It was interesting that in this barren and hard season flowed the sweetness of a year in North County. We had another storm, a foot of snow, and then the clouds lifted and the night was thick with ice. The next day the sun came out with vigor. Mark and I were having lunch when we heard a thick layer of ice breaking off the roof of the farmhouse, followed by the sound of melting snow dripping off the eaves. Since then, the whole atmosphere of our world has changed. Let's cross the border to a better environment. The SAP in the sugar maple tree is growing. The SAP bucket has been brushed, and the cannula is in place. We planned to load Thomas's SAP tank onto a pony and pull it through the woods. Everything was ready, but the snow in the woods was so thick that it was difficult for the wheels to run. We needed a sledge -- a jumping sled, as Owens called it -- and the sooner the better. When Neil and Donald's father was young, the family farm relied on horse power and everyone could make sugar. If anyone knows how to do a jumping sled, it's Mr. Owens. Mr. Owens is here with Neal. He's in his 70s, thin. He looks after is weather-beaten Neil stature, have the same essence: consistency, size, like locusts, spherical nose, like spode eyes sharp blue eyes. Unlike the other older farmers we met, who wore feed company hats and T-shirts, Mr. Owens was smartly dressed in diagonal, arrowhead boots and a smart Western shirt. The wallet in the back pocket of his jeans was held together by chains and belts, truck driver style. Mark, Neil and I took him through the machine shop and the east barn to give him a tour. He watched carefully and said nothing. He grew up on a farm three miles away from us, and must have seen it countless times in his past life, and knew its every nook and cranny better than we did.

Then we went into the west barn, where Sam and Silver were in the stable, heads down, eating hay. I watched Mr. Owens perk up and walk away from our group while Mark and Neil argued about how many bales of hay could fit in the attic. Mr. Owens touched the harness hanging from the hook and walked over to the two horses. He stepped into the stable, calling in a low voice, and stroking Silver's shoulder and foreleg with his hand, then stood back to see how the two horses fit together. He nodded slightly. We walked into the woods west of the barn, Neal leading the way, Mark following, with the chainsaw. Mr. Owens was in the back, sharp and silent, his cowboy hat now knitted. We're looking for American hemlock, locally known as spire ironwood, a heavy, dense hardwood, strong and durable. Mr. Owens said it was the best material for a jumping sled. Halfway up the hill toward the Sugar Maple Forest, Mr. Owens raised his prophet-like hand and pointed at two twelve-foot trees, the thinner end slightly curving, as if he had been determined to run across the ground as a sled. I went back to the barn to bring Silver, and Mark cut the tree with a chain saw. By the time I got back up the hill, he had sawed down three trees, the two smaller ones, and a straight ash tree that was destined to be our pole. Three trees had been sawed down and stripped of their branches. We tied the wood with a logging chain and tied it to Silver. He dragged three trees home and walked across the snow as easily as if he were carrying three toothpicks home.

It was interesting that in this barren and hard season flowed the sweetness of a year in North County. We had another storm, a foot of snow, and then the clouds lifted and the night was thick with ice. The next day the sun came out with vigor. Mark and I were having lunch when we heard a thick layer of ice breaking off the roof of the farmhouse, followed by the sound of melting snow dripping off the eaves. Since then, the whole atmosphere of our world has changed. Let's cross the border to a better environment. The SAP in the sugar maple tree is growing. The SAP bucket has been brushed, and the cannula is in place. We planned to load Thomas's SAP tank onto a pony and pull it through the woods. Everything was ready, but the snow in the woods was so thick that it was difficult for the wheels to run. We needed a sledge -- a jumping sled, as Owens called it -- and the sooner the better. When Neil and Donald's father was young, the family farm relied on horse power and everyone could make sugar. If anyone knows how to do a jumping sled, it's Mr. Owens. Mr. Owens is here with Neal. He's in his 70s, thin. He looks after is weather-beaten Neil stature, have the same essence: consistency, size, like locusts, spherical nose, like spode eyes sharp blue eyes. Unlike the other older farmers we met, who wore feed company hats and T-shirts, Mr. Owens was smartly dressed in diagonal, arrowhead boots and a smart Western shirt. The wallet in the back pocket of his jeans was held together by chains and belts, truck driver style. Mark, Neil and I took him through the machine shop and the east barn to give him a tour. He watched carefully and said nothing. He grew up on a farm three miles away from us, and must have seen it countless times in his past life, and knew its every nook and cranny better than we did.

Then we went into the west barn, where Sam and Silver were in the stable, heads down, eating hay. I watched Mr. Owens perk up and walk away from our group while Mark and Neil argued about how many bales of hay could fit in the attic. Mr. Owens touched the harness hanging from the hook and walked over to the two horses. He stepped into the stable, calling in a low voice, and stroking Silver's shoulder and foreleg with his hand, then stood back to see how the two horses fit together. He nodded slightly. We walked into the woods west of the barn, Neal leading the way, Mark following, with the chainsaw. Mr. Owens was in the back, sharp and silent, his cowboy hat now knitted. We're looking for American hemlock, locally known as spire ironwood, a heavy, dense hardwood, strong and durable. Mr. Owens said it was the best material for a jumping sled. Halfway up the hill toward the Sugar Maple Forest, Mr. Owens raised his prophet-like hand and pointed at two twelve-foot trees, the thinner end slightly curving, as if he had been determined to run across the ground as a sled. I went back to the barn to bring Silver, and Mark cut the tree with a chain saw. By the time I got back up the hill, he had sawed down three trees, the two smaller ones, and a straight ash tree that was destined to be our pole. Three trees had been sawed down and stripped of their branches. We tied the wood with a logging chain and tied it to Silver. He dragged three trees home and walked across the snow as easily as if he were carrying three toothpicks home.