I have no intention of writing a novel in one month, so I’m co-opting that NaNoWriMo thing and re-purposing it: one blog post a day for the month of November. Just to get the bloggy juices flowing again.
It’s already November 5th, but that’s okay.
Maple syrup time is a high point in the cycle of all things Western Massachusetts, right up there with fair season.
Forget Puxatawny Phil. The appearance of buckets on trees and steam billowing from shacks is a sure sign of the impending spring. Breakfasting at a sugar house is an acknowledgement that the snow on ground won’t be there much longer, that the daffodils will poke out soon, that Hadley Grass is coming in a few months.
This is our third sugaring season in Northampton, which is advantageously positioned:
Massachusetts Sugar Houses
Two weeks after we moved to Northampton, Type E’s parents came to visit, and we took a gorgeous ride out to Chester, MA for the annual Maple Fest. First, you eat pancakes in the church basement, and then a tractor takes you to Jameson’s sugar house, where you can witness the making of syrup. Our tractor got a flat tire, but we still arrived in time to see some boiling action.
Boiling at Jameson’s
Last year, in 2012, we hit two sugar houses for breakfast. First, the Red Bucket Sugar Shack, down a dirt road in Worthington. You’re greeted with a blast of steam and a heavenly, sweet smell upon entering. After peeking into the vat of syrup-in-progress, you find a spot at the picnic tables in the next room and enjoy the view of the maple lines.
Red Bucket Lines
Best thing about Red Bucket: pancake innovation. The special that day was pistachio pancakes, but rumor has it that their carrot cake pancakes are to die for.
Gould’s Sugarhouse is an institution. It’s big, easy-to-find, and people come from all over. Everyone warned us about the lines, but veterans of Honey’s Sit ‘n Eat are not deterred by a pancake line. Oh no. Gould’s is definitely on the “less shacky” side of the sugar house spectrum–they even have real placemats and silverware.
Pickles at Gould’s
Notice the pickles, which act as a sour counterpart to the sweet syrup.
Best thing about Gould’s: pickles!
This year, on the first Sunday of March, I dragged Type E out of bed, and we drove to Ashfield to try South Face Farm. As we drove out of Northampton and into the hills, the snow started to fall, providing a fresh coat on top of February’s massive deposit. We were lucky enough to be seated by the window, sharing a table with a family of very sticky kids. A perfect morning is watching the snow come down while you’re warm, cozy, and full of corn fritters at South Face Farm.
South Face Farm
Best thing about South Face Farm: the maple donuts. Oh my. Cider donuts don’t hold a candle to these babies.
A few weeks and a few more fresh coats of snow later, we found ourselves at Steve’s Sugar Shack in Westhampton.
Buckets at Steve’s
Steve’s is a huge, open room, with a raised area where they do the boiling. The tables are crowded together, but the high ceiling and wall of windows make it feel spacious. We squeezed in next to some friendly locals, who immediately outed us as noobs and teased us for ordering too many pancakes. The blueberry pancakes are worth the extra dollar, and Type E has declared Steve’s the winner of his “best bacon” award.
Steve’s Sugar Shack
Best thing about Steve’s: the people and the communal vibe.
Off the Mohawk Trail, “behind” Gould’s is Davenport Farm and Sugar House. It looks like a shack, but it operates like a restaurant: real silverware, coffee served in ceramic instead of styrofoam, and even a lunch menu. But who goes to a sugar house for a hamburger?
We got the table for two that overlooks the evaporator and were soon digging into eggs and fresh toast. At Davenport your syrup comes in a small bottle that you get to take home:
Davenport Breakfast
Opting to have maple cream with your toast is 75 cents well-spent. Once you’ve sucked every last bit of the cream from its paper container, it’s time to pay the bill and visit the boiling area and gift shop. The maker-of-syrup (boilmaster?) was extremely friendly and didn’t seem to mind answering the same five questions over and over as people wandered through while waiting for a table upstairs.
Boiling at Davenport
Best thing about Davenports: the knowledgeable farmers and this excellent real-life data visualization of maple syrup seasons through the years:
Syrup Through the Years
March is the beginning of a new season, and a time to disobey your acupuncturist, nutritional counselor, and yoga instructor by ingesting sugar, carbs, and gluten. My personal motto: if it comes from a tree, it’s for me.
Emboldened by our Year of Nature, I reserved one of the year-round cabins at Savoy Mountain State Forest for President’s Day weekend.
Savoy is nestled in an off-the-grid part of Massachusetts, that mysterious area between the Pioneer Valley and the Berkshires without cell service or high speed internet. Which is one of its charms.
Cabin 3
It turns out that there are limits to nature loving, especially for people who have spent most of their adult lives living in a city. When the temperature drops to 5 degrees and you realize the sleeping bag zipper didn’t magically fix itself after you shoved it in the closet last fall and you’re out of wood because you burned through the two-day supply in one night, then it is time to reconsider nature.
View From Cabin 3
So on day two, we bailed. Did some great snowshoeing on the Tannery Trail and fled back to civilization. Back to hot chocolate at the Old Creamery, back to electricity, running water, and indoor toilets, and back to the sweet, sweet thermostat.
Behold, a great Christmas present:
Sadly, when I modeled this at work, five out of five people could not identify the character. After I revealed the name, three of five still didn’t know who it was. Time to get a new job?
“So how’s it going up there?” After three visits to Pennsylvania in the last two months, I’ve heard this question a lot. By “up there,” people mean the wild and reserved part of the country North of New York City. Since we’re in Massachusetts now, most friends think we live in Boston. A few are pretty sure we live in New Hampshire, because that’s really the same thing as Massachusetts, right?
“Yo, when are yous moving back to Philly?”
