Apple Tree Mapping.

Calvin and I have completed the apple press. We gave it a trial run at his parent's house while we were back at home for break, and found that it worked pretty well. It would be nice if we could get a bit more pressure, but for the simplicity of the design it works well. Once we figured out that it worked we went hunting for apples around Duluth. Unfortunately, our search proved unsuccessful after a disappointing attempt at locating an orchard that his parents used to got to. We also tried getting a few from the tree behind his brothers house, but they had all fallen to the ground and the deer go to them first. The remaining ones were on the tippy-top, out of reach from any ladder that we had access to.



The good news is that there were still apples on the tree by the school and we took his truck over there last night and filled the bed with as many apples as we could. We were able to gather something like close to 20 gallons. Afterward, we searched around for another tree, but had no luck finding any more. That's when we conjured up the the idea of apple tree mapping. It involves driving around town and finding all of the apple trees on boulevards and along parks and mapping their location so that we can easily find them next year, and at the same time, if we're lucky and they haven't already fallen off or gone bad, add to our collection this year.

I expect we will have to wait for all of the pressing next week though, because Cal forgot to pack the pressing board and bucket when we left his parent's house. Until then, we still need to purchase a cheap, old blender to act as a crusher, and some cheese cloth.

I'll try to have some pictures of the press up soon, it's just a matter of borrowing my sister's camera.



In the spirit of apple picking, I decided to share with you this poem by Robert Frost.

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.