Salt Water Farm

Full Crow Moon Supper

2010-03-19T08:21:00.001-07:00

On March 15th, 2010, Salt Water Farm held the "Full Crow Moon Supper" in honor of St. Patrick. It is said that the crow's caw in April to announce the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Chresten Soronson, a artisan baker and home brewer from Portland brewed an Irish Red and an Oatmeal Stout for the occasion, the later of which was used to braise beef and in a molasses chocolate cake with whiskey cream. The potatoes we used were "wintered over," a common treatment to parsnips, where the root vegetables are left in the ground as the outdoor temperature fluctuates above and below freezing. This process converts the starches to sugar, sweetening the product. Ladleah Dunn, was officially introduced as the farm manager and kitchen assistant at Salt Water Farm. She will be teaching a cheese making class on March 28th and there is only one spot left for anyone interested. The Moon Suppers have been such a tremendous success that from now on they will be held twice a month, instead of once a month. That about sums it up. Here are some shots from the supper taken by my dear friend, Elizabeth Noble.

Sonoma

2010-03-08T11:43:00.000-08:00

I've never felt passionately about wine, they way I do food. I realize they go hand in hand and a general knowledge of grapes, regions and flavor profiles is necessary in order to run a successful food business. I relish good wine, so much so, that just the smell of a good St. Emillion or Borolo has me lost in unfounded nostalgia, but I have yet to master the study of wine production. Not to mention, I can't afford the bottles that I want to drink.

Anyhow, I visited the Russian River Valley, starting in Healdsburg. The town square is lined with wine tasting galleys and quaint cafes, bookshops and kitchen stores. It's a tasteful tourist trap. I followed Westside road through wine producing country and stopped off at a few vineyards to wrap my head around California wine culture. All the vineyards have tasting rooms, some modern and some antiquated. None of the wines tasted as good to me as those I'd had in Europe and I couldn't bring myself to buy a bottle. It was quiet, not much tourism this time of year because harvesting is several months off.

I drove along River Road and out to the coast, where Goat's Rock Beach is located, just South of Jenner. It was windy and the waves smashed up against the rocks with such ferocity that I felt nervous despite my distance from the sea. Lines of children, presumably on a field trip, held there arms out, inviting the the wind to push them over. I followed the Pacific Coast Highway down to Bodega Bay, a funny little surf town on the Sonoma Coast. The drive was spectacular, every inch of the way.

Saison

2010-03-07T08:30:00.000-08:00

I'm driving back and forth on a dark, quiet street in the Mission looking for any sign at all that indicates the location of Saison, a restaurant I had a vague recollection of making a reservation at. My date for the night is Caroline Trainer, a childhood friend and a good sport when it comes to entertaining me "while I work." Finally, she calls the restaurant and asks for more precise directions. A woman at the other end of the line says, "look for a dark alley on the North side of the street." We park the car and begin walking. Despite the fact that it feels as if we are in the ghetto, there are extremely expensive cars lining the street: Mercedes, Jaguars, Land Cruisers . . . We see the alley and peak in. A newly planted lavender tree in a court yard signifies that there is life in all this darkness. We wonder in, cautiously and at the end of the alley is a small table with 25 champagne glasses on it. A woman emerges, presumably the hostess, and pours us a glace. There are a few other dazed and confused people standing around with champagne glasses in their hands and it is clear that they have a thousand times the income that I do. That's probably a modest estimate. Luckily, Caroline and I are wearing new dresses, nice leather boots and some jewelery. I asked the hostess what the program was and she looked at me suspiciously. It felt like "Eyes Wide Shut" for a moment, like I was the only one without a clue as to what was about to happen. The other twenty or so guests arrived, one couple at a time, all dressed exquisitely. The hostess led the group through the kitchen, a huge space where the chefs watched our every move. The dining room was a sort of extension of the kitchen, with one large table in the center and a couple peripheral tables. Of course, we were sat on the periphery, as not to disrupt the elegant state of things.

In front of us was an 8 course menu, accompanied with wine pairings, all of which turned out to be bottomless. Without going into tremendous detail about the food, I will simply say that it was the best meal I've ever had.

