Eastern Missouri Morels

They're here!

I scored 63 small, mostly black morels yesterday in the Ozark highlands along the margins of dolomite glades. And this is just the beginning of the season.

Git out there and git you some!

Paw Paw Time Again!

Yes, it's paw paw season.  This nice little cool snap has helped. Grab your gunny sack and head on down to the river bottoms. Akers Ferry is probably loaded with paw paws. Mmmmm....

Breech of Confidence

My ancient and traditional anthropological studies have led me to, among other things minimalist, the use of the breechclout, or "loincloth". It's an article of clothing used by ancient and indigenous people throughout the world. Even Otzi the Iceman wore it.  In respect to the Native American cultures of which I can claim a scant 1/16 genetic heritage, I try to limit its use to Paleo LARP, or just plain hanging out in the woods. To decorate it as Native American or otherwise emulate this culture would be disrespectful.

When I mention or describe the breechclout I get mostly negative reactions, and largely from women. I've found this to be somewhat perplexing. The kilt in contrast seems to attract women like a magnet, and many of them can't resist to ask what's beneath, or outright "cop a feel." But most women have preemptively told me to refrain from wearing the breechclout.

Recently I put the breechclout on whilst lounging around the house on a particularly sweltering evening. My significant other immediately went into ridiculing mode. "It's silly!"  "Vulgar - you can see your thighs and part of your butt-cheeks!" "You might as well be naked!" And so on.  I chose to smile and let it pass. Then a strange thing happened: First, she fiddled with the belt-string, then the back flap. Soon she was asking how it felt. And finally, she copped that proverbial feel. Before much longer we were discussing a photo-shoot with breechclout, toussled hair and primitive tools.

I believe the breechclout is a lost fashion whose time has come again. Perhaps "butt-cheeks" will become as popular as Scotsmen "going commando." What's under the front flap? Ask if you dare!

Old War Horse

I am an old war horse

I was born for battle

stolen from a tribe who knew me as cincala

when I was young

I learned to feel my rider’s thoughts

Flanking the enemy, sensing the drawstring

Holding my breath with all four hoofs in the air

as the drawstring was released

I learned to stiffen my ears

Listening with my rider’s ears

Both watching the horizon

For the signal to attack

I learned to celebrate the victory

Sharing the security of my people

Reflecting on my purpose

And knowing it was fulfilled

On the day I was stolen

My rider and his kin were gone

Scattered on the ground

Their time had passed

I was a war horse in my prime

I was born for battle

Fighting for a tribe who did not know me

when I was young

I did not need to learn

As each new rider could attest

Holding my breath with all four hoofs in the air

As the thunder was released

Soon the time had come for younger horses

And for younger riders with new battles

I reflected on my purpose

And believed it was fulfilled

Old habits die hard

From the safety of my stall

I see the enemy on the horizon

Amassing for the battle to come

The young riders and young horses

Wait for the signal to attack

While the old generals putter and dawdle over their tea

Thinking their time has also passed

But old habits die hard

I kick down my stall

I will join the enemy on the horizon

And celebrate the battle to come

copyright 2014 Cecil X. Nixxon - all rights reserved

The Frost has Come

Last night I went down to the prairies by the Meramec River, just before sundown. The temperature was 50f as the sun was setting. I noticed the deer were not coming down from the ridges to browse as they usually do. The stillness was deafening. By twilight, the temperature dropped like a rock to the upper 30's and the prairies prepared for the coming frost. The rapidity of the temperature drop was amazing. Unless you live in a den underneath the prairie grasses, it would have made for a very chilly evening. The deer are no fools!

The "Fairer Sex?"

It has been a mild summer here in Missouri, and with recent rains and a spectacular find of Chicken of the Woods fungus I resolved to hunt more summer wild mushrooms. During the warm weather mushroom season one can be rewarded with shaggy mane, oysters and corals.  These white mushrooms stand out starkly against the green and brown forest backdrop. They're rare - and tasty!

Shortly after dawn I headed into the LaBarqe Creek Conservation Area. This three-mile trail loop has yielded white summer mushrooms in the past, and my expectations were high. I tuned my eyeballs to see white blazes through the sweat, gnats and endorphin haze. I hadn't walked a hundred yards before finding a small, dainty white coral mushroom sprouting from the side of a dead log. Eureka! "It's going to be a good shroom hunt" I told myself.

As I headed deeper into the area I kept seeing white blazes on the ground. But excitement and anticipation soon turned to disgust. Each white blaze was a clump of toilet paper thrown directly on the ground. These were not "#2" field latrines, mind you, just pee spots. Not a single turd was found. No effort was made to bury or disguise the refuse. In most cases these bathroom breaks were within 5 feet of the trail. Only occasionally did I find a spot over 20 feet from the trail. For the next hour the scenario repeated itself, dozens of times over.

