Putting sheep into their paddock on September mornings I scan the hillside that rises up behind them. Each day now color creeps across the mountain. Yellow arrives first, looking more like the green leaves are feeling a little “off.” There are teasing splotches of reds and oranges visible through morning fog. I call to Bronte who, like me, has taken a seat: only she is watching sheep while I check for signs of fall. She joins me as I trudge up the field in my heavy boots, my staff clicking rhythmically against the ground as I propel myself upward. We close the gate, and as we head up the dirt road we pass the garden that looks slightly scarred and empty after produce was taken from the ground, leaving rectangular patches of black earth. The second planting of green beans remains as does the kale that will continue to produce well after frost, Yellow orbs of spaghetti squash dangle from the fence they have climbed, waiting patiently for us to pick them. In the corner the giant squash-cross pumpkins also climb the fencing looking for a way out into the open field only to be stuck hanging while gaining weight. We really don’t get enough sunlight to grow blue ribbon pumpkins, but I am always lured into trying when, in the cold of winter, I read the back of the seed packets which promise enormity. Pounds & pounds of potatoes are tucked between layers of shavings in their large box in the cool basement. Raspberries are stacked in the freezer for morning smoothies. Buckets of tomatoes have been made into sauce and frozen only a few left on the vine, like smooth red Christmas ornaments on a Charlie Brown tree. Down the home stretch, not enough left to make more sauce, so we’ll slice them for succulent BLTs or serve on a plate with cucumbers.
Each morning I run Muir through the fog, a dented metal bucket along for the ride in the milk crate at the front of the ATV. Paul walks down and joins us at the apple trees down the road. He carries wooden apple baskets and a long pole that he has made by duck taping together a roof rake and a wooden post with a crook on it. I first fill the dented metal bucket with the apples that don’t quite make the cut; the ones that the yellow jackets crawl drunkenly out of and the ones that the deer have half-eaten the night before. These will be treats for the sheep each evening. During apple season they call out when they hear the clang of the metal bucket against my boots. We take turns using the homemade branch-shaker and shake down the tree to rain down it’s apples. We’ve learned to never look up while working so as to avoid being hit dead in the face with an apple. Which hurts way more than you might expect. We shake and re-shake until we fill the allotted baskets and then load everything onto the back of the ATV and slowly make our way home- dogs loping alongside. An apple parade.
In Vermont the gathering season is normally for maple syrup. A larger sugar production would have lines up and ready in the fall. Smaller operations tap trees in the spring when thawing begins – normally early March. There is a window for making syrup that occurs while days begin to warm but nights stay cold and before trees begin to bud out. March also happens to be mud season so you are collecting sap in buckets and mud everywhere else. Boiling means hours in the sugar house feeding limb-wood to keep the fire going, often well into the night. The sugar house also often becomes a gathering spot for card games, eating and of course drinking.
At our farm the gathering season is in early fall. No lines or buckets to put up or fuel to collect. Instead of tapping trees, we shake them until they drop their fruit. The earth is dry and covered in beautiful colored leaves that crunch under our boots. Our red cider press remains up for a couple of weeks and it also becomes a gathering spot. Even young children can toss apples into the bucket of wash water, bobbing them up and down to rinse them off. The first part of the process is the crank where the apples are thrown in to be chopped. They drop into a large bucket set underneath and we chop until that bucket is full. Someone then transfers the bucket to the press. Everybody wants to take a turn at the press. It is a similar satisfaction to hitting a mark with a hammer and ringing the bell at the fair. It begins easily enough but becomes increasingly more difficult as the cider is squeezed from the apples. Faces redden as it tightens. There is jeering and cheering for the presser. Even before turning the handle, cider leaks out into the spout. Everyone quickly grabs a paper cup and holds it underneath for that first taste. Once we feel that we have taken all the apples have to give, we release the press, take the apple mash that is left, and pile it in a wheelbarrow.
I bring out a large steel bowl and scoop the chopped chunks in to make applesauce. I run inside and transfer the mash into a pot on the stove, pour some cider over it all and bring it to a boil. Very soon it fills the house with the scent of apples and I leave it to head back out and help with pressing. Sam stands near the chopper waiting expectantly for apple pieces to fly out of the bucket and onto the deck or into his mouth. Once the wheelbarrow is full, we ask for a volunteer (normally Josh, even if he doesn’t volunteer) to wheel it up the class four road and tip it into the woods so that the deer can enjoy it as well.
We fill gallon jugs and half gallon glass jars being careful to leave room for expansion at the top during freezing. We learned that the hard way when one year we opened our freezer to find sticky apple cider all over everything else. I hop onto the ATV and run one of the first jars to Pete and Donna who allow us to include their apples trees in our mishmash. We send people home clutching jars of cider against their chests.
No mud, no taps. Still sticky and not quite as good on pancakes but liquid gold just the same.