Saison
March 2010

Little leeks, wild caviar, meyer lemon

Our farm EGG, smoked butter & golden trout roe

ROOTS stewed with bonito, caramelized shoots, leaves & flowers

petrale SOLE, artichoke citronne, vadouvan spices

crimson BEET aigre-doux, hibiscus & bone marrow

sonoma LAMB, whole-roasted with warm spices, natural jus

point reyes inverness sun toasted walnuts

SATSUMA ice cream mandarin gratine

chocolate-walnut crumble, salted caramel ice cream

$200

The Mission

2010-03-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

Activism was born in the Mission District. I went to meet an old friend at his apartment on 18th and Anderson and it was like walking into a scene from "Almost Famous." I was introduced to a series of interesting people: a woman sitting at a sowing machine in her underpants, another on the floor with a board across her lap, covered in fortune telling cards, a band playing bossonova music in the kitchen, a couple circus performers and a slew of other colorful characters. Fifteen people in all lived in this commune, where they all slept at night was unclear. We headed to a dinner party where "Homemade Hustle," (a vegan catering company made up of two girls dressed like it's 1985), were testing out recipes for an upcoming event. In a back room, a beautiful brunette with thick, tortoise-shell frame glasses read her own poetry with a fierceness I haven't heard in my lifetime, a room full of people listening intently and cheering her on. I didn't know that this scene still existed in our modern day world. I must have heard the word "interconnectedness" seven or eight times before I headed home.

The following day, I went to a private dinner put on my chef Sam Mogannam and farmer Martin Bournhonesque at 18 Reasons (18th and Valencia), a non-profit space created by the owners of Bi Rite, a company that brings farms, restaurants and a grocery store together in a single collaborative effort. At the table was the copy writer for Edible San Francisco, restaurant owners, farmers, food enthusiasts and Rachel Cole, the project's organizer. We discussed the similarities between Salt Water Farm's community dinners and those at 18 Reasons. The menu was simple and sublime, showing off seasonal produce, local cheese and a smoked goose breast that was outstanding. The space also lends its self to local artists and social events to help create community. (www.18reasons.org)

Salt Water Farm in New York Magazine

2010-03-05T09:02:00.000-08:00

"Go Beyond the Lobster in Maine"

By Adam H. Graham

"Sails are lowered for the winter in Camden, but vineyards, farm markets, and cooking schools are turning this town into the Napa of New England."

http://nymag.com/travel/weekends/camden/index2.html

It's a small mention and its accuracy is questionable, but Moose and Moxie made it into New York Magazine!!!

In January, Adam Graham, a writer for the New York Times and New York Magazine came to Salt Water Farm for a late morning brunch, made up of a duck confit hash, homemade breads, a roasted beet and winter green salad and a selection of local goat cheeses. Afterward, we walked down to the water with the pups and discussed the various events that Salt Water Farm puts on throughout the seasons. Adam, like many people I meet randomly, is from my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, Carrol, (Gardens/Cobble Hill), and we shared a list of our favorite places to eat back in the city. Let' just say the man has good taste.

The Edible Schoolyard, Boulette's Larder

2010-03-04T15:55:00.001-08:00

This morning, I met my Aunt for lunch in the ferry building at Boulette's Larder. The exposed kitchen is composed of a large island and hood, from which dozens of well-cared-for copper pots hang, ready for use. A beautiful stone cooking fireplace sits beside a long, elegant table. A poised staff in bleached chef whites preps for service, their knives sharp. The formula at Boulette's Larder is a fixed price dinner for twelve guests and an a la carte lunch menu consisting of four or five daily items. I ordered the sardines, which which were pleasantly charred with a milky vegetable braise below them and two perfect grilled asparagus spear on top. The chef is French trained with San Francisco's most extraordinary farmer's market outside her door. Not to mention, a fish market, pork market, a mushroom market and many others. This was a recipe for divinity from the start. I was told not to take pictures so you'll have to go to the website for a peak. (www.bouletteslarder.com)

Today, I went to Martin Luther King Middle School in Berkeley to meet with Shaina Robbins, the director of the Edible Schoolyard program. A Wisconsinite, like myself, she had recently left her career in New York City to take a more hands on approach in the world of food education. Alice Water's is the mind behind the Edible Schoolyard and it is he beating heart of a revolutionary movement to teach children where the food they eat comes from. At about 1:30 in the afternoon, classes were in session in both the garden and the kitchen. Shaina explained to me that the goal was to teach the students the process by which plants are converted into food. For instance, in 6th grade, the children sow wheat seed and tend to it. In 7th grade, they harvest it, seperate the caff and grid the remaining wheat into flour. In eight grade the students make pizza dough from the wheat flour, as well as tomato sauce and pesto, which is frozen. And on a final celebratory day, they use the outdoor wood burning pizza oven to bake off their own pies.

