boat soup

I've been working, for sure, but somehow yesterday felt like the first big day of building. It didn't rain, my chisel was sharp, and the need to get going somehow seemed more apparent. (The bigger the project, the longer the rush to deadline?) I finished cutting and shaping my floor joists, made more sawhorses, souped up my mailbox post, and cut a joist pocket in a sill.
The sense of urgency comes partly from the same thing that motivates every Alaska builder – the desire to not get caught without a roof when it gets cold – and partly because I’m timberframing with white spruce. The wood shrinks a lot when it dries, and tends to twist. The best would be to cut it all immediately after it’s milled and get the frame up before the timbers dry. The joinery might stop the timbers from twisting. Instead, I have stacks of timbers cut at various times -- from last week to months ago -- at various stages of drying. So I add a strong sixteenth to my joist ends in the hope they’ll shrink to fit. (The sills that will house them have already shrunk.)
It’s nice to think of timberframing as modular, and it can be in some cases. Every brace in the frame should be identical. But sometimes the qualities of each timber, each piece of once-living wood, make customization necessary. A four-by-six joist might be only three and seven-eighths.
Boat soup is a mix of pine tar, linseed oil, and turpentine. It treats boats and outdoor wood without sealing it in varnish or nasty chemicals. The pine tar I have comes from a boatbuilding supply store, but is made for horses: “Wash and dry hoof. Apply below coronet band of hoof and hoof wall. As a hoof pack, apply to bottom of hoof prior to shoeing.” The tar makes the wood dark and sticky. You have to recoat every year or so, and the wood probably won’t last as long as pressure-treated, but that's fine with me.

moto

It's a sorry indication of my fitness that my outdoor adventures now come atop a 650cc dirt bike. But then there's nothing really to complain about. Last night, after a long day of rain, the sun came out under giant picture clouds. I motored up Murphy Dome on the old road, turned to slippery mud from the rain. A cloud blew through the trees over the road. I bumped over rocks on a trail to the summit. At the top, maybe 10 o'clock at night, the sun was setting over mountains to the west and north. Cottongrass, Labrador tea, blueberries, dwarf fireweed. A fox scurried down the 4-wheeler trail in front of me. I rode back down the mountain, the air cooling, humid enough to fog my visor and mirrors. I passed the turn to my house and kept riding, to catch just a little more of this late, golden summer sunset that will last only so long.

juneau, and the next thing

It's a wonderful thing here in Juneau to be able to walk out your door, maybe with a cup of coffee, and hike from sea level up 2,000 feet till the sun filters through the trees and the water and mountains and snow come into view. It was just a mini-hike I took today, up to the top of the tram on the way to Mount Roberts. I saw three skiers stumbling down in ski boots, and two mountain bikers pushing their bikes up the narrow trail.
I have no good excuse for not blogging, except that I really haven't had much outdoor adventure to write about, and have hardly covered anything related to climate change or the environment. Here at the capitol, discussion of either comes in the form of resolutions against federal climate legislation or concerns over federal Endangered Species Act listings. There is talk, and action, related to renewable energy and conservation -- more than in most states, I believe -- but lawmakers almost never mention environmental benefits when explaining their support for either.
I have spent much of my non-work time planning my next Alaska adventure -- building a small cabin. In February, I bought an acre of land in Fairbanks, on a sloping, mossy, tree-covered lot on the north side of a hill in Fairbanks. It's likely to get no direct sun for at least a few weeks in the winter, but it's above the coldest parts of town, and above the pollution caused by poor air circulation and lots of cars and wood stoves. I don't have a simple explanation for wanting to do it, and now. Or rather, I have several. I miss using my hands, and that part of the brain that looks for creative and elegant solutions to physical problems. I like thinking about the experience of a physical place -- what you see as you walk up the steps to a door, or where the light will be in the evening. I want some kind of home, a place to return to and leave from, but also just a place where I can sink big screws into the rafters and now worry about a landlord or deposit.