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Photo by Reed McLean

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In late April, thirty or so locals gather to see Sugarbush in one of the many tree-lined fields scattered along the wooded backroads of Western Maine. This particular field will soon be home to a small installation of solar panels for the state's first cooperatively-owned solar company. The few shade-making trees along its southeastern edge by the road have been cut in preparation for a shorter hedge of fruit and nut trees that will replace them.

 

Ice out was weeks earlier than usual and more than a month ago now, but it’s hard not to find comfort in the early spring warmth. Tree trunks are taut with sap. Many across our region are already gathering it by the bucket from the maples, but fewer than ever gather with their neighbors for sugaring. The chartreuse and maple-crimson halo the trees here against a bluebird sky and even the darkest swaths of pine are bright with their new-growing tips. Cheeps of hawklings occasionally burst from the canopy nearby. The browntail moth larvae tent in the oak tops, looming, just as the familiar, palpable tension of spring about to brim over.

Every branch— even on trees recently cut and laying in rows in the old grass— buds. In other fields and forests the early flowering trees show signs of their imminent bloom, but here in this field, only one appears to be in flower, and it too has been cut. In the center of the clearing, it lies close to its stump and away from the others felled by the road. Like any white-blooming tree from a distance. Serviceberry? Dogwood? After parking their cars on the sandy shoulder of the road people are handed loppers and pruning shears, and approach to find neither species. This tree’s branches wave slowly in the wind, covered in sugary white puffs of marshmallow. Cylindrical and soft, they sprout jumbo-size on the large branches and mini on the newer, smaller sticks. Thousands of marshmallows, bright white in the sun against the bleached grasses the tree lays on, and brighter still against the coniferous trees at the back edge of the field and the deep sky.

Photos by Reed McLean

We harvest the branches in the late afternoon warmth and laugh: how many am I allowed to take? One holds the tree limb steady while another snips the loppers at just the right spot between their friend's grasp. With Sugarbush branches in basket and hand, we walk to the firepit and begin the ritual of s’mores: roast (burn), sandwich, repeat. Some swear by the traditional technique of one-or-two marshmallows at a time, and others attempt to put all the marshmallows on their several-foot-long branch over the fire at once. One announces she’ll cover sticks in marshmallows like this for her nephews the next time they gather. A few ask questions about our artificial harvest but the answers are not very important because we don’t see each other often enough and it is a beautiful evening. The only thing to “get” is sticky fingers, full, and home late— and we do. Many marshmallows remain on the Sugarbush as the full April moon rises golden.


The artist's prayer is this: Oh, Marsh Mallow, forgotten medicine, Althaea officinalis, heal us. Glue us back together. Oh, Nature, make Magnolia, and I will make Sugarbush. May fallen trees fruit and be made monuments before firewood. May imitation be the highest form of flattery.

Photos by Reed McLean

Many thanks to Mike Dunn and Andrea Asken-Dunn, Reed McLean, Branwyn Bell, Nick Bakelmun, Steve Dosh, Jess and David Hart, and all those who came to Sugarbush.

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