A Nomad’s Work

My online presence has been scarce in these waxing Canadian summer days, as I tune further inward, and shy away from the subletting of technological time wasters, what is being written must first be lived, all the way alive, without the nag of reporting it in the immediacy of experience. But I can say my mind has been busy, and desiring to write more, and when my body has finished its work on the land, and traveled many miles, then
I sit with my thoughts, and rewind through my memories. Reflecting on the reaping of time, like so much grain, processed and consumed. When a man returns to his familiar tramping grounds, he forms a circle, a point of contemplation, an opportunity of change, and a chance to clean away any detritus from the past. This diadem of becoming is now my heir apparent, as I return to an old place of being, a space of deed, like an animal on a well traveled game trail, on the hunt. I’m finding needs fulfilled in a new way, and mining beneath the facade of a cultured movement, and a way of life. What I refer to now is the seasonal work route that is followed, by those who are comfortable to wander, ramble, travel, and tramp. Those who remember an older spirit, and can see through the illusion of domestication. A Nomad’s work is never done.

New purveyance shall be sublimated from the poetic toungue into re-worked mythical activity. Old roots of knowledge and wisdom, in deseservance of being tested must be forged into new tools of working prowess. In the building of a man, somewhere halfway between an animal and a god, there is a responsibility I choose to assume. I will be opening up a new tangent here, call it the learned words of a seasoned traveler. For the forthcoming of this journey I will be making small offerings of mined life experience in the form of advices and the mechanics of a nomadic working life. Where to go, with whom to share the idle hours. How to raise one’s Idrottir (an old Viking word for skillset) through the world of trade and labor. Keep tuned, so that these missives may not go unnoticed. My seemingly modest array of ‘time in’ the world, earning my time on the road, treeplanting, fruit picking, farming, journeyman trades, volunteering, and gypsy trade, and community building will gradually ferment and expand into more international pursuits, and with any of my stored up luck will include other traditional endeavors; fungal hunting, pastoralism, animal protection, and organic artisanship. These may be released only ever in word, face to face, or through long winded prose via this journal or smaller outputs incorporating other works.

For the hammer gives me courage to BE, and the ravens confirm what i’ve always :k:nown.



We are Tourists in our own Country theme park

Everything is owned by some corporation or materialist consumer, or privatized and enforced with those snaking grey lines of chain link fences. In order to enter, ‘the nature’ a fee is charged, and we hand over our plastic money like the exchanges of a monopoly game. For $50, our families can enjoy the fresh air, wildlife, water, and panoramic views of our national parks, but only for the day, before you get kicked out again, forced back into your cell, the one you put your mortgage into, so you can own. But not really own, because if the energy company says your in the way of a new power grid, then it’s not your property and you have to bargain for it back. There is an inherit problem when every morcel of food you put in your body has a colorful label plastered on it, a sale tag, and a bar code. A real pecuniary system no longer even exists, and bitcoin is the closest thing we have to a trading system.

We feel safe, cowardly taking animals out of their natural habitats, locking them up like prisoners in steel cages, and asking for payment to see how these ‘wild animals’ live everyday life. That is, in a 200 ft’ square space with no natural foods or living ecosystem. Everything is becoming filtered through technology and novely, nothing left is real. People are trading intimacy for virtual sex, organic life giving food for what might as well be 3d printed synthetic food, raw nature in exchange for high definition. We can’t even travel or walk in public without some kind of order, our bipedal rite to traverse land, taken away. Reflective signs like mirrors point us in the right or wrong directions, turn here, turn there, stop, go, no entry, this is prohibited, this is illegal, no smoking, no sleeping here, and so on. Rules plastered up like 1000 commandments of the out of control money handlers, who have all the authority, to do, say, and act in any immoral way they please, while all the slaves go to the same stores to buy their food, listen to the same music, wear the same brands, and walk in perfectly straight line, in queue for the neverending wait. So orderly they are, in this theme park, like perfect sheep being coralled by the wolfhound. The more you kiss ass, you may be rewarded with a shiny new car, or a pay bonus so you can finally sit in front of an 80″ screen and watch the lives of other people living the exact same lie you are.
We are tourists in our own country, who don’t remember our mother tongues, we can not navigate our own neighbourhood, we meet with aversion to any stranger, and rather look away then spark conversation, and we rarely ever choose our own work, as if it were quota, to be drafted into the slave system, serving the tycoons of your own death and dis-ease, while believing the myth of equality. Everything costs money; shelter, water, food, entertainment, love, knowledge… and we can buy just about anything with a few compromises of our soul, and the digits of our debt filled credit mines. The theme park is put out in the shop windows, dressed on manicans, mocking our own sense of belonging. Reviling our innate wildness, and curling up the last remnants of reality we have left. At the end of the day, the real world is always and inevitably ‘out there’ or at least the enjoyable and sensual world, because you are just a robot, paying dues to a name, an idea, a religion, or an illusion. The park closes when you die, but you can always return, more hollow, more shallow, and misguided than before. Don’t get lost the first time, or you may be part of the attraction. People should wake up from their dream, before the realities of every dystopian novel become the only way we know.https://departuresanddestinations.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/img_3612.jpg