Pardon me if I jump to conclusions. These are female human field latrines. Males rarely if ever use toilet paper to clean up after urination. My disgust turned to outrage quite easily when I considered that most females who might be inclined to explore a high quality area such as LaBarque should be a cut above the rest.  At least, they should be environmentally mindful enough not to litter. No, this was the handiwork of slobs.  I even saw several "patches" of pee paper where it was obvious the spot was a multiple-use "pee party." Again, jumping to sexist conclusions, I never see fellas going off to the bathroom together.

My preconceptions of nature-wise and resourceful outdoor ladies frequenting this area with reverence and respect crumbled before my prefrontal cortex. These weren't ladies at all.

Slobs piss on the trail. Slobs litter. Slobs pretend to commune with nature. Is it really that difficult to get off the trail a bit, and scoop a little leaf mast over the toilet paper or better yet put it in a baggie and cart it out?

Ghosts of Crescent Hills

For over ten thousand years people have been quarrying high quality Burlington chert from the hills around my home.  It has been transported throughout North America and was worked into Clovis tools long before the Great Sphinx was a dream. The Crescent Hills Quarry District was one of the primary sources of tools for the Mississippian Mound Civilization. Workers transported bifaces and finished tools down the Meramec River to the Mississippi/Meramec Confluence where trade with the Mound People took place.  Trade stone was transported by foot northward to the Mississippi/Missouri Confluence where it was destined for the Great Plains and the Great Lakes. The almost pure white, vitreous, easy to flake Crescent Hills Chert was legendary among the indigenous people of North America.

The quarry district is listed in the St. Louis County National Register of state historic sites as “address restricted, Crescent.” The finest and most exposed quarrying evidence is along the West Tyson County Park spur of the Chubb Trail.  Here, one can see literally hundreds of pits dug out of the steep hillsides, and piles of lithic flake and quarry artifacts piled ten feet deep. The size of the operation was massive by today’s standards. Two miles downhill of the quarries is a prairie complex along the Meramec River.

At dusk along this ridge I can almost feel the spirits of tens of thousands of humans making their way to the prairie camp for dinner and stories. There would be fish in abundance, smoked venison, acorn and nut breads and juicy blackberries to name just a few menu items. Today the knowledge of the past allows me a glimpse of how it must have been. Amazingly very little archaeological work has been undertaken in this area. As I bushwhack down the hillsides from the quarries, avoiding the Chubb Trail, I have found bifaces on the ground near seeps and springs. The area is littered with scrapers and stone tool work just waiting to be found.

I ordered a reprint of a book from the Missouri University Library that is one of the few archaeological studies of this area.  My hope is to gain further insight into the nature and location of ancient habitation in the Crescent Hills. If I’m lucky, I may receive tiny gifts of wisdom from the people who came before.

Squirrel Pipe from the Davis Site, near Crescent Hills

More about the Davis Site near Crescent Hills

Return of the Fern

A reflection on the giant fern and its antithetical yet brief encounters with humanity.

Recent analysis of sediment core samples extracted from the North Pole reveals a planetary history previously unseen by humanity. At one time, about 55 million years ago, the Arctic Ocean was a warm ocean. Carbon dioxide levels were high, and the Earth was hot.

The Arctic, and the entire planet, was covered by giant ferns and plant life. The carbon dioxide levels were very good indeed for the ferns. Plant growth exploded.

Over millions of years, the ferns continued to grow, die, and accumulate in layers of peat. Layer after layer of ferns piled up and compressed, removing the carbon from the atmosphere and raising the oxygen levels until the ferns no longer thrived. The Earth cooled. The Arctic froze. The layers of ferns, now containing the planetary storehouse of carbon, became fossil fuel. The carbon was trapped in coal and oil.

The increased oxygen levels were very good indeed for humans.

A mere two hundred years ago, humans started digging up the coal and burning it to warm their homes and fuel their factories. Human growth exploded. The carbon in the coal was released into the atmosphere and the Earth began to warm rapidly.

A mere one hundred years ago, humans started pumping up the oil and burning it to warm their homes, fuel their vehicles, and grow their food. Human growth again exploded. The carbon in the oil was released into the atmosphere and the earth continued to warm.

A mere twenty years ago, humans realized the Arctic was melting. The Earth was getting very warm. The oceans were warming. The carbon had all been returned to the atmosphere.

In a mere fifty years, the Earth will once again be hot. The Arctic will be a warm ocean. The Earth will no longer be suitable to sustain humans. Mankind will pass away.

But the carbon dioxide levels will be very good indeed for the giant ferns.

