track home. Most mornings in summer I head straight to the patch to water the plants. Again it’s there, signs of life, of nature. Green aromatic leaves on healthy tomato bushes, bright yellow zucchinis in flower, climbing beans twist and tangling their way up towards the heavens. It’s a world that makes sense to me.

When I see my daughters in that world I feel very happy. When we pick some food to cook, I make sure I take some time to give thanks to what I have. Where I am. I don’t say it out loud, I mumble away in my head.

When I leave that natural world, when I head to a city or a large town, I’m witness to an amazing contrast. I am not going to explain what that contrast is. But it’s obvious. I know we can’t all live in happy land, where nature abounds, fluffy happy rabbits sing songs of  joy and birds rest on our shoulders to whisper sweet nothings in our ears. I’m aware that cites are cities, and that not everyone in them has access to nature. I do however believe that little elements of that stunning natural world can be identified, nurtured and cherished. Those little elements of nature that have powers to mesmerise us, to enchant us, to make us ponder.

I am not a man that is backwards in being forward. Often I lack the patience for politeness, and I’ll say what’s on my mind. Lately I’ve been displaying signs of anger and frustration. I make no apologies for that. There is the potential for a beautiful world out there. Tear away that curtain of bullshit, wash off the stains of fruadulant living, celebrate that real world that has been providing for us since we’ve existed.  This is why I’m angry. Because I can see that beautiful world being treated like a 2 bit whore. I see the unnecessary, the extravagant. I’m sure you can too. Do we ignore it or look away? Or do we examine it, be intrigued by it? Question it? Do we simply accept it as it is, a reality as harsh as that gruesomely twisted carcass by the roadside? I choose to make change. For the sake of that child of mine, that innocent child rummaging in the leaves of that natural world, that real world, where she searches for her dinner.