What does the Heathen Family Look Like?

A close ally and kinsmen of mine said to me recently in his brusque and straight forward way that he speaks “You can not have culture, without the children”, obvious right? But this doesn’t mean to go out and just fuck any woman of the Germanic heritage that looks nice and then spend the rest of your life stuck on the system, while your youth grows up in the eyes of a modern, consumerist society bent of exploitation and nihilism.

Any two hot bodies can mate, and still bring nothing to the table if they aren’t doing the work to pass the cultures of truth to their nex of kin, and I see it everywhere. You have this child, the latest representation of your name and tradition, a gift to you and the new world, and he/she is forced to go to school, and play with all the new toys, and wear jeans, and sit inside becoming bored because you have no time to dedicate to them, and then end up the same as everyone else, but are inseparable from the ‘specialness’ you give them because of your ego. The child learns to fear authority, get in line, follow-pseudo intellectual pursuits or money gambles, and conform into filtered down pop culture. They become unhealthy because they do not have an intimacy with nature, and therefore feel inferior from judgement of their peers, their core interests do not extend into things like spirituality, nature, the esoteric, farming or traditionalism, because movies, facebook, internet, pop culture, and pornography already take up all their time. Then they grow up, at least a little, and spend every monday through friday not wanting to live through another day of work, and friday though sunday, drinking to forget their life is even happening. Their dates are short lived and frivolous, enganging in shallow pleasures to self-medicate from any deeper involvement with responsibility, and eventually making the same mistakes as every one else and becoming imprisoned in a sedentary life, paying bills, serving the system that aims to destroy culture, and passing time in idle, because they feel they were given a bad lot.

This can be seen in the modern nuclear family, male or female, and even in some of the so called heathen people I have met, and actually I see a lot of loners who can’t get a girl in the first place because they work at a gas station, and spend all their money on weed and beer, nothing striking me as heroic, inspiring, or worthwhile, needless to say they are not much of a gift to the eyes either. Heathenism is Beauty.

So what does the Heathen Family look like, and I will take current day examples of those I choose to spend my time with, representations from the places I inhabit, and experiences I have had with building relationships. The Heathen community for one is like a cohesive planet of it’s own, and the unit of the family is a strong root that makes up the larger tree. The Heathen Family would ideally, (but we can not assume these days) be living in the country first of all, the word heathen does mean -heath dweller- or country dweller, they lived outside the city because the city in Viking age respresented control and institution. So in the country, they would practice their tradition, that is, the ways of the North Germanic peoples. Skill crafting, because this is manditory to have in a community or hamlet of heathen families. The father and mother would carry traditional roles; gardening, child care, cooking, cleaning and so forth for the mother, and trade skills, husbandry, building, trade, and fortifying the home for the father, and of course in this age, some of these roles are shared and useful for both. If something couldn’t be grown from the land they lived on, a health food market in their village would be useful to get imported superfoods, or a local farmers market for culinaries. In the village would also be a master brewer, a blacksmith or a toolshop, a bakery, several farms, a library carrying real books, the sagas of our people and free information, medicine women/doctors of some sort, a textile maker, a harbour, a moot hall, several other gathering places, and wild parks, and maybe a few other services. There would be no need for restaurants, grocery stores, plumbers or technicians, the families would know these basic of most skills themselves, no banks for they would manage their own money, or trade for what they need. The work would be centered on the gild tradition, cobblers, blacksmithing, timber framing, turf cutters, farmers, fishermen, seamstress, midwifery, hunters and the so on.

