Are you Fiercely Frugal?

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I'm posting this note from my friend Diana Savage, whose Fiercely Frugal blog is not only full of great money-saving ideas but is also fun to read. Hope you'll follow her links to see what it's all about and to possibly glean a few creative ideas to adapt to your own projects. 

Dear Frugal Friends,

My friend Joan helped me get back to posting ideas on the Fiercely Frugal blog. (It’s been a hectic spring and summer.) She supplied information and a photo for a clever way to make painting more enjoyable. See her suggestion for a “No Cost Paint Container” at http://savagesisters.wordpress.com/category/resourceful-recycling.  (If you prefer to visit www.SavageSisters.net, you’ll find the post in the Resourceful Recycling category.) You’ll also find a link to Joan’s own blog with her delightfully descriptive writing about the Pacific Northwest, travel, and more.

Yours for frugal solutions,

Diana
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Cooling off at Boardman Lake

A few weeks ago, daughter Lenora took a late summer break from Arizona’s heat to luxuriate in northwest Washington’s green coolness. We decided to drive to the Robe valley, where as a little girl she’d spent many happy days at her grandparents' former home. While there, we hiked to Boardman Lake, off the Mountain Loop Highway, to see if the huckleberries were ripe. We stopped first at little Evans Lake to picnic. Here’s Lenora enjoying the scenery.

The mile-long trail to Boardman Lake is well-used. The footing is tricky, and steeper than we remembered. (Of course, Hank and I are not as young as the first time we hiked the trail.)

Here is a denizen of the woods enjoying a beam of sunlight.

Lenora reached the lake long before we did, but we made it.

We met people who’d camped at primitive sites on the far side of the outlet, on the hill behind Lenora. To get there they scrambled across a jumble of logs. We saw some plunge into the lake’s cold waters to swim.


 

The berries were scarce this year, but as we headed back to the trail, we each picked a handful of blue huckleberries and carried them home in a plastic bag. Mmm! Huckleberry hotcakes next morning to remind us of a special afternoon in the mountains!

How We Have Changed!

Some members of the Granite Falls High School class of 1954: l. to. r., Clyde (Squeak) Scofield, Darlene Jones Johnson, Harriet Olson Duncan, Mabel Murphy Bennett, Walt Burrus, Nancy ScherrerTellesbo, Morrie Running, Mickie Giroux Erickson, Greta Bryan Running, Joan Rawlins Husby, Leslie Scherrer, Dave Bogart (Photo by Mabel Bennett)

Here we are at age six, with our teacher Miss Anderson. When we graduated from Granite Falls High School in 1954, there were 24 of us, of whom 22 are still living. Twelve of us met at our last bi-monthly classmates' luncheon. Match the photos to see what a difference fifty-six years makes!

Mabel Murphy, l.; Harriet Olsen, r.

Dave Bogart

Les Scherrer

Nancy Scherrer

Joan Rawlins, Greta Bryan

Mickie Giroux, Darlene Jones

Squeak Scofield

Morris Running

Another Fishing Trip...

A typical Alaskan lake (Photo by Don Biggar)

    My recent blogs about our July pike-fishing trip in Canada reminded me of another fishing trip, when my late husband, Bob Biggar, introduced me to Alaska during our honeymoon summer of 1962. Since he had already worked in Alaska for a number of years, he hoped to convince me that the state would be a good place to make our home. I was convinced enough to live there for seventeen years, while we raised two little Alaskans.


    That summer Bob was a project engineer on a road-construction job near Fairbanks, where giant Euclid scrapers hauled mine tailings as fill material for the new roadbed. One day one of the scrapers’ huge tires went flat. Bob asked if he could have the worn-out inner tube. He patched the holes and blew it up. As I remember, that tube was about seven feet across—large enough for a whole group of people to play on.


    Bob’s friend, Andy Hall, owned his own pontoon plane. He offered, in exchange for the inner tube, to take us on a spur- of-the-moment wilderness fishing trip. I was so excited that I completely forgot the next day’s luncheon invitation to the home of Virginia Leih, one of my new friends. I scurried around frying chicken and collecting camping equipment. When Bob came home early that Wednesday afternoon, we headed for the float pond at the International Airport.


    The plane had dual controls, and since Bob was licensed to fly float planes, Andy let him do most of the flying. Bob was thrilled, and so was I. I’d never flown in a plane like that before. We headed south, following the Alaska Highway. Then we crossed the Tanana and Little Delta rivers that braided and twisted across the tundra. They ran silty with glacial flour—rock that glaciers had ground to powder. All across the valley we saw zigzagging lines of trees and brush marking where rivers once flowed. Beneath the dark clouds and rain squalls to our right we glimpsed the shining peaks of the Alaskan Range. There were no signs of civilization below us...we were deep into the wilderness.


