From the Mire to the Bud

A scattershot run through alternative tree sugars, iced over prairies, and "farmer's relapse"

The barnyard dirt is hungry for carbon, and so, it must be fed. On mornings when the mucky pathways are crisp with night ice, I can load our old donkey cart with prairie hay, and being something of a jackass myself, stomp down the pathways sheared of tall-grass along to the winter poultry yard, the wrought iron wheels of the cart slipping across the field, the heft of the wooden handle kicking against my back as I strain to brake on the steep declines. Then, fork by fork, I can feed the hungry soil as laying hens kick in the mulch, nibbling the seed and chaff.

To the south, a young grove of silver maples is stirring in slight wind, patches of deer-browsed bark weeping slate tears across gray skin. It’s sugar season, which overlaps with mud season, the gradual, if temporary, return of robins and worms, and the heavy reek of decomposition, the rising of the sap, the hydraulic shattering of the freezing, thawing dirt. Skeins of Canada geese comb the sky at dawn and dusk, and the acrid, green perfume of rotting hedge-fruit wafts along the old fence-line. The dirt is taking that which belongs to it.

Once the sun glints on the goldenrod frost, the cutting, slicing iron rings of the cart wheels can no longer be pulled up and down the slope without scarring its flesh and pummeling the tender sleeping roots of grasses, so I begin to cut and prune and coppice willow, hazel, and elder– taking some armloads of this material for goat fodder, some as cuttings for propagation, and leaving much of it sprawled over the thawing mire to shield the sensitive ground from trampling and weather. Piles of branches laid over the vulnerable earth make a fine niche for scattered seeds that can work their way into the dirt via the freeze and thaw, safeguarded from foraging birds in the stemmy cover.

These warm mid-winter days, when the robins are out plumping in the muck and the xylem of maples flows freely, always stir a slight mania in me. It will still be some weeks before the pastures green up and the soil can provide a warm embrace for seed, but as ducks dabble in the mud of the swine yard and the nightly frost drips and sublimates in the lengthened light, my head swells with unwritten task lists like the bulging buds of old cottonwood, preparing to break.

There is pasture seeding and pruning and fence-mending and compost turning and repair work to perform, the tools and raw materials of these endeavors increasingly scattered under the eaves of our home, leaning against barn walls, or lost in buckets left out on barrels. Yesterday, I attempted to take soil samples at our chestnut orchard five or six times, each time trotting out some distance with my probe and pail, and then returning, having re-prioritized the day’s work in my head within 50 yards of travel.

The long silence of deep winter has shattered. Northern cardinals scold me hoarsely. Our cows bellow at the scent of new hay. The nanny goats bask and groan, their sunny bellies heaving with kids, and the roosters crow with a great deal of virility in preparation for the coming weeks of breeding and brooding. The once quiet new moon nights have broken open in barks and squeals of red fox vixens in heat, begetting a deep, bassy response from our working dogs, the tinny yips of hill-top coyotes bleeding across the rustling thatch.

After dawn, with the fires lit and the livestock fed and watered and the children off to school, I struggle up and down the slope with donkey carts of prairie hay to feed the hungry dirt, my labor-worn bones creaking against the heft, the chemically complex lump of grease and nerves inside my skull sloshing around in a state of arousal and panic. Without being too dramatic, it’s fair to say that I’m neurodivergent, and that for as often as this loaded signifier, what would have been described as eccentricity in the past, provides me an advantage in navigating the complexity of the life I’ve chosen, it still leads to many hours and days of pain, overwhelm, and being a pain in the ass for the folks closest to me. A part of why I’m here is because I feel like I’m unemployable– I wander off when I’m bored, I pretend I’m listening when I’m not, I do not take kindly to rules, authority or hierarchy, and I am simultaneously bogged down in details and overwhelmed by the enormity of everything. Feeding the hungry dirt, quite literally, is the thing that brings me back to earth.