The garden is beautiful and well established and the staff that maintains it is devoted to project. Chickens peck at the open piles of compost and straw mushroom houses hang from the trees. In the kitchen, students do all tasks by hand or with old fashion equipment such as wooden tortilla presses, mortar and pestles and apple presses, a lesson that you don't need machines in order to cook dinner. The kids have "knife privileges" and don't dare lose them.

Efforts similar to this have been made across the country but not nearly enough. It had me thinking about Maine's childhood obesity problem and the need for food education. Just being outside and working seemed more productive than any math class I can remember attending.

Afterward, I headed over to the Berkley farmer's market, where music from another era filled the air and a mixed crowd shopped for dinner. Nearby, is what the locals refer to a the "Gourmet Ghetto," a string of specialty food shops selling good quality cheese, meat, artisan breads, spices, dried fruits, nuts and other fodder at reasonable prices. Chez Panisse is along this strip, so I ducked in to poke around. The kitchen was a thing of beauty, the pre-service mis-en-place in progress. This is was my favorite time of day when I worked in restaurant kitchens, the sound of only knives hitting cutting boards, and the occasional blender uproar but no conversation. Then I headed upstairs to the cafe to confirm my reservation for that evening. There behind the bar was Alice Waters herself and my heart pounded. I watched her move around her legendary restaurant, making sure everything was in it's place. She smiled and I smiled in return. There's no better conversation than that. I was more than satisfied.

Mill Valley

2010-03-01T15:19:00.000-08:00

It's hard to document a trip when you're alone and driving eighty miles an hour. Highway 101 between LA and and San Francisco is sandwiched between two mountain ranges, vineyards, farms, olive trees and migrant worker towns. It's sort of a happy medium both time-wise and beauty-wise between Highway 5 and Highway 1.

The trip took eight hours in total, including a stop in Los Olivos, where at ten thirty in the morning, the smell of tri tip permeated the air and the wineries were just starting to open their doors for tastings.

The sun was setting as I descended into the bay area and clouds revealed temporary and isolated views of the land and sea, not enough for me to get oriented. My destination was Hillside Gardens, which is also the venue for Savory Thymes, an event space run by my host, Ali Ghiorse. Ali started her work in San Francisco's Mission District, organizing community and outreach programs. Several years later, she moved to Mill Valley and teamed up with Hans Schoepflin to produced a variety of food events benefiting the non-profit sector. The events take place in an intimate amphitheater, tucked into the hillside on the lower portion of the property, sheltered by 200 foot eucalyptus trees and surrounded by lush gardens. They also keep a half dozen bee houses to help pollinate the flowers and a sweet little green house to start germination. Smaller events are held in a lovely dining room, beside a European style kitchen.

When I arrived there was a dinner party in progress. An Italian fellow brought flights of wine starting in the North of Italy and moving down South. Him and his wife lead trips to Sicily in the spring and summer and often organize underground supper parties at Ali's house. This Saturday, they are doing a Sicilian feast for 25, featuring a suckling pig from a local farm. I got invited once I told them what I do, thankfully.
The next morning I headed into North Western Mill Valley to Point Reyes Station, a small town who's focus is sustainable farming. It is home to Marin Organic, (an organization that supports local farmers) and the now famous Cowgirl Creamery. I ate lunch at Stellina, a local spot that does a lovely job of featuring all the meats, dairy and produce that the area has to offer. I had a fava bean leaf salad with a lemony blue cheese vinaigrette and an oyster and leek pizza that tasted sweet and like the sea. An interesting and eloquent combination.