So I try to explain Western Massachusetts and how it’s not like Boston at all and how you can drive just a few minutes to get somewhere beautiful, instead of sitting on the Schuylkill or I-95 or the Jersey Turnpike.
2012 was the first full year of living near nature.
Advice we got from area outdoor enthusiasts: there’s no bad weather, only wrong clothes. Icy trails are no problem with these bad boys, and winter hiking is peaceful: few people, no humidity, and no mosquitoes.
Microspikes
One one trek, we got to see some beaver action at Tully Lake:
Tully Lake Beavers
Even though there wasn’t much snow, Brattleboro, Vermont hosted the annual ski jump competition at Harris Hill.
Harris Hill Ski Jump
Cross-country skiing was fairly terrifying, partly because the fake snow was icy and mostly because it’s hard to stop.
Cross Country Skiing
Just when you’re tired of winter, the sugaring season starts. We visited a few sugar houses, including the Red Bucket Sugar Shack, down a dirt road in Worthington. Is there anything better than eating pancakes on a weekend morning while the maple syrup is boiling in the room next door?
Red Bucket Sugar Shack
Spring is slow to arrive here, but the anticipation is fun. Type E’s parents came for an Easter visit, and we took them to Hawley Bog, where spring had most definitely not yet sprung.
Hawley Bog
Later that weekend, we stopped by the nearby Acadia Wildlife Sanctuary and saw dozens of blue heron nests.
Acadia Rookery
My family chose to visit later in the spring, when things were greener. We took my mom to a sheep shearing festival in the Berkshires. Don’t worry–in the right hands, the sheep enjoy getting a haircut.
Sheep Shearing
The next day, we went on one of Blanche Derby’s wild edibles walks and learned that not only can you make pesto from garlic mustard, but you’re doing everyone a favor by pulling it up, since it’s an invasive species.
Wild Edibles
My brother and his wife brought their bikes, and we took our first ride of the season, to the end of the Norwottuck Rail Trail and back.
Norwottuck Rail TrailNorwottuck Rail Trail
Summer is just as hot and humid in the Pioneer Valley as it is in Philadelphia, but it’s gorgeous nonetheless.
This is ice cream country! There are Creamees, Frostees, Flayvors, and Flavorlands in every town and down every back road. At some places, you can give personal thanks to your dairy providers.
Thanks for the ice cream
Another way to escape the heat is to find yourself a swimming hole. Just downstream from the Chesterfield Gorge, below, you can splash around in the Westfield River or just plop your chair on a rock and read for a few hours.
Chesterfield Gorge
And of course it wouldn’t be summer without some camping. We went back to Savoy and drove to the Berkshires to see the Boston Symphony rehearse at Tanglewood. We also took in some mountainside outdoor dancing at Jacob’s Pillow.
Jacob’s Pillow
There was more camping at Half Moon State Park in Vermont.
Half Moon Pond
Closer to home, we enjoyed the porch, which serves as living room, dining room, and reading nook during warm months. The sounds of kids playing ball on our dead end street and the neighbor playing his guitar waft through the same screen that frames our view of the surrounding trees.
Favorite Room
It wouldn’t be summer without enjoying the local food bounty, from our CSA to the honor system produce stands along every road.
Atlas Farm CSA Haul
Some foods—even the undeserving—get their own festival.
Tomato Festival
This year, I fulfilled a dream by entering food in a local fair. My black raspberry jam, the cause of tears, frustration, and swearing, got a third-place ribbon a the Cummington Fair. I’ll never forget driving into the sunset on Route 9, jam and cookies in tow, and arriving at the fairgrounds to find what seemed like the entire community setting up for the weekend festivities.
Cummington Fair
Fall in New England is cliche, but who doesn’t love a good cliche? Mom made a return visit, and we took her out to the Three Sisters Sanctuary in Goshen, a hard place to describe.
Three Sisters
On Columbus Day weekend, the foliage was just starting, so we drove to the top of Mount Sugarloaf to peep at some leaves and also peep at the people down in Mike’s Maze.
Sugarloaf Peeping
We spent the next few weeks chasing the colors. First, a return to the High Ledges, above Shelburne Falls.
High Ledges
Then, a return to the local rail trail:
Norwottuck Rail Trail
You can detour from the trail and ride the dirt roads around Hadley’s farmland.
Hadley Roads
Stunning views are still to be had, even after the leaves are gone.
Chapel Brook
And if you’re missing the colors, there’s the annual chrysanthemum show at Smith College.
Chrysanthemum Show
Slowly, the pumpkins and cornucopias disappear, replaced by Christmas lights and barrels of salt that stand at the ready.
And so begins another full year of nature. Happy New Year!
New Year’s Eve
When Type E and I decided to escape the big city, our Philadelphia friends expressed concern for our cultural well-being. No more Philadelphia Film Festival, Philadelphia Film Society, Philadelphia Orchestra, Fringe Festival, or 215 Festival. We would be doomed to a life of lackluster multiplex movies, forced to live vicariously through tweets and Netflix recommendations from urban folks.
Looking back at 2012, I can say it’s not so–it just takes a bit of searching and driving.
A highlight was yesterday’s Tales of the Night screening at Images Cinema in Williamstown. We drove an hour to see this French, computer-animated spectacle, a collection of six tales told through shadow puppet silhouettes set against gloriously-colored skies, savannahs, secret fairy dwellings, golden cities, and underground cave worlds.
The juxtaposition of the flat, black characters and the colorful backdrops are enough to make Tales of the Night unique. But this screening was in 3D, so the silhouettes popped from their settings, much like shoebox diorama people crafted by kids for school projects.
The stories are set all over the world, and even if you don’t like them, you can’t help but marvel at how beautifully they’re told. But I loved them, these stories told in the tradition of Arabian Nights.
Vive le cinéma!