Inside the domain, the house would be made of sturdy timber, no modern cheap materials like plaster and dry wall, because we know those don’t work. There would be no gmo foods in the pantry and almost everything would be made from scratch, then eating gratefully with thanks to the Gods and Goddesses. There would be a ve, a holy place, on the land for worship, fruit trees and things growing, a lack of electrical appliances (it can easily be done when you think what can be replaced if you just had more patience and care), and a lack of synthetic clothes being worn. An indiginous Germanic language would be spoken in the house, even if it be fluent well learned English, and not the bastardized unintelligent way we speak today in slang, acronyms, and abbreviations. The children would learn to appreciate what is going on outside and not be bombarded with plastic toys, they would make their games with sticks and bones, or playing hide and seek in the woods, a very good thing for kids to learn to navigate natural spaces. Or they would idenitify plants and animals at an early age. Certainly no tv. There is no reason that can’t be fun for a 3 year old. I have lived this way and observed this in practice in a few others here in Nova Scotia, on the shores of Mahone Bay, and it works, far more readily than the American, or Canadian dream, or for that matter, the world ethic of hedonism, consumerism, exploitation, and enslavement.

The house should have a few traditional instruments, and decorated sparsely, and the family would spend as much time together as possible, or the boy with his father when he left, and the daughter with her mother learning how to be a man, and a woman respectively. They would honor the heathen holidays, not the materialistic, christian faith drivel that encourages us all to go in debt about once a month or so. Real, cosmological holidays that affect us directly. Altogether, a heathen family would be interdependent, and have solidarity with their neighbours, truly creating a cohesive collective. In this age where people hardly even get to know their nextdoor neighbour, there are so many people stuck in their lonely planet with no outlet to express their true selves. A Heathen Family would not have to be dictated by the goverment, and told how to live, or chained to domesticity. It is imperative that the youth know the ideals of our folk from 1000 years ago, even a few centuries ago as a start, for they will carry your name, the one etched in granite at your local christian graveyard, and if you want anyone to remember that you were worth a damn and did anything good for the world, teach it to your kids, and they will bring it out. I do not yet have any of my own, for I am simply not ready. And this is something also of an epidemic, too many people are simply not ready, and end up bringing this youth into broken, distracting, suffering lifestlyes, and only project the same problems on to them. I have dreamt often that for it to happen in my life, what realities this youth would face, growing up in my eyes, in nature, and how far superior they would be from their teachings of a loving mother and father figure. A heathen family is not divisive, and cut off. So many families spend all their lives in different rooms of their house, they do not even at the the table together anymore. Heathen families must work together, and live together, they would travel to other places together, and learn what it takes to truly be self-sufficient in the world, and most of all, they would Live. Their children would grow, and carry these traditions to the next line.

There is so much allocation of energy and attention to fixing broken people, which is not to say that people are unworthy of fixing, but this selfish desire for ‘healing’ and fixing oneself at the expenditure of others is draining to the energy available to our next in line, the children, and if you don’t have them, you have a dead culture. These children will grow up with respect for animals, real regard for community, and adherence to honorable codes, they need us to emulate their role model. We must observe the true and tried effect of a strong family, and the tribe, on young people!



Here is a clear and cohere message that you can start to get in line with. In this generation, you are AT.WAR. The fuel of the world is running on Hatred, and you are at war with our own brothers and sisters. It is past the time, when we need to really start cultivating our loyalty to this planet.
Or else there is going to be no Allah, Jesus, sons or daughters. We need to turn away from the All is I, and towards the All is ONE, or the ONE that we have will be a NONE. If you don’t Eyedentify with this, then you are seeing my.me’s Reflection and we are the Same mind as we allWays were to Be. Free to Be. If you don’t start cleaning up all that junk you have inside you, you’re gonna be down with the Indians where you buried them and Crazy Horse will look you dead in the eye, and ask you Why?