Then I headed to Bolinas, where lush green farms stretched out across the countryside eventually meeting up with the ocean. It was hard to find because, apparently, the locals keep hiding the signs that indicate the town's location, to avoid an influx of tourists like myself. I followed Highway 1 up onto the ridge that follows the shoreline, several hundred feet above sea level. The road winds tightly around the mountains edge and one slip of the wheel has you plummeting to your ultimate demise. But it was beautiful . . . kelly green hills, dramatic rock formations, the water smashing against the cliffs and I was all alone. No cars, no houses, no people.

A sign said "San Francisco: 16 miles" and I could hardly believe that civilization was in such close proximity to this unearthly place.

That night, I went to the Buck Eye with Julie and Ali, an old steak and martini joint in Sausolito. Every town needs a good watering hole. Afterward, we headed to Julie's house boat, which is an experience unlike any I've had. The boats are all entirely unique in character; they almost look like they could talk and walk as if in Sesame Street. Each boat contains residents, all of which, according to Julie have an interesting story. There are some 200 boats in the community and approximately 450 residents. The area is tidal and when we were there, the boats were not afloat, they were resting on the sand. Julie tells me about her current project, "Swap Cabbage" a film about Florida Crackers. I can't wait to see it.

"In L.A, It's about the deal, not the meal"

2010-02-26T12:30:00.000-08:00

A noteworthy food writer made this comment about LA's food scene when I asked her where to go while visiting. In my week of eating, I've only had two fine dining experiences, neither of which blew my socks off. The first was at The Tar Pit in Hollywood. The place was filled with impeccably dressed couples, white leather banquets and a staff that looked liked the cast on Gossip Girl. We ordered a few appetizers that had extravagant descriptions and failed executions. The drinks were well made and of the prohibition era, which has become common place at even moderately hip restaurants across the country. The following evening, we went to Mozza, Mario Batali's pizza joint with Nancy Silverton's famous crust. The hostess told us that 11:30PM was the soonest we could sit down, so we headed to Comme Ca, a French Bistro known for their burger on brioche. The bone marrow and oxtail marmalade was rich and delicious, the burger cold at the center, the rest . . . a slightly refined version of the grand buffet on the final day of culinary school. (Sort of forced conceptually, over salted and too rich.) This morning, we went to The Griddle Cafe, the hottest brunch place on Sun Set strip, with two hour waits. Worth the wait. Brown sugar baked bananas are set into buttermilk batter, made into pancakes and piled high. Huevos Rancheros is composed of two perfectly poach eggs atop fresh made corn tortillas, swimming in a smoky red sauce and topped with a generous slice of California avocado. Real good.

Los Angeles may not be breaking new ground on the fancy food front, but the ethnic food, street food and "down and dirty" food is golden.

Tomorrow morning I head to San Francisco on the 101. I think I've had it with the billboards, high heels and Maseratis. I'm hoping for a little more sincerity.

A Quick Note on Vanity

2010-02-25T12:03:00.000-08:00

This morning, I decided to go for a bike ride from Venice Beach to Santa Monica Pier. Biking is something I learned to do like everyone else, at a young age, but it never really came naturally to me; the front wheel jerking from side to side, my brakes hitting too hard and the worst part of all . . . those tiny seats riding up into my crotch. Anyway, I'm biking along in the sunshine, waves crashing, looking wide eyed at all the crazies: dirty hippies, drug attics, yoga cults, muscle men and so on. All of the sudden, I see a tanned, moderately sculpted chest atop a pair of well fitting denim jeans. He looks up at me from his bike lock. I froze, wheels still turning. Then I see a beautiful blond headed child, one arm wrapped around his leg. This singular image is attacking all my weak spots. As I'm imagining my life with this strange man, my front tire finds its way off the path and onto the sand, an inhospitable environment for a amateur biker. I tumble over the handle bars and all the blood rushes to head in embarrassment. I don't dare look up at him. I won't even mention what I was wearing, let's just say I slept in it. I remounted the bike, laughing out loud at myself. Someone had to.
As I wound around the sandy bike paths back to Venice, I passed the yogis again and had a strange desire to stop and get in the downward dog position. I hate yoga. I eat for a living. So many conflicting thoughts. Do I need to be thinner, tanner? I will admit that these concerns crossed my mind. But in the end, and I know this from lots of experience, my appetite always conquers any thoughts of physical improvement. Too bad I'm still single.