Copyright 2013, Cecil X. Nixxon

Law of Threes

Law of Threes

A Brief Piece on Terniary Coincidence 

Cecil X. Nixxon

Uncle Harry died. That sick kid on Walnut Street went, too.   And now the mayor. They say they always come in threes. That’s because they do. They always come in threes.

Two down, one to go.  Third time’s charm.  Three sheets to the wind.  Three strikes and you’re out.  Three on a match, someone’s dead.  Deadly cold, it’s a Three Dog Night.

Horny as hell, like a three-peckered billy goat.  Three wise monkeys: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  The three Wise Men.  The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu.     Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon.  Three roots below the World Tree are the Three Levels of the Universe.  That three-headed dog guards the gates to hell.  Moe, Larry, Curly.

Solid, Liquid, Gas.  Length, Width, Depth.  Red, Yellow, Blue.
Electron, Proton, Neutron.  And, Or, Not.  The Third Planet from the sun, with a Crust, Mantle, and Core.  Animal, Vegetable, Mineral.

TLA: Three Lettered Acronyms.
AOL, IBM, FBI, CIA, BBC, ATM, CGI, ERA, RBI, IED, VGA, USB, SUV, WWW.     WTF.

They always come in threes.

Your survival depends on your knowledge of the Law of Threes:

• They say a human can live without air for three minutes.
• They say a human can live exposed to the extreme elements for three  hours.
• They say a human can live for three days without water.
• They say a human can live for three weeks without food.
• They say a human can live for three months without love.

They always come in threes.

Glassberg Conservation Area Winter Walk

Here's a new Missouri conservation area opened October 2012:  Myron and Sonya Glassberg Family Conservation Area on the outskirts of St. Louis.

Winter visit, February 24, 2013

area sign at entrance lot

at the beginning of the trail

old roads with asphalt base

creek

Buder Lake - 3 acres

1 mile trail loop around the lake

stocked fishing lake

icy little fall

Portrait: The Boulder Man with No Name

Courtesy of Anonymous Aquarius Bill, STP Family Forum

Paw Paws In Season - SPOILER!

Missouri paw paws are again in season.  I feasted on them this weekend.  They are small-ish so far, but very sweet.  Orchard farmers have been telling me that the drought has resulted in smaller yet sweeter domestic fruit.  It seems to be that way for the wild paw paws.

Here's the spoiler:  Paw paws can be had in St. Louis county in abundance, at Castlewood State Park.  You'll need to hike the trails along the river and locate the stands of paw paw trees.  Another great place to collect is at Aker's Ferry on the Current River.  The trees in this area are laden with fruit and ready for the picking!

So, now you're going to have a nice basket of fruit - if you're ready to hit the forests and bottom-lands.

Kentucky State University posted this nice recipe for paw paw pie:

3/4 c. sugar
2 Tbsp. flour or cornstarch
2 eggs (reserve whites for meringue)
2 c. milk
1 c. pawpaw pulp

Combine sugar and flour. Add egg yolks and milk. When well mixed add pawpaw pulp. Cook until thick and pour into baked pie crust. Cover with meringue and brown in moderate oven.

Magic Mountain Music

I will be literally heading for the mountains this July. I have the distinct pleasure of performing with the Jah Kings, [ Jah Kings Music ] an outstanding reggae/world/jazz/funk group. Alexander Kofi is a brilliant songwriter and superb singer/musician. I'll be performing:

• Meadow Muffins - Colorado Springs CO - July 19
• Coyote Moon - Pagosa Springs CO - July 20
• KTAOS Solar Center - Taos NM - July 21

I look forward to this tour, and hope there may be some folks in the area who might want to attend. If there are any STP family survivors in the area, I would love to meet you and share stories. Regardless, the shows will be fantastic, and I hope to linger in the Taos area for a few days.

MO Skeeters Mutated by Climate Change

I went down to the Steinberg Memorial Prairie last nite to commune with my deer buddies. The park service burned the prairie last fall and the blackberries are coming in like gang-busters. So we will have lovely blackberry cobblers this summer!

But the mosquitoes down there clouded me. And they are BIG! These new global warming induced critters are as big as birds and faster than a speeding bullet. I was down a pint of blood before I could even say "ouch!" They don't seem to be deterred by 100% DEET so there's not much hope of repelling them with some wussy peppermint/tea tree oil "natural" concoctions.

The only thing to do is harvest them. I'm working on a device that is a gel-filled sleeve to be worn on the arms, containing the scent of human blood. When the giant skeeters stick their snout in the gel, it will firm up and keep them from flying away. And that means dinnertime!

GIANT MISSOURI MOSQUITO FRITTERS

Ingredients:

• Three medium-sized Giant Missouri Mutant Mosquitoes (approx. 8oz apiece)
• Flour
• Salt
• Pepper
• Rosemary
• Canola Oil

Preparation:
Field-dress the mosquitoes, removing the beaks and wings. Sprinkle salt, pepper and rosemary in the body cavity and close with poultry trusses. Dredge the insects in flour. Bring canola oil to full heat just short of smoking. Fry the mosquitoes for approximately 5 minutes per side. Serve with sweet potato french fries and field greens. Serves 3.

