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Hey, remember that frazzled old fellow you saw in the hardware store checkout line last week?
The one whose face was grey with week-old stubble, wild of hair and eye, obviously unwashed and dazed from lack of sleep, looking old beyond his years. Clad in sugar-caked work pants and mackinaw, wearing his cleanest dirty shirt over a T-shirt that can’t remember what it was like to be white, he has the look of a man trying to remember what day it is.
Probably he was in town to get some replacement part between sap runs that came so early the maple season caught him by surprise, but then it always catches him by surprise.
Maybe he was me.
This grizzled geezer is not a big-time, wheeler-dealer commercial operator who counts his sugar maples by the thousand.
There are no pipe lines on Sapsucker Ridge, no vacuum pump or reverse osmosis machine or filter press or automatic draw-off. My methods are so primitive that my maple syrup is organic in all but name.
Oh, there have been changes from the tools of an uncle who gave me my first taste of maple syrup still hot from the evaporator. (He always made me wait for it to go through the filter, which is just as well.)
My ATV replaces my uncle’s team of horses. My evaporator is up to date, I have a finishing pan and a hydrometer tells me when the job of reducing sap to syrup is complete.
My uncle, who has looked over my setup, knew his syrup was finished when it dripped in sheets from his syrup scoop. At least, that’s how I remember it.
His syrup might have too dark for modern standards and its sugar content a little high or low, but his syrup tasted so good that his customers came back year after year for a lifetime.
Making maple syrup takes patience and a keen attention to detail, but it is not rocket science. It is as simple as this - you boil maple sap until most of the water is gone and what you have left is syrup.
My uncle was as lucky as I am. Another uncle was happy enough to run the evaporator while he did the gathering. My friend Randy and I have the same arrangement.
And so I spend the best, sunny days of early spring tromping through my sugar bush, listening to the birds and watching the seasons change. Buckets dump into gathering pails, pails into haul tank and then the sap goes to the sugar house.
The ATV is not a technological improvement over my uncle’s horses. I have to keep going back to my machine to move it forward; my uncle used voice commands to move his team to where he wanted to meet it with his pails filled with sap and man and horses walked in tandem through the woods.
A dog followed him, just as The Brown Dog Jiggs follows me, though Jiggs’ four legs are one more than my uncle’s farm collie had. After a while, Jiggs, bored with my routine, goes back to the sugar house to bake himself into a stupor beside the evaporator’s inferno.
And as we work, the world transforms itself. Snow gives way to bare spots and then to leeks and the first shoots of trout lillies.
Barred owls hurl imprecations and the resident pair of pileated woodpeckers fly cackling through the tree tops.
A male pileated hammers out the news on the same dead beech by my old dump station; I want it to have been the same bird all these years.
And there is some precise moment of transition, a night when I stand outside my sugarhouse under a canopy of stars, watching flaming bits shoot out of the chimney like a holiday fireworks display.
Last night was silence, broken now by the sound of flowing water, my pond emptying itself over a beaver dam that has come unlocked. Spring is here.