Los Angeles: Santa Monica Farmer's Market, El Parian

2010-02-24T16:23:00.001-08:00

The Santa Monica Farmer's Market in February is pretty impressive. Tables are piled high with heirloom tomatoes, plump strawberries, tight headed asparagus, citrus of all varieties, sun baked persimmons, beautiful salad greens and much more. I must say, however, that the mushrooms are pitiful compared to those found in Maine and after an oyster tasting at 9:00 AM, I can state with certainty that there is simply no comparison between a thick shelled, meaty Pemaquid oyster: perfectly balanced in every-way and a thin shelled, soft bodied, sour tasting California oyster. It made me miss the icy waters of the Atlantic.

It's hard to imagine having such a bounty of produce all year round. On one hand, it seems luxurious to put anything on a menu, in any season but on the other, I love the challenges imposed by the changing seasons, the way that you have to wait until summer to bake a blueberry pie, wait until fall to exhaust the root vegetable family and until February to eat sweet, succulent Maine shrimp. I'm not sold yet on the ease of living in this sunny place with all these beautiful vegetables. The New Englander in me feels that something is not quite right.
At the Santa Monica Fish Market, everything is tidy and well displayed. The air smells not of fish but of flowers, which makes me skeptical. Then I look at the fine print on the signs that mark the fish variety. There are fish from dozens of countries around the world but where are the fish from California? I think about the Port Clyde Co-Op and smile. Another point for Maine.

It's lunch time. Saveur's Taco Nirvana piece puts me on the 405 and over to El Parian, rumored to have the best carne asada in LA. The first thing I see when I walk in is a woman cupping dough from a mound with her hands, pressing corn tortillas and tossing them on the griddle. Although I am not of Mexican heritage, something about the smell and the process of making tortillas from scratch, comforts me deeply. Afterward, I go for a walk on Venice beach and watch the surfers tumbling through the white waves. I undo the button on my jeans and take a deep breath of warm, salt air. I might like it here.

Los Angeles: Topanga Canyon, Koreatown

2010-02-24T08:23:00.000-08:00

After studying Saveur's March Issue devoted entirely to food culture in Los Angeles on the airplane from JFK to LAX, I was ready to do some athletic eating. My host for the first night, a childhood friend and actor, took me up into Topanga Canynon at sunset to show me some house's he'd put bids on. Apparently, living in the semi-wilderness right outside of LA is a dream for many.

The landscape of this place is strange and beautiful. 1970's farmhouses are built into the hills, draped with Tibetan flags and overgrown vines. Vintage cars seem to be born out of this canyon, now vestiges of another era. Farm animals of all sorts wander the inclines and horses are a common mode of transportation.

We stop in at The Inn of the Seventh Ray that sits beside a river bed, a legendary restaurant, said to once be run by a cult, also a scene out Ms. Dinsmoor's decaying garden in Great Expectations. It's too early to eat so we move one.

We wined back down Topanga Canyon Road to the Pacific Coast Highway. Rush hour traffic gives me time to take in the twilight hour on the other coast. By nature of the fact that the sun sets in the West, I think California wins on the sunset front. Unless, of course, you live Downeast.
We meet up with a Korean actor and my friend's new girlfriend, also in the industry. From the moment he walks in the door, he's trying to get into character for an audition the next day. The role is a thirty year old male with aspergers and an obsession with the human genitalia. He asks me if I want to get "down and dirty" in reference to dinner time and I responded . . . "yes, filthy." So we head to Koreatown and hit up an all you can eat Korean BBQ joint for $18 a head. Our guide quits his character in order to communicate with the staff in Korean, so I'm feeling pretty confident that we aren't going to get the gringo treatment. Most of the families in the place are Korean and their tables are crowded with what seems to be the order of the day. We start out with a big beautiful bowl of salad greens with ground red pepper, thick rice papers, kimchi,tofu dipped in egg and fried, a Korean pancake made with scallions and zucchini, a bubbling cauldron of egg souffle, plenty of steamed rice and a variety of Korean condiments.

Then comes the meat, cow's belly, fatty shavings of bright red beef, cubes of tenderloin and some marinated beef with a sweet and salty flavor that is so good, I feel like shedding a tear. I wash it all down with a light Korean beer and sit back in my chair, sated. I'm going to have to buy new jeans for this trip. One size bigger.