Disturbing News from the Missouri Wilderness

I just spent the last weekend in March deep in the Mark Twain National Forest, nestled on the banks of the upper Courtois Creek. I became depressed as I observed the radically incorrect climate. Year after year I've spent many hours in the deep woods in all seasons and the relentless climate warming has continued to accelerate.

On the first evening, I was amazed to see that the fireflies have come out in droves. I don't recall fireflies before late May - until this year. June beetles are out as well, and as their name suggests they are considerably early. The mosquitoes were swarming in clouds, not like in Missouri but like Canada or Alaska where a swarm of mosquitoes can drain a man in minutes. And the seed ticks are so thick they're immune to DEET.

Two days of foraging for mushrooms and other wild things led nowhere. Not a single morel was to be found. The soil is moist, but the leaf mast is dry as a bone and crunchy underfoot. The daytime temperature was 88F and it barely dropped below 80F during the evenings. Again, March 31 in Missouri. Wrong as a three headed billy-goat.

The only bright spot to my journey was the quality of water in the Courtois Creek. The river is abundant and teeming with crayfish, darters, snails, minnows, and all sorts of fish. An otter surfaced during the day when I was setting up camp. His family continued to show themselves for days as if they graciously allowed me to share their corner of the world. But this will be scant consolation when the atmosphere boils off the surface of the planet and the Courtois goes bone dry.

But at least America had a good run plundering the natural resources, living comfortably at the expense of every other living creature and modifying the environment to suit her greedy children. And now the atmosphere has been ruined.

Just fucking ruined.

Remember the Cicadas?

I was just thinking about the cicada event this summer. They were so prolific, so busy. And so beautiful. At one point I heard rumors that cicada wings were a valuable commodity, supposedly used to decorate tiny fairy figurines with crystalline wings. Or something to that effect. The anticipated eBay gold rush never came.

they emerged from holes in the ground ...


and filled the trees and sky ...


after leaving the husks of their former forms behind ....

Break the Fever!

There's just one way to break a bad case of cabin fever, and that's to get out of the cabin and on to the ground. Despite warnings of wet weather, I'll be heading to Peck Ranch Conservation Area and backpacking in to the Rocky Creek area north of Stegall Mountain.

Who's in? I'll be headed south on the OT near Rocky Falls at 8AM on Saturday, March 5. Join me for a trip to the top of Stegall Mountain, then down into the hollows for a deep-woods evening camp. There'll be plenty of grub and libation. Join me? Leave a reply and let me know to expect you. I'll leave the proverbial string out.

Jewels In the Night

If you're lucky enough to be in the bitter cold ice-bound midwest tonight, it will do you well to shed your cabin feverish state and go outside for a bit. The trees are covered with ice and the available ambient light illuminates them. To me, it's as if the goddess Gaia has chosen a unique moment in time to freeze the glory of evolutionary continuity and allow mere ascendents like me to grasp the crystalline reality of our beauty and fortunate majesty.

Go outside. There's not much of a moon - a mere sliver of a slice of light - but the stars are out tonight and the cold has dropped the moisture in the air as tiny fragments of snow. Clear. Cold. Quiet. Crystalline. Sacred. Yours. A delight of light. In the dark. Reach for it. Savor it. It's for you and you alone.

I love being here on this glorious planet. I can't very well thank the Great Clock Maker but I will thank you all for being here with me. It's just lovely.

Winter Ozark Float Trip

Gosh, I need to get out on a river! This time of year, the algae and sediment drop out of the Ozark streams, leaving it amazingly clear and blue. Every rock, every fish, every living thing in the stream is exposed to view. Mind you, it can be a bit chilly, especially if you go overboard. I always bring a fluffy sleeping bag packed in two layers of waterproof bags in case I dump and need to warm up. Just find a nice gravel bar, build a big driftwood fire, and crawl into that warm bag.

Big Piney, Little Piney, Gasconade, Courtois, Huzzah, Meramec, Current, Jacks Fork... take your pick. You won't be crowded out by hordes of drunken party-goers - for all their hubris and volume they just can't hang with the field hippies.

Gunsight Politics

Well, Sarah Palin's clearly shown what thoughtless and violent insinuation will precipitate. Gunsight politics. What did we expect, after all.

Ms. Palin, I'll see your gunsight analogy bet, and raise you. As a big game hunter there are a couple of approaches; hunting for trophies or hunting for meat.

As far as hunting Ms. Palin is concerned, I'd mount it - but I wouldn't eat it. She's just too bitter for my palate.