Photo by Reed McLean
In late April 2024, 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 at the southeastern edge along the road have been cut in preparation for the 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. Hawklings cheep in the nearby canopy and the tree trunks are taut with sap. Many across our region are gathering it by the bucket from the maples, but fewer than ever gather with their neighbors for sugaring. Chartreuse and maple-crimson halo the trees here against a bluebird sky and even the darkest swaths of pine are bright with new-growing tips. The browntail moth larvae loom in the oak tops 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 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 people park on the sandy shoulder of the road they pick up loppers and pruning shears, and approach to find neither species. This tree’s branches, waving slowly in the wind, are 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 grass, and brighter still against the forests at the edge of the field and the deep sky.
Photos by Reed McLean
We harvest the branches in the late afternoon warmth and laugh. One asks, how many am I allowed to take? Another holds a tree limb steady while a friend snips the loppers at just the right spot. By the handful and basket-full, we walk our marshmallow branches to the firepit and begin the ritual of s’mores: roast (burn), sandwich, eat, repeat. Most keep to the usual technique of roasting one or two marshmallows at a time, while some attempt to roast the tens of marshmallows on their several-foot-long branch over the fire at once. One announces she’ll cover branches in marshmallows like this for her nephews the next time they see each other. 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. The Sugarbush is still full of blooms 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 bloom and fruit. 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.