1 post tagged “wood stoves”
The road deteriorates ahead of us to thick mud and gravel. Giant trucks bearing the victims of a clear cut come lumbering aggressively by our left side, sneering at us with black smoke and the gristle of gravel and grease. Seidon is cheerful despite the confusing instructions we've been attempting to follow for several hours. I drink in the unfamiliar sight of thousands of evergreens and the clear blue sky of this auspicious Monday.
Seidon is a refugee from Iraq. His mother and father, both doctors, were prohibited from practicing their craft under the rule of Sadam Hussein, but were also forbidden from leaving the country. He tells me the details of his life story after I timidly inquire over the course of our trek from Rimforsa to Haddebo. After several pleas to the embassy for visas his mother is able to take Seidon and herself to England and then to Sweden, his father joins them a year later. Unlike many of his friends, Seidon owns a car, and was more than willing to offer a ride to a stranger who he met through unlikely means at his friend Hjordis' house in Rimforsa. He gives me a wide grin when he talks of the thrill of driving, and happily tells me of the several extra hours of work he put in at the ICA Supermarket to save enough for gas, insurance and the costly expense of a driver's license (some 80,000 Kronors about 15,000 US Dollars
We wind up and down roads that I would consider unsuitable for Seidon's beautifully kept car, but he continues to press on and executes a few encouraging quotes in English to assuage any anxiety I might have..it feels foolish to worry so insistently on the care of his car, something totally out of my control and in the hands of a capable driver. Finally, with great relief I spy the Skogsfestivalen sign, we made it. I take a deep breath, and spy out of the windshield a man who I can only guess is Viktor. His black shirt, displaying the sign of the same name as the entrance, greets us with a warm smile. Already I feel more at ease than I had at Hildegard's. Seidon opens the car door for me, another sign of his incredible chivalry, and over-politeness. His slacks and pressed shirt flapping in the wind as he smiles wide again, encouraging me to liberate from my seat belt and greet my destination. I smile warmly and shake the hand of my new host, Viktor Säfve. Seidon and Viktor keep up small talk, laughing about the misunderstandings about directions while I attempt to heave the impossible load of my rucksack. Seidon looks horribly out of place, his pressed shirt, pristine and glaring against the backdrop of dark, wet forests, and slippery rocks. Viktor stands at attention, his brown pants with evidence of labor, and his sincere gaze not at all judging or hurried. I assemble myself, a mule of Patagonia green and grey, and bid Seidon adieu. I still can't believe he went out of his way to Hjortkvarn from his route to Uppsala, but despite my gracious thanks he claims the pleasure was all his.
Viktor greets me, and just behind him emerges the other WWOOFer Yvonne Buhler from Switzerland. She stands just a little taller than Viktor at about 5'6", and introduces herself behind squarish black glasses. Her henna dyed hair is pulled back into a short pony tail, and her jeans are remarkably clean though wrinkled and worn in. We trek up the fairway to the house, a home built in the 1700's and still without running water or electricity. We pass by giant stacks of wood which will be used in the coming weeks, but mainly in the winter when they will use their stove and fireplaces to keep the temperature inside comfortable despite the frigid weather outside.
Water is gathered every morning from a well down near where Seidon parked the car, about 200 meters from the house. The large water jugs weigh about 50 lbs each, and though I am strong, require the wheelbarrow.
Viktor leads me and Yvonne straight to the house, passing the komposting
toilet outside to the front porch currently occupied by two precocious,
curly-haired goats, a recent acquisition of the Åfallet household. Though they commonly roam the property eating everything in sight, these goats are known for their social behavior, and stick to Viktor, and the house, as if it's the flock. The warmth from the stove inside, and the provided shelter (and proximity to their owner) make this spot on the porch an undeniable attraction. Kata, Viktor's wife, is on vacation now in France. This kind of behavior she wouldn't tolerate for a moment.. for now they are enabled.
The interior of the house is inviting. Cool, natural colors cover the walls and offer a contrasting backdrop to the cold, almost greasy black iron stove--the original one from the house's construction. Large, unassuming candle holders hang at eye level above the cooking area, clean from wax dripping, and eager to hold up the only obvious source of light for the kitchen. Food is kept in the pantry and in a large "sleeping couch" relegated to the dining room. This old piece of furniture belonging to Kata's father was used to acquiesce paltswimmar (food coma) after a large meal. It now houses a
variety of gluten free pastas, beans of every variety and "soya meat".