The Outdoors Club

2010-02-11T12:56:00.000-08:00

“The Outdoors Club”
By Annemarie Ahearn
February 11th,2010

Looking out the window of Midwest Airlines flight 1403, snowy plots of farmland carpet the expanse, confirmation that I’m back home in the great state of Wisconsin. My best friend, Jou-Yie Chou, cultural engineer of Ace Hotel, has somehow convinced me to go on an ice fishing trip, despite the fact that I swore my camping days were over. We touch down in Madison and are met by a large fuel truck with capital red letters across the flank, reading “WISCONSIN AVIATION.” My dad’s 30-year-old Lowe backpack is the first bag out on the carousel, stuffed like a well-fed pig with outdoor camping gear.

Ryan Huber, owner of Context Clothing, meets us at his store to ensure that we are properly outfitted for the trip. It’s then that I realize we aren’t just going for practicality; we are sure to be the best-dressed campers in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Collin Hugh’s, an urban planner from San Francisco accompanies Ryan and both are extraordinarily well dressed, from their woolen hats to their vintage boots. Context specializes in heritage brands and carefully selected durable fabrics. Ryan is a walking advertisement for the store and let’s just say, it’s very effective.

That evening we stopped into The Old Fashion for a few baskets of cheese curds and pints of Riverwest Stein from Lakefront Brewery. Afterwards, the group stumbled over to Magnus, to taste an ox heart and lamb tongue sandwich on pumpernickel and a platter of pickled herring, gravlox and pickled shrimp. Not a bad start in good old Wisconsin.

The following morning, we picked up Andrea Westerlind, owner of Fjall Raven in the United States, a Swedish company that produces utilitarian outdoor gear for trekking. When we pull up to baggage claim, Andrea is packing two hockey sized bags, filled with down jackets, down pillows, suspended winter pants, warm flannel shirts and backcountry bags, all with the tags still on. Collin, the most resourceful of us, hits up airport security for some twine and we strap the bags to the top of the jeep. It’s clear we’ve over packed.

Ryan sets the GPS for Rheinlander, Wisconsin and we head North. A quick stop for a beer and more curds. Fuel. Then we head up further until we pass the state line into Michigan. Collin tells us that people who live in the Upper Peninsula are called “Yuppers.” Jou-Yie googles “Hotels, Ontanogon” and calls the first number that appears. A man answers and Jou-Yie asks if they have availability. At the other end of the line is Pastor Paul. Jou-Yie has called a church. “Well, yes,” say Pastor Paul, “I suppose we do.” Eventually they get to the bottom of it and Pastor Paul recommends Peterson’s Cottages, as Wendy Peterson is a member of the congregation and will take good care of us. We call Wendy to reserve a cottage and sure enough, she’s a “yupper,” born and bred. Her accent is so thick and her voice so piercing that we can all hear it through the I Phone speaker. Just the thought of sleeping inside for one more night is comforting as I’ve been dreading sleeping in a tent, in the snow, for several weeks.

We continue driving. Jou-Yie and Andrea are absorbed I their I Phones . . . it’s a working vacation . . . Jou-Yie is planning a party at Ace Hotel the following Saturday with the Dirty Projectors and Beyonce’s sister as featured musicians. Collin is telling us about growing up in small town Wisconsin, where snow mobilers ruled the student body and snow boarders were considered social misfits. Collin says, “I can see snow mobiles used as a form of transportation but at a recreational activity, I just don’t get it.” We all agree, casting judgment on a sporting culture that seems moronic. Little do we know that we’d be indebted to these people by the trip’s end.

Finally, we approach Ontonogan as the sun is setting over the ice masses of Lake Superior. Collin opens the car to walk out onto the jagged, ledge of ice that extends about 100 yards into the lake. It looks apocalyptic and even in my goose down, I can feel the cold taking its grip. Everyone but myself walks all the way to the edge of the ice where there is a steep drop off into the gray water that sloshes between ice rafts. I stay back, quietly praying for each of them. After the seascape had been sufficiently captured on their cameras, they head back to shore. We get back in the car and head to Petterson’s Cottages where a nativity scene stands proudly out in front of a neon pink sign blanketed with snow.