    My watch read six o’clock when Andy pointed ahead. “That’s Groffin’s Lake.” Bob brought our bird in for a landing. Spray flew past the windows as we coasted to the foot of a promontory topped with tall spruce and birch. Andy tied the plane to a tree. We stepped off the pontoon onto shore and hauled our equipment up the hill.


    In a clearing stood a sturdy sod-roofed log cabin. Traps hung on an outside wall. Door and windows were boarded shut, with dozens of sharp-pointed nails meant to discourage marauding bears protruding from the boards. We erected our tents on a carpet of moss deep enough to nearly hide the wild cranberry plants that grew up through it. The moss appeared to be studded with garnet-colored jewels.


    I set out cold fried chicken and potato salad for our dinner and while we ate, Andy entertained us with bear stories. Afterward, he offered to show me how to fish. I followed him to the shore. He cast out a line and handed me the pole. Immediately I felt a tug and the line snapped straight. Seconds later a big pike lay flopping on the moss.


    A few minutes later I caught another one. Although Bob had said he didn’t care for fishing, he suddenly wanted a turn. For a guy who didn’t like to fish, he seemed to enjoy himself hugely. Andy went to bed. While Bob fished, I built a campfire. Then we lay on the hill beside the fire, watching the moon rise before we too called it a day.


    I was too excited to sleep, and the blanket wouldn’t stay put. Although it was mid-August, autumn already had come to Alaska and the night was chilly. It didn’t help that Andy had pointed out grizzly-bear scat not far from where we pitched the tents, nor could I forget his dinnertime bear tales.

    Through the mosquito netting I watched the moon travel across the sky. Loons filled the night with their weird, lonely cries. By 3:00 a.m. the sky lightened. Bob got up to brew coffee. He brought me a cupful with a couple of cookies. Then I, too, got up. We walked to the brow of the hill to watch a pair of moose feeding off shore. They’d plunge their spreading antlers below the surface for long minutes, then raise their heads to munch mouthfuls of water lilies while water poured off the shovel-like blades. A flock of wild geese flew south, honking, and the loons still called.


    We’d kept our fish fresh in the lake overnight, but the back half of one was gone. Andy told us another pike had probably eaten it. While Bob cleaned the others, I practiced casting but got no bites. Then the line seemed to catch on the bottom. I jerked and jerked. Finally it came free, dragging a big hunk of water plant which seemed strangely resistant. When I finally reeled it in, another big pike was on the line. Not by its mouth, but hooked through its back. Andy said they sometimes strike at the bait and miss, bumping the hook on the way past. So we had one more fish to put in the cooler.


    By 5:00 a.m., we’d struck camp and were skimming over the tundra, where we counted seven or eight moose within a short distance of each other. We flew closer to the mountains this time, through rain squalls and bumpy weather. We flew over a radar site which Bob had helped to build, then turned toward Fairbanks. We landed on the float pond at 6:30, ate breakfast at a pancake house, and then the men went off to work. I went home to take care of our fish and get ready for our temporary return to Washington.


    The day got so busy and I was so tired from the sleepless night I forgot all about the luncheon I was supposed to attend. Only later did I find out there'd been a surprise in store—I was to have been the guest of honor. Virginia, the gracious and forgiving hostess, continued as a cherished friend when we returned to Alaska the next spring.

Mother moose (with head underwater) teaching her babies to browse a stream bottom.
(Photo by Don Biggar)

Become a "Sun Breaks" Follower!

Thanks for checking in at Sun Breaks! This is post #71 since I ventured into the world of blogging a little more than a year and a half ago, and I'm still learning how it works. I just enabled something called site feed, as well as a setting for e-mailing the posts to your friends. (See the little envelope at the end of this post?)

Every writer likes to imagine their readers...not simply as people categorized by age or interest, but who they are as individuals. If you read my blog, even occasionally, please click on the followers button on this page. Leave your photo if you wish. Then I can think of you as I write my posts. I'd love to hear your comments, as well.

More Bird Stories from Lac la Biche

A kaleidoscope of images still tumbles in my head after our recent vacation in Canada: the soaring sculptured masses of the Rocky Mountains, outsize rivers and lakes, rainstorms sweeping across vast skies, farmlands that roll on forever. Images of small things jostle there, too, like the midges I’ve already written about, and the wildflowers that paint the prairie roadsides with color. Although we went to Lac la Biche for the fishing, I loved watching the birds. Here are some of the images I caught with my camera.

As we neared a beaver house at the edge of the lake, a flotilla of baby Mallard ducks cruised by. Frantic quacking erupted above us as their distraught mother flew to the rescue. The babies immediately heeded her warning. They couldn’t fly, but they could run. Flapping their little wings for all they were worth, their feet barely touched the water. 

A safe distance from us, their mother settled down among them. Still vigorously churning the lake’s surface, the family sailed off together.

The shallow waters of Lac la Biche supply feeding and nesting places for many kinds of birds. American white pelicans like the shallows, where they can stir up crustaceans on the bottom with their feet, then scoop them up with their big bills. Both cranes and pelicans catch small fish, salamanders, and crayfish.

We boated to Cucumber Island, so named because at one time a man had settled there, built a home, and cleared land to raise cucumbers.  We approached slowly, because the spit that trailed into the lake was covered with Franklin’s gulls, densely packed in the sunshine. As we landed,  hundreds of black heads turned nervously.

Then, one after the other, the birds took to the air crying alarm.

Some of them flew to the end of the spit which was already occupied by a pelican.

William, reconnoitering

While Allen boated back to camp to get the rest of our party, the first group explored. The birch thickets were full of biting mosquitoes, but before they chased us back to the breezy shore, we discovered two depressions in the vegetation where something big had been resting. Then, in the wet sand along the margin of the lake, we found fresh moose tracks.

The young men in their camouflage gear hiked across the island to reconnoiter and found the cucumber farmer’s house foundation. But the rest of us were happy to stay out in the open, away from the bugs and where we could see and be seen if the moose were still around.

As we left the boat,  a killdeer with a “broken” wing fluttered away from us with loud cries. We knew she must have a nest nearby. Later, Allan discovered this little guy neatly camouflaged among the rocks.

Each time we boated down the Owl River to Lac la Biche, a female lesser scaup would rise from the cattails edging the water and fly ahead  as if trying to get us to follow. One evening we found the eggs she protected. We didn’t disturb them, knowing she’d come back and lay the rest of her clutch if we left them alone. 

 I’ve enjoyed sharing these observations of God’s amazing creatures. Hope you liked the pictures!

Bugs, Birds, and Lac la Biche

A midge resting on my knee

Dead midges border the shores of Lac la Biche

   Even way up north at Lac la Biche, where we were camping with our Canadian cousins, there are fishing restrictions. The northern pike have to be at least 30 inches long, and each licensed fisherman could take only one home, although we could catch and eat some as well during our stay. On his first trip out, Hank was thrilled to catch a 36-inch pike, as I mentioned in the last post.

    That day, there’d been a hatch of billions of midges–half-inch soft-bodied insects that cruise through the air hunchbacked with tails tucked up in front of them. At first, Hank was horrified to find himself surrounded. He didn’t know this kind didn’t bite. They were as thick over the water as brown smoke. The fishermen had to keep their mouths shut to keep from swallowing them.

    I learned from Wikipedia that there are several kinds of midges, from the small no-see-ums with outsized bites to large crane flies whose larvae feed on grass roots in lawns. You can tell midges from mosquitoes by their habit of resting flat on a surface rather than standing up on the tips of their legs. Their legs are so brittle that they break off easily.

    The females of the midges we saw lay egg masses over open water or attach the eggs to vegetation. The larvae drop to the bottom, where they scavenge on organic debris. Some overwinter in the larval stage. Then they pupate for about 48 hours before they emerge from the pupal skin and rise to the water’s surface. The adults do not eat. Their life span is only five to ten days. However, midges in populated areas can cause havoc just by their sheer numbers. They swarm around lights and on screen doors. They stain outside surfaces of buildings and find their way into houses.

    But they are also an important item of food for many freshwater fish and other aquatic animals. As we saw firsthand, they provide a banquet for the birds that live around Lac la Biche as well.

     By the time I went out in the boat next morning, the life cycle was over for many of them. They were falling into the lake where they floated, matted together with other dead midges. They washed up in thick windrows along the shore.

Franklin's gulls feeding above the Owl River

  In the evening Cousin Allen Shaw took his nineteen-year-old daughter Katrina, her boyfriend Aaron, and me down the river to the lake to try for sunset photographs. We were almost too late, though pinks and mauves lingered in the water. Alan turned off the engine and told us to listen. We heard a high-pitched humming from the direction of the cattail marshes along the river–the love-songs of billions of midges. Clouds of birds whirled above the cattails.

    Then small, black-headed Franklin’s gulls began to swoop near the surface where we rocked in our boat. Soon we were in the middle of a veritable ballet...hundreds of birds diving and looping through the quiet air, so intent on their feeding they were almost completely silent.  The dance of the gulls followed us all the way up the river to camp, even though the light had nearly gone. By the next morning, few of the midges remained. Those who’d escaped the birds had mated and laid eggs for the next generation. Now they’d die and sink to the bottom of the lake and the river to provide nutrition for other creatures.

    Those billions of insects that to some seem annoying and useless sustained not only the birds and
the lake creatures, but also helped sustain us humans
who ate the pike who fed on the lake creatures. What a good example of God’s abundant provision!

           Top of the food chain: Cousin Vicki with northern pike