The Year that See Grew Up

May 25, 2018 by Laura Reichardt in challenge, discipline, plants, School, shelter building, snow, Soul, water purification, bow drill, blacksmithing, animal processing

Nevertheless, sometimes a young person, through choice or fate, experiences a catalyst that forces them to mature in a short period of time. I think of water when I consider this idea. In a river, water flows over rocks, through the eons grinding them down into smooth, polished, perfect stone. Water also trickles down inside the tiny cracks of a cliff face, and when it freezes as the temperature drops, sometimes the cliff explodes of a sudden into huge chunks that go flying off into space without warning, leaving behind a new rock face to glitter in the harsh light of day for the first time. At the end of this year, I am the rock face--raw, exposed, vulnerable, young--but supported by the rest of the cliff that still stands buried under the surface.

The last snowfall of the season at Camp Trackers. Taken March 22nd by Cameron MacPhail.

Rite of Passage

March 08, 2018 by Laura Reichardt in bow drill, challenge, fire, Soul

But this Tuesday is different. "Follow me, Gentlemen." And the men pick themselves up from their post-lunch reverie and follow. This is not a serious ask--we are moving some pieces of wood a few hundred feet, dropping it off at the location where I will spend 36 hours--Tuesday night to Thursday morning. I have spent a half day sawing away at a fallen Big Leaf Maple tree, processing it to be used in my overnight sit-spot. The wood is, for the most part, already bundled and ready to be carried. Still. I do not hesitate to assert myself. They do not hesitate to follow.

Photo taken by Cameron MacPhail during a trip to Eel Creek earlier in the year.

Come for the Skills, stay for the Ego Death

February 23, 2018 by Laura Reichardt in bow drill, bow making, curriculum of the shadows, fire, Soul, tracking

My spindle goes flying out in a random direction and, in the resulting loss of leverage, I crack myself in the head with the stick I'm holding in my left hand. I sit down with a thump, eyes watering, glasses akimbo. Smoke pours off my spindle and board, sweat drips down the small of my back, but as of yet--no coal.

"It's just so easy, isn't it? Like all the skills we've learned this year." Cameron smirks a little at me, his own lack of success evident as he packs up his bow-drill kit, minus a coal. Cameron knows this magic, though. He earned himself a couple of coals the week before. Still, this work is humbling. He might have turned the trick once or twice, but he hasn't achieved consistency--yet.

Photo taken by See at Oaks Bottom.

Primitive Skills

October 06, 2017 by Laura Reichardt in bow drill, fire

The spindle of my fire bow goes spinning off in a random direction. The cord pops off the end of the bow. I lean too far in one direction or another and my hand slips, or the board under my foot wiggles too much and everything falls apart. My knee hurts. My back hurts. My shoulder hurts. My wrist hurts.

Photo taken by Mae Mae.