I think of myself as fit, but putting together the platform taught me how weak my wrists and forearms are. Jogging and biking don’t use them much. It was almost impossible to cut the wood by hand and to drive the big sixteen-penny nails through two-by-fours. But when it was done, I was satisfied with it. Not a cabin, but at least a first step toward an education in carpentry.
I set up the tent on the platform and it was great. Flat floor, dry, more civilized. I felt clever and capable for two days. Then a big wind came up—no rain, just one of those robust, ebullient spring winds that come in to make sure winter is thoroughly swept away. It bent the trees frighteningly and flapped my tent fly with a sound like machine-gun fire that stopped suddenly when the thing ripped loose and flew away in the darkness. Without a waterproof covering, the tent was fully exposed to any rain that might come, and I spent a night of high anxiety wondering if a thunderstorm would drown me out completely. At times, the arched aluminum poles swayed and the nylon wall ballooned so much, I was sure the whole thing would lift up like a box kite, with me still inside, a woman blown away into the night sky.
Didn’t blow me away, didn’t rain. In the morning—beautifully fresh and clear, ringing blue sky, winter absolutely combed out of the woods—I found the fly, snarled high in a tree about a hundred feet from camp, inaccessible and badly torn. I had to buy another for almost as much as a whole new tent would have cost. When I mentioned it to Earnest, he told me you really had to use every one of the loops for a guy wire that would hold the fly tight. He also had a little secret, a way to use a marble-size pebble to make extra tie-down grommets on the nylon, with short ropes that could tie to the platform and pull the fly closer to the inner shell. Less room for the wind to get under.
The tent has been much nicer and since then has handled rains and winds in fine shape.
Earnest: I’ve enjoyed our times together. Turns out he’s an Oneida, born on the tribe’s lands near Green Bay, Wisconsin. They were originally a New York tribe, he says, but they were kicked out by the governor in eighteen-something and marched to their new “nature preserve” (his term)—but not before Gov. Schuyler fathered twenty-seven kids by Indian women. When I asked him how he ended up in Vermont, he told me that he and Brassard served together in Vietnam in the early seventies and when they got back to the States Earnest had no big plans or prospects, so Brassard hired him to work on the farm.
“I didn’t like working for Jim,” he explained. He seemed a bit uncomfortable telling me this. “Anyway, after a few years I got to a head place where I needed some distance from the farm and went up and started my own business.” He went on to tell me he set up as a tree surgeon up near Burlington, but realized he had gotten attached to the farm, and started coming down to help out: “Now when I come down, I’m not getting paid, so he and Diz can’t tell me what to do.” He smiled at that.
Earnest is the equipment fixer and major project manager. It’s a marginal farm, no extra money, the nineteen-year-old kid Brassard hires is a pretty dim bulb, and a lot of the machines are getting old and cranky, so his skills are badly needed. He’s also strong as an ox and doesn’t have any physical problems. I’d guess Earnest is in his midfifties. Brassard is probably ten years older and has arthritic joints, so he can use the help. I get the sense there’s some bond between the men, some exceptional basis for their loyalty to each other. From what I can gather, Brassard spent five years in Vietnam while Earnest only served there for the last humiliating, stumbling year of the war. Maybe some act of heroism, one saving the other’s life or something.
Another bastard hardest thing: For the first two weeks, I brought my water up the hill in plastic gallon jugs. It was agonizing, but I can only prevail upon the Brassards’ help so many times. Two jugs, one in each hand, leaving my arms and shoulders and hands aching by the time I got to the top. Relished the discomfort the first few times, proof I was living hard, then got fucking sick of it. Finally I set out and did a methodical search for the water source Brassard said might be up here.
And I found it. It’s about two hundred yards uphill from camp, a little channel about six inches deep and two feet wide, clear water running off toward Brassard’s valley. The bottom is made up of clean rocks. I tracked it back up the hill almost to the boulder wall, to a point where it bubbles up out of the earth. It’s crystal clear and tooth-achingly cold, the best water I’ve ever tasted. It’s never been in a pipe, never languished in a plastic bottle absorbing carcinogens. Brassard says the fact that it’s a real spring and not a runoff stream is a very good thing. Comes from deep underground, no germs or cow poop in it. I look forward to washing in it every morning, even though the cold burns my skin. I’m sure it’s good for your complexion.
Hardest bastard parts: On the physical side, bugs rank at or near the top. Blackflies are the worst. Each is about half the size of a grain of rice. They bite every exposed part, particularly blood-rich