We need to turn this War, against a war on pollution, and the real criminals. And you holler about all these Terra-ists trying to save a little for the children, because they want to have a good life, and not swim in a sea of plastic revelry. Super sports and big time movies, stealing from the poor, giving to the rich. Robin Hood is going to come back and teach you a lesson, the Outlaw, is the one in the Law, of Nature. Outside that is your own game of cat and mouse, montagues and capulets, how long do you think that trip is going to last. Walking through a halluci-nation, from cave men to Columbus. Who owns what? Who owns none? One is One, is One is 1.

Red Bloody Urth is your only mother, you better treat her with respect, or she won’t take you back home. We need to cultivate our loyalty for this planet, and stop mining the mind, the way you mine the beauty of what’s left. The children today, are becoming the children of the Apocalypse, and the new mythology is built on human failure. Authority used to watch out for the people, now they’re just watching the people.

Is there other life out there, is there higher intelligence, maybe they could come back and straighten us out. Maybe they could do something for us down here? Maybe there would be an earthship come to take us back, take us back to the human(e). Then would you learn your lesson. Shut down your guns and stop your little games. Our flags have peace runes flying in the wind.


For Esoteric Travel against Exploitive Tourism

Western man has become the exploiter, the shark in the waters of the sacred to the societies who live by the codes of honor. He came with his wonder drugs, his mod-cons and ideas of ‘progress’ and planted the bitter seeds in the lands of those there before him. Centuries in time lapse would show this in tow, these ills of modern man and his touring harem of tourists who believe there is a smorgasbord of attractions that will service them alone with no regard for the other. Wielding expensive camera that rob the soul of place and person, mongering profit, and diluting the lifestyle of true travelers through wrong action. I think this may be the biggest bane of a so called tourist, the impact one is having on another culture without knowing it. This is something I want to talk about, after seeing first hand the effects holiday makers can have on indigenous people, the wilderness, and ultimately entire cultures.

There is this problem in this age that until the 20th century did not really exist. With the advent of speedy travel, we can simply fly halfway across the world in a day, and with it bring all our our ideas, customs, behavioral codes, language and morality with us. This can be create an exotically interesting situation when drifters move step together and trade their minds and life experiences with each other, but as a world traveler I am seeing the dirty downsides of this.

My steps and points on the map have called me to live in Mexico this past month, one of the most sacred places on this earth, enriched with ancient civilizations, medicine, magic, and mystery throughout the land. It is a place of instant manifestation. But a trip tor one of the sacred Mayan ruins, the cities or national parks eschews what carnivals these places have actually become. It seems there is less and less regard for the sacred energy and reverence for these places as the years notch on. They become more and more novelty, the information is more and more filtered, people ignore simple rules, and the whole event becomes watered down through tour guides, buses, paid luxury hotels, and catered experience with strict timelines and overpriced charges. It is sad to see so many people walk into these sacred sites, like the pyramids and ruins of Palenque and see everything through a screen on their cameras, literally walking around with it held out in front of them to archive their memory and never open again. One person I met said it was ‘so I don’t forget’, because the pure moment of it is somehow not enough. Lost is this felt presence of immediate experience, except for the few. In the countryside, increased participation in a monetary economy because of tourists has decreased the need for subsistence agriculture and with it the religious rites associated with agriculture. The non-existence of once very important pilgrimages to particular sites (because they have been desecrated, or the deaths of the elders and knowledgeable persons who practiced the rituals through old age and often disease, the information was not passed on to younger generations). The use of music and dance has also decreased in ritual behavior inexplicably since ethnographers began ‘studying’ the natives. Ancient heritage is turned into souvenirs for European and American privileged class, everything is reaped of it’s specialty for a profit. These are only some of the downfalls that are taking place. The ones selling their wares are there because they have no other livelihood. The brand names of the world commerce litter the jungles, the desert, and the playas. And in general, the importance and meaning of the world’s sites are being ripped out and seen as novelty, in the words of a loyal friend

“When we are a person of place, we are a person of place wherever we are, through our ability to listen. I use the term listening in the sense that it is a certain kind of indigenous faculty. A tourist, on the other hