It’s all in the bark

I see a waft of smoke rising above the treetops into the still spring air. Like the silver grey tail of some mythical aboriginal wolf, it wavers and wags before drifting to invisible.

Ah, the poetry of imagination, the whimsy of a writer still acquainting himself with the rhythm of life in this splendid wilderness. But quaint ditty aside, this wisp of smoke is a signal: not some ancient bush telegraph but a sign that my neighbour is boiling sap.

It’s maple syrup season and all around the county, in sheds, lean-tos and workshops, there are folks piling wood into furnaces, stoking the flames, bringing vast vats of watery tree liquid to the boil.

Sorry, shacks. Sugar shacks: that’s the name. I still have a lot to learn about maple syrup production. For instance, I’m told that soft maple don’t make good syrup. How you differentiate them from hard ones I have yet to figure, though. Hit them with a hammer? Call them names and see which cries first? Give them a good firm hug (may be not, I don’t want to be accused of being a hippy!).

Thankfully, one, shall we say, rather antique looking gentleman whom I met recently took me under his wing, to educate me on the ways of syrup making. He told me it’s all to do with the bark. “The bark!” I exclaimed. “I may be new to this country but even I know trees don’t bark.” He didn’t hang around to clarify his point.

Now, I also believe these wondrous woofing maple trees have taps. I know what they are. It’s mighty convenient, if you ask me. Wander out into the bush, turn the tap and you’ve got hot and cold running syrup. And they tell me its hard work making Canada’s favourite condiment.

But I jest. To me maple syrup seems to add up to a whole lot of work for a relatively little harvest. To begin with syrup harvesters (I guess you could call them that) are at the mercy of the weather. Last year was terrible, I’m told, because it warmed up far too quickly. This year: better. I’m glad these frigid temperatures are pleasing someone!

Then there’s the boiling of the sap. Forty gallons of sap makes one gallon of syrup, or so I gleaned, before we got onto the bark thing and my teacher stalked out, face like thunder. It seems patience is of the essence: you just have boil and boil and boil till hey presto, syrup.

Friends of mine (less antique, more, beautiful young things) decided to try their hand at making syrup this year. They tapped the trees. I told them: “hit ‘em harder so they bark good and loud.” They ignored me. They collected sap. They started to boil it down a week or so ago. I think they’re still doing it.

Last I heard they’d got through two bottles of barbeque gas and were threatening to throw the whole shebang - the vat of still bubbling sap, barbeque, taps, spiles, buckets and brand new unsullied syrup jars, the lot – in the lake.

My advice, leave it to the ‘antique’ gents; they seem to know what they’re doing. Before my wizened mentor departed in a huff, me woof woofing quizzically in his wake, I had sat listening to him and his fellow maple experts recounting syrup making stories. I gained much useful knowledge. I also learned that a boiling vat of sap and squirrel doesn’t mix well.

I now tend to suck my syrup through my teeth, just to make sure there are no hairs left in it.