In spite of much pharmaceutical and professional therapeutic intervention in my youth, and then an admittedly heavy dose of self-medication and amateur therapy in my younger adulthood, the neurodiversity badge is not one I usually attempt to wear publicly– self-compassion for this sometimes cruel and complicated blessing was beat out of me a long time ago. I only mention it because I’m particularly untethered these days, when the mud stirs and the trees bleed, and the returning robins plead me to scattered action. I suppose other folks in my line of work who have “normal” noggins suffer from these same freeze-thaw jitters, to a degree. They probably pay their bills on time, too.

When the earth softens in the thaw, with the grass still dormant and unable to utilize winter moisture, a lot of damage can compound quickly. Scattershot about the swine yard are patches of dark pockmarks cut by hog hooves. In the dark of the new moon in February is when I traditionally cast seed down on these areas– some mix of clovers or non-fescue cool season grasses that are sure to take, but lately I’ve been lacing them with lint, chaff, and instinctively grabbed and crumbled prairie seed. If I can sneak some seed in under snowfall, all the better– otherwise I seed at night, before the ground hardens and when the birds aren’t looking, and then drag cartloads of mulch each morning to conceal them from sparrows and juncos. As much as I struggle to repair these wounds, admittedly minor in comparison with some of our neighboring landscapes around here, I can’t help but think I could prevent these injuries altogether with more focus, more grounding.

As the trees weep steaks of sap and the buds on the cottonwood plump and shine rich with fragrant resin, I can nearly embrace the rising of metabolic energies in the wood, the upward flow of nutrients drawn from the mire to the bud, so long as I can cease combing through these twisted mats of hay with my pitchfork long enough to drink it all in. One remedy for this onslaught of seasonal brain-ache has been tree sugaring– a practice that requires hours away from the mundanity of farm life, spent in the woods instead, pursuing arguably one of the least necessary of luxuries.

Tree sugaring, performed responsibly at small scale, makes necessary some combination of connection to the woods, restraint in our tendency towards deep disturbance, and a sweet tooth. It requires that we know our trees, recognize their bark and limbs and stems, step through the quaking mud with care, observe weather conditions, and dedicate ourselves to the long term stewardship of our woodlands. Even briefly, we must consider the health of each tree as we ceremoniously pierce it to bleed, without consent, and only in exchange for continued care for the woods. While most commercially available maple syrup has adapted this ancient practice of reciprocity for efficiency, via reverse osmosis, pumping mechanisms, sterile production standards and even strategic economic reserves, I prefer tree sugar, and the process itself, to be some special gift, rather than a quantifiable product and protocol. We’re violating trees to boil their blood, after all. If I am to cease the Sisyphean task of feeding seed and hay to hungry dirt on this slope for an hour or two a day, I may as well feed whatever part of my aching mind it is that needs the chance to creep through the brush with nimble nuthatches and flitting chickadees, and shed a bit of my own blood hauling sap buckets through the brambles.

While the Canadians, understandably, have instituted some framework of economic stability for the marketing of this increasingly climate-threatened crop, the work of providing our own tree sugar serves to further connect us to the fragile nature of forest foods. In some years, the sap flows heavy, and for long spells before bud break– in others, all we get is a walk in the woods and a few burs in our boots. Regardless, indications seem to suggest that as our climate continues to shift, no amount of strategic reserves will keep maple syrup an economically viable product. Still, throughout much of North America, the ability to engage in the great give and take of tree sugar remains, partly through alternative species. Most trees will provide sap, but some of it will probably kill you. I once took a gulp of cottonwood sap, and promptly puked– not recommended. The following are A-OK for you to tap, cook, and consume.

Silver Maple

I have written about sugar alternatives in the past, namely sorghum syrup, an annual crop that has partial roots in the historical boycott of slavery-derived sugar cane. Without a doubt, there is probably a certain demographic among readers of this almanac that altogether shuns sugar from their diet, and, well, good for you, mate. Me, I like cookies, and sweet ones at that. Here in Northeast Missouri, we do not have ready access to sugar maples, which are by far the most efficient sap to cook in terms of beginning sugar content (roughly 1.7% as compared to the 2-2.5% present in sugar maple), but we do have plenty of access to silver maple, to start.