Wendy is everything we had imagined and keen on making money off us city kids. She charges us $180 for a small cottage with no fireplace. We roll our eyes back in our heads communicating without words that it’s not worth trying to upgrade. Andrea begins distributing the contents of her massive black bags, down jackets in all colors and sizes, waterproof trekking pants for the boys, a backpack for Ryan, down pillows for each of us . . . it feels like an extravagant Christmas. She rips off the tags as if inconvenienced by their still being attached. The luxury of it all doesn’t phase her. Jou-Yie distributes Ace hotel shirts for us all to wear and we chuckle at the convenient product placement. That night, I make chili with chorizo and we put back a few dozen Coors Light. We have a big day ahead of us. Sleep is essential.

The Upper Peninsula is on Eastern time, as is the entire state of Michigan. In the winter, the sun doesn’t come up until well past eight. Colin had us all up at six and I wait and wait for the tinniest bit of light before I can get out from under the covers. A Boy Scout champion, Collin begins singing jubilantly as a gentle way of rousing us. A little leftover chili, scrambled eggs cooked in about 4 tablespoons of Neuskee’s bacon fat and strong coffee is all it takes for the sun to come up. We geared up and Wendy outfitted us in snowshoes for an outrageous $25 a day per pair. “I could buy them for that.” I said and Jou-Yie replied, “They are cheaper in Tahoe.” Wendy was officially on my shit list.

We leave Peterson’s Cottages and drive towards the Porcupine Mountains in good spirits, well feed and well dressed. A snow lodge marks the foot of the trails and we study a flat map of the area. Seven miles out and tucked into a canyon is Lake of the Clouds. It has a nice ring to it and I see that there is a symbol for a cottage on the far side of the lake. I’m holding out hope that we don’t have to tent it in the snow.

As we gear up, the distribution of communal heavier items occurs. Collin volunteers to take the ice auger, a manual Sweedish auger that weighs about 15 pounds. The other boys take the tents, Andrea takes the food and I carry the lighter, fluffier items. So far, so good. We walk about 2 miles in on a snowmobile access trail and the brightly colored snow machines whiz by at terrifying speeds. The trail head lists many destinations, the furthest of which is Lake of the Clouds. I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself for the five remaining miles. The forest is calm, snow laced and sunny, the only footprints in sight are those of fox and deer. We all take in the candescence of the winter woods quietly, humbled by the beauty of such a place.

The trail gets steeper and we all begin to sweat through our long underwear. Eventually we crest the first peak and off in the distance is Lake of the Clouds, which is every bit as spectacular as we had hoped. We break for lunch quickly because the air is too cold to leave your hands exposed for more than 30 seconds without loosing feeling in your fingers. We cut into a venison summer sausage, made from the meat of an animal killed in Wisconsin’s North woods by Dario, a friend of Ryan’s. It’s excellent and coupled with Pleasant Ridge Reserve, an artisan cows milk cheese made by Mike and Carol Gingrich of Dodgeville, Wisconsin.

The distance between our footprints and Lake of the Clouds is deceiving. What the flat map did not indicate is the repeated loss and gain in altitude before reaching our camp sight for the night. Each time we ascended, we shed layers and each time we descended we promptly put them back on to ward off the cold air. I suppose you could call it an exercise, the most challenging I’ve experienced since my pre-pubescent camping years. The sun had passed over our heads and was edging its way down into the valley’s distant horizon. We put a move on and come to sharp, snowy incline. A guardrail stands high above us and people wearing florescent gear and helmets lean over the rail to see what’s happening below. It’s as if we are some exotic breed of bird, traipsing trough the snow; they all seem stunned by our sheer existence. I’ve just about spent every once of energy when a men reaches down and lift me up over the rail and onto the pavement. I use all my strength to lift my head and say “thank you.”

“Where are you guys coming from? Are you camping in the snow?”

I nod and smile sarcastically, implying that I had no idea what I was getting into. I ask a sympathetic looking woman if they’ll be back in the morning to pick us up and she chuckles and says, “Sure thing.” She’s clearly kidding. I’m not. My heels are both blistered and I’ve already acquired a pretty substantial limp as a result. Despite my exhaustion, I look out over the landscape and draw quiet inspiration from what lies in front of me. The late afternoon sun electrifies the tangle of rivers that run through the valleys tight chasm, all emptying into a frozen solid, Lake of the Clouds. Not one print on the entire lake. It’s ours to imperfect as we please.