After a short tour, we return outside to hear the list of projects we would start and hopefully finish in the next few weeks. The first of which was chopping wood, and clearing the large 10 meter by 5 meter pile of spruce, birch and maple from beside the goat house. I had never wielded an ax and after several worried looks from my grandmother as she watched my brother break down a fallen redwood, I thought I never would. Though here I was, eagerly encouraged to quarter and split giant logs. It was a pathetic sight, but Viktor's encouragement and faith put my anxieties at ease, I would soon learn proper technique and stance so that you didn't hurt your back. Yvonne, who had just returned with Viktor from a 10 day trip to Northern Sweden cataloguing endangered mosses, fungi and lichen with foresty
experts and biologists, also was learning the ropes.
Viktor showed us an area of plantation forest (a term I would become thoroughly familiar with..) that needed attention to revive. The spruces were growing less than 2 meters apart in some areas, and were without proper sunlight. No mosses or other species of floor dwelling flora (or fauna) could survive and thus the trees suffered. We would learn the proper way to diagnose the area, gauge economic strategy for cutting, and preserve some trees for future wood to sell, and enrich the natural area.
After a delicious (sic) vegan dinner, we head to the nearby lake. Goats follow us obediently and Viktor sighs, saying that they will need to be carried if they follow us along this shorter route, so we take the long way,
through primal forest. Dressed in my baggiest brown pants and thin cotton black shirt, I struggle to follow as Viktor leaps and bounds through the mossy, wet bed at the base of ancient trees. My feet disappear as I upset thousands of years of ecosystem with the soles of my Keens. Suddenly Viktor is gone, and behind a fallen tree I spot him glaring at a log the size of a man. He whispers something in Swedish, curses and then is up again. Yvonne stoops down to inspect the same spot. Fresh off of a trek in the mountains searching for nearly invisible lichens, he is eager to discover red listed species in his backyard. Supposedly he's already found three of the most endangered, but there are bound to be more...We dip and weave like boxers in a ring except this ring has been mostly untouched by human hands, and thrives despite fires, herds of moose, and thousands of insects carving small paths in 100's of year old bark. Old trees add vitality to the ecosystem, springing mosses, fungi and lichen that can grow no-where-else. I am in awe, in all my stumbling glory, of the beauty of this place, and similarly angered by the adjacent plantation sites: devoid of
feeling, color and life. We escape into a patch of thick grass that slowly wades into the edge of a glorious lake. The view takes me back to Lake Cowichan in Ubo Canada where I visited nearly every fall for several years to see my god parents and the majesty of British Columbia. Spoiled rotten with food and the benevolence of two incredible godparents, I didn't realize how fortunate I was to be in the presence of ancient forest and diverse ecosystems.. I stare at the bald spots on hills across from me, and wonder what is to become of the forest we just traversed. Viktor points out the swimming spot where we will take showers and bids us to follow him to the canoes (or as he says, canutes!)
The boats wait for us by the edge of the water, unprotected as if no one has ever been to this lake but us.. I get in the middle so as to encourage
balance between the three of us, and sit on my knees. A giant, no doubt poisonous, spider scurries under my leg, I crush it without a thought. Viktor would've disapproved, apparently it's bad luck to kill spiders, vegan or not.. but I'm just glad it won't be joining us for the trip to the island.
The island, one of a few in the Hjarte (heart) lake is completely untouched by man. Still home to several species, including moose (who i was very eager to catch a glimipse of) it also houses several glacial stones (rocks carried here by glaciers during the ice age and dropped when the ice melted. Some have split cleanly in two or three pieces.. they are massive.. and humbling). We paddle to the shore of the island and proceed deep into the forest while Viktor instructs in English about the various pieces of a forest. I listen with all my might, still without my forest-floor-legs, and numb from sitting on my feet the whole ride over.
We climb and duck and weave, soaking up the incredibly greenery of our surroundings, awe inspired by the quietude and the promise of moose or crane sightings. Climbing back into the canoe I feel a new serenity pass over me. This is where I need to be, this is where I need to spend my time and learn to let go. I hope that the next two weeks will show me new kinds of patience and humility. A kind of peace that you can only find in places you hope will never change, that have unequivocal power over you without question. I stare out into the still water reflecting the flanking mountains and spy a golden eagle soaring high above our destination shore.