Silver maple (Acer saccharinum) is known for its fast growth, and therefore was once widely planted in urban and residential settings, though it is largely being removed from human-centered habitats on account of its propensity for dropping broken limbs. If your town still has some of these about, you might be able to talk to the right people and set some taps in exchange for syrup, but it’s also noteworthy that these trees often do the lion’s share of metabolizing heavy metals and contaminated ground water, so one might exercise some caution. Silver maple sap, when cooked, is rich in sand, that is, accumulated mineral deposits that form among the dregs of the pan– fine in moderation and from trees sprouting from healthy balanced soils, but a potential cause for concern in certain situations. I consider this sludgy, gritty goo to be something of a mid-winter elixir, but I tend towards the live slow, die middle-aged range of the spectrum of risk-taking. Silver maple syrup is a bit thinner and lighter than syrup from sugar maple.

Concurrent with the flow of maple sap is black walnut and by extension, other Juglans species like butternut and heartnut. My experience with black walnut is that the flavor is very similar to maple, with the added advantage of budding out much later in the season. When the buds break on maple trees, a chemical change suddenly occurs in the sap, leading to an off flavor, sometimes referred to as buddyness. Black walnuts are much later to break bud, and can hence provide more sap throughout the season. A lot of folks won’t tap these trees, because the injuries from tap-setting can mar the commercial potential of this valuable timber. Around here, we have plenty of black walnuts, and almost none of them meet the morphological requirements for high-value saw logs. By my figuring however, living trees offer a much higher value in the form of fats, protein, shade, habitat, carbon storage, and a bit of sweetness to brighten the dullness of the cold, dormant mornings, all things which numbers in a bank account are challenged to provide.

Black Walnut

Of course, the maple family contains other tappable trees, all with their own unique qualities. While I do not have first hand experience with red, Norway, or bigtooth maple, these trees are all tapped for sugar. We do have quite a bit of boxelder maple, which is short-lived and in many instances, a bit small-framed for effective sap yields. The squirrels actually taught me about boxelder sap– in the early years that we began fattening our pigs and turkeys on acorns, I made the mistake of running them too hard and not leaving enough for the wildlife, and the hungry squirrels clambered out in droves to debark some of our boxelders, flicking their tongues along the nude, oozing wood to capture some sweet sugar. Boxelder syrup, if you can gather enough sap to make it worth your time, lacks the maple flavor we all know, but instead has a sorghum/molasses quality.

Sycamore offers up a unique, almost butterscotch-hinted syrup, though sugar content is also low. Basswood, or linden as some of y’all call it, is said to yield a toffee-like sugar, but I haven’t come across enough basswood in our woods to attempt it. Hickories can be tapped, or so I’m told, and in some places folks produce a hickory syrup, though in many instances this product isn’t actually sap-derived, but a combination of cooked-down sugar water and the flaking bark of shagbark hickory.

Sycamore

Then there is birch, which yields a distinct and somewhat divisive product– robust, and minerally– spicy even. Many folks are likely familiar with the flavor of birch twigs, once a common source of wintergreen, but the syrup tastes a bit like balsamic copper. As a kid I used to put a lot of pennies in my mouth, so I don’t mind, but folks can be pretty picky about the luxury that is sugar. A benefit to birch sap is that it often runs longer and later than maple, so it can be collected once the maple run has ended.

River Birch

A drawback to sugaring, and a worthy one to consider, is the sheer amount of fuel and energy required to cook it. Some historical accounts of indigenous sugaring make mention of using the boiling sap to cook other foods, thereby stacking the function of the heat to prepare candied hickory nuts or maple poached venison. The unheated sap, on its own, is a refreshing drink, and a particularly popular tonic in Korea made from the sap of Acer pictum subsp. mono, also known as gorosoe, is guzzled down in large quantities inside of hot rooms, for the purpose of spring purification.