Collin explains that the campsite is down below in the valley and we better get going before the sun sets. We slide down the mountain on our packs, as it is too steep to walk and the end-of-the-day-desperation has reduced us to using all fours. The camp sight is covered in 3 feet of snow and now I know why we brought a shovel. Each of the gang works quickly to set up camp, knowing that once the sun sets, everything will be harder. Collin and Jou-Yie collect wood and hack it up, Andrea and Ryan set up the tents, I shovel out the snow from the fire pit and use birch to get a fire going. Luckily, the wood is dry enough.

In Andrea’s pack are carefully marked and organized canvas sacks, one prominently displaying the word, “DINNER.” In it is a large plastic bag packed tightly with an assortment of fat, smoked salmon steaks, some peppered, some not. There is also a loaf of thinly sliced rye, cornishons and pickled onions and five bulging bratwursts. Nothing short of heaven. The guys have gone down tot he lake with the auger to measure their wholes in the ice, so to speak. It’s too cold to tie fishing knots with bare hands and we’re all too tired for any activity, even if it’s the reason that we came in the first place. Andrea and I take pulls from the 141.5 proof George T. Stagg bourbon that the guys have conveniently left behind.

We eat fish and meat and drink bourbon until we’re ready to hibernate in out tents. Before bed, Collin and I take turns reading Jack London around the fire, a story about a man who freezes to death in the woods. How appropriate. Before tucking into my sleeping bag, I unwrap several disposable hand warmers and stick them to my appendages. The directions say “do not apply directly to skin” and I disregard them entirely. I have six hours until they go cold. We lie beside each other like sardines, careful not to trap any cold air between us. It’s going to be a long night and 1 flask of bourbon was not enough to knock us out. We all toss and turn, in and out of sleep until the late sun rises.

Our boots are frozen from the night’s sub zero temperatures. No one thought to tuck them into the tents and so we need to get a fire going before we can work our shoes onto our feet. I make some steel cut oats and tea. The decision to walk back on the snow mobile highway was nearly unanimous. Collin would have preferred the more scenic route but my heels were in strong protest, as were Jou-Yie’s. Not even a mile down the road and I throw in the towel. Collin comes back to boost my moral, but it is non-negotiable. I am not taking another step.

The sound of engines in the distance sounds like angel wings fluttering. I drop my pack and stick out my thumb as they fly by. I’ve never hitch hiked before. Is there a trick to it? Here come some more snow mobiles. I stand in the center of the road with my arms out stretched. The leader of the pack puts his arm up with a flat hand and they all slowed to a stop. I explain that I can’t walk and need a ride. A rider of indeterminate sex motions for me to “get on.” Their helmets are virtually sound proof making verbal communication an impossibility. I mount the strange vehicle, which seems like a death sentence and a blessing combined. Jou-Yie is also offered a ride and a pair of gloves, both of which he accepts. We left the others behind. As we get up to speed, I resist images of tumbling off the back and getting mangled by a line of snow mobiles.

Ten minutes and seven miles later, we are back at the lodge. I feel safe and warm even though my face is bright red from the frigged wind slapping against in on our ten minute ride. We drink hot cocoa for hours and wait for the others. They arrive looking physically exhausted. Andrea’s heels have suffered the same misfortune as ours in he final miles. We name her the “Arctic Fox” for her persistence in the snow and because it’s the translation of “Fjall Raven.” We load up the car and stop for gas and tall boys of Miller High Life. Ryan asks Andrea a question about clothing sales and there is no response. The Artic Fox sleeps. Soundly.

On the radio is the 44th Super Bowl, which we listen to on several barely audible stations as we drive through farmlands in the dark. It’s late when we get to Madison and it’s Sunday. The only place open is Tornado, rumored to have a damn good burger. We sink into a both and order burgers and stiff drinks to remedy our aching bodies. There’s banter about Wendy, the augur, “Yupper” country and the angels on mechanical horseback. A conclusion is reached that this is to be the first of many adventures. We are the original five members of “The Outdoors Club.”