Seidon is a refugee from Iraq. His mother and father, both doctors, were prohibited from practicing their craft under the rule of Sadam Hussein, but were also forbidden from leaving the country. He tells me the details of his life story after I timidly inquire over the course of our trek from Rimforsa to Haddebo. After several pleas to the embassy for visas his mother is able to take Seidon and herself to England and then to Sweden, his father joins them a year later. Unlike many of his friends, Seidon owns a car, and was more than willing to offer a ride to a stranger who he met through unlikely means at his friend Hjordis' house in Rimforsa. He gives me a wide grin when he talks of the thrill of driving, and happily tells me of the several extra hours of work he put in at the ICA Supermarket to save enough for gas, insurance and the costly expense of a driver's license (some 80,000 Kronors about 15,000 US Dollars
We wind up and down roads that I would consider unsuitable for Seidon's beautifully kept car, but he continues to press on and executes a few encouraging quotes in English to assuage any anxiety I might have..it feels foolish to worry so insistently on the care of his car, something totally out of my control and in the hands of a capable driver. Finally, with great relief I spy the Skogsfestivalen sign, we made it. I take a deep breath, and spy out of the windshield a man who I can only guess is Viktor. His black shirt, displaying the sign of the same name as the entrance, greets us with a warm smile. Already I feel more at ease than I had at Hildegard's. Seidon opens the car door for me, another sign of his incredible chivalry, and over-politeness. His slacks and pressed shirt flapping in the wind as he smiles wide again, encouraging me to liberate from my seat belt and greet my destination. I smile warmly and shake the hand of my new host, Viktor Säfve. Seidon and Viktor keep up small talk, laughing about the misunderstandings about directions while I attempt to heave the impossible load of my rucksack. Seidon looks horribly out of place, his pressed shirt, pristine and glaring against the backdrop of dark, wet forests, and slippery rocks. Viktor stands at attention, his brown pants with evidence of labor, and his sincere gaze not at all judging or hurried. I assemble myself, a mule of Patagonia green and grey, and bid Seidon adieu. I still can't believe he went out of his way to Hjortkvarn from his route to Uppsala, but despite my gracious thanks he claims the pleasure was all his.
Water is gathered every morning from a well down near where Seidon parked the car, about 200 meters from the house. The large water jugs weigh about 50 lbs each, and though I am strong, require the wheelbarrow.
Viktor leads me and Yvonne straight to the house, passing the komposting
toilet outside to the front porch currently occupied by two precocious,
The interior of the house is inviting. Cool, natural colors cover the walls and offer a contrasting backdrop to the cold, almost greasy black iron stove--the original one from the house's construction. Large, unassuming candle holders hang at eye level above the cooking area, clean from wax dripping, and eager to hold up the only obvious source of light for the kitchen. Food is kept in the pantry and in a large "sleeping couch" relegated to the dining room. This old piece of furniture belonging to Kata's father was used to acquiesce paltswimmar (food coma) after a large meal. It now houses a
After a short tour, we return outside to hear the list of projects we would start and hopefully finish in the next few weeks. The first of which was chopping wood, and clearing the large 10 meter by 5 meter pile of spruce, birch and maple from beside the goat house. I had never wielded an ax and after several worried looks from my grandmother as she watched my brother break down a fallen redwood, I thought I never would. Though here I was, eagerly encouraged to quarter and split giant logs. It was a pathetic sight, but Viktor's encouragement and faith put my anxieties at ease, I would soon learn proper technique and stance so that you didn't hurt your back. Yvonne, who had just returned with Viktor from a 10 day trip to Northern Sweden cataloguing endangered mosses, fungi and lichen with foresty
Viktor showed us an area of plantation forest (a term I would become thoroughly familiar with..) that needed attention to revive. The spruces were growing less than 2 meters apart in some areas, and were without proper sunlight. No mosses or other species of floor dwelling flora (or fauna) could survive and thus the trees suffered. We would learn the proper way to diagnose the area, gauge economic strategy for cutting, and preserve some trees for future wood to sell, and enrich the natural area.
After a delicious (sic) vegan dinner, we head to the nearby lake. Goats follow us obediently and Viktor sighs, saying that they will need to be carried if they follow us along this shorter route, so we take the long way,
The boats wait for us by the edge of the water, unprotected as if no one has ever been to this lake but us.. I get in the middle so as to encourage
The island, one of a few in the Hjarte (heart) lake is completely untouched by man. Still home to several species, including moose (who i was very eager to catch a glimipse of) it also houses several glacial stones (rocks carried here by glaciers during the ice age and dropped when the ice melted. Some have split cleanly in two or three pieces.. they are massive.. and humbling). We paddle to the shore of the island and proceed deep into the forest while Viktor instructs in English about the various pieces of a forest. I listen with all my might, still without my forest-floor-legs, and numb from sitting on my feet the whole ride over.
We climb and duck and weave, soaking up the incredibly greenery of our surroundings, awe inspired by the quietude and the promise of moose or crane sightings. Climbing back into the canoe I feel a new serenity pass over me. This is where I need to be, this is where I need to spend my time and learn to let go. I hope that the next two weeks will show me new kinds of patience and humility. A kind of peace that you can only find in places you hope will never change, that have unequivocal power over you without question. I stare out into the still water reflecting the flanking mountains and spy a golden eagle soaring high above our destination shore.