While perennial crops hold many advantages over annuals, and perennial crops that are merely part of a larger stewarded habitat offer a further ecological advantage, I doubt that the fuel or land use required to replace cane sugar with tree sugar could pan out in a functional way. Best to probably just consume less sugar in general, preferably sorghum in our climate, and take the opportunity to spend time in the woods tapping trees and slogging with sap buckets as an act of connection with the land and your local community, that might lead to treats. After all, the history of cane sugar is one of slavery and colonization, and current production models have had significant impacts on the environment by way of pollution, deforestation, and greenhouse gas emissions. Palm sugar is a sap product, and many readers are likely aware of similar issues surrounding agricultural palm production.

One of the biggest questions novice sugarers ask is when to tap– and the basic answer is, once the sap is running. Days lightly above freezing and nights slightly below freezing in winter’s second half would be the technical answer, and consulting public service weather forecasts is in reach for anyone with a radio. Otherwise, we consult the oracles. I read somewhere that the Ojibwe people, who would know better than most of us, began to tap with the return of the crows. However, the crows are year-round in much of the tapping range. Tapping here seems to occur with the slight resurgence of mud probing birds like robins. When squirrels begin nipping gashes in the bark to drink sap, that’s a likely indicator. Some folks say to never set taps the day before a meeting, and others use the rhyme: “Winds from the West, sap runs best; Winds from the East, sap runs least”, which certainly fits our pattern of warm fronts and cold fronts here in Missouri, about half the time. But the best time to set taps is probably just whenever the sap is running.

But to be clear, it would seem I don’t have the time for tree tapping this year. A thin layer of frozen fog has been collecting on the slope, and I will need to either feed the soil now, or later in the freezing rain. The heaving cart jerks on the crystalline path– downward and upward, side to side, slipping in the dim mirrors of ice-filled pock marks. Distantly, in the frozen pall, the waking limbs of young silver maples squirm tangled in the wind. They almost beckon, and when the sun breaks through, their ashy limbs sparkle with streaks of sap from nicks and gashes from woodpeckers and squirrels. I spend the time before ice storms feeding hay and grain to livestock, feeding carbon to dirt, feeding kids something, even if they’re exceedingly picky. I have not ventured into those stands of maple and walnut to feed myself– head, heart, or stomach. Sugar is perhaps a luxury, some small extravagance which like other rich resources– like say meat and energy, is both overconsumed and under-considered. But time in the woods may be more important than our daily average nutritional allowances can quantify. My brain doesn’t need any sugar right now, but regardless, I would like it to be fed in the swaying stands of giving maple.

Tree tapping season also often coincides with that period of planning and daydreaming called “farmer’s relapse”, when the stresses of squash bugs, apple borers, and breakaway goats temporarily cease from memory, and I begin scouring seed catalogs and satellite maps in preparation for the coming season– when the reserve of sap rooted round winter’s hearth rises with the growing day length, and all plans seem possible. That hasn’t happened for me yet this winter, and I’m uncertain if it will, though I’ll admit some interest in a good open-pollinated dent corn with short, wind-resistant stalks for the end times.

The rattle and crunch of the old hubs echoes over the frost-glazed thatch, and the red-bellied woodpeckers respond with tap-tap-taps from the borer-infested trunks of worm-riddled, burnt out ash trees, their xylem absent from the crackling trunks. We all know the average small farm doesn’t last long these days– the economics of agriculture shuts down new farmers and long-serving growers, or sometimes folks just quit, exhausted physically, intellectually, and emotionally. Regardless, I rely on the grounding routine of farm work to ease my spells of sensory overwhelm. I must feed the livestock, feed the dirt. As spring life stirs in the icy mud, and the murmurs of growth begin their annual cycling from the mire to the bud, I struggle against the descent, gaining momentum, sliding along the ice. The momentum of xylem, of germination, of hunger all rises, and the overloaded cart skidders and flings my flailing form, where I find myself pushed into the brambles, bleeding from the grasp of thorns, my hands cut up by the icy lash of multiflora rose. It looks to be I’m supposed to exchange blood with these broad and frozen fields rather than the welcoming, waving maples. Still, the dirt is hungry, and so am I.