The snow on either side of the trail I was traversing was higher than my four-wheeler. My husband, bound and determined to open a path to reach our sap totes and pickle barrels, had gotten the skidder buried in the drifts.
I’d advised him not to undertake this thing, thinking it was too hard, too much snow. Everything was covered. He couldn’t be swayed, convinced he could get to our totes. Resignedly sending him off then, he’d advised me to stay close to my cell.
“Just in case,” says he.
A few days before, snowstorm Elsa had morphed into blizzard status. I had never ever seen so much snow. A week before, we had spotted robins and every inch of our lawn. Now everything was blanketed like an unblemished, white linen tablecloth. Where do the robins go?
Our trail cam had caught pictures of deer struggling to walk with snow up to their bellies. Going down the trail that day, three of them were standing in the lane not 15 yards from me. Approaching them slowly, they looked back and twitching their ears as if to say, “Thank you,” darted ahead of me, staying on the trail. They could run.
Watching them whisk away, their white tails high above their back — as if frolicking — made me laugh out right loud, forgetting for a moment exactly what I was there for.
Driving up to him, we hooked the four-wheeler’s winch to the arm of the skidder. Easing back to take up the slack, I put my foot on the brake and ran the line in. Slowly, slowly the skidder moved out of its white tomb and got upright on solid ground.
Thumbs up, he sent me on my way.
Getting home, I’d barely hung up my outer clothes. Turning to go into the kitchen, my cell phone jangled. I didn’t even want to look.
“I’m stuck again. Sorry.”
This man has the patience of Job to accomplish something he sets his mind to do. How could I get mad, although I admit I was. Praying all the way down there, I asked God to give me a gracious spirit.
“Father, You grant me grace and mercy every single day. Help me to be gracious to him.”
Greeting him with a smile when he expected a frown, he must have thought I’d lost my marbles, but it made the work easier.
We tried the same tactic and this time the skidder didn’t budge. He’d give it gas and it just slid sideways, moving in the opposite direction. Finally, admitting defeat, he took the four-wheeler back to the farm to retrieve the tractor, leaving me behind, waiting in the skidder for him to return.
While I was up there by myself, it dawned on me that weeks before when we’d started collecting sap, we were walking on dried leaves and twigs and watching bugs scurry. Oh, what a difference two days can make.
Back during the brunt of the storm we’d had to feed our animals housed here two big square hay bales, weighing approximately 1,000 pounds and with a 3 feet by 3 feet by 8 feet berth. We had them stored in our barn mow for emergency feed. My husband maneuvered those monstrosities out of the mow, down the snow-covered barn hill and plowed yard, and over to both pens of animals.
Our skidder is a piece of machinery that is extremely versatile. My husband also uses it to plow snow, clean barns, feed animals, pick rocks and poke into round soybean or cornstalk bales used for bedding. With different bucket attachments, it handles just about every job we throw at it.
Now apparently handling a new job — forging a trail through our woods to continue our sapping journey.
So that day my husband backed the tractor up to where I was waiting in the skidder. Hooking the chain up to the bar, I got instructions.
“It might give you a jolt, and drive forward as soon as I start pulling.”
For over 40 years I’ve accomplished jobs with my husband that I thought seemingly impossible and highly uncomfortable. This was right up there near the top of the list. We had to hook up twice and — yes, a jolt is an apt description of what happened — but he got me out.
All told, it took him 2 1/2 full days of sheer grit and determination, but he got it opened up — close to a half-mile. I’d be remiss if I didn’t commend my husband on this. If it were up to me, we’d have closed up shop due to snowdrifts up to our waist in the woods, cut our losses and called it a day. His optimism and can-do attitude has garnered us the best sap harvest we’ve ever had, and at this writing, we’re not done yet. I’m very proud of him and told him so.
We’ve seen it all — and so far endured — during this year’s sap collection.
Even through snowstorm Elsa.
(“The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in mercy.” Psalm 103:8, New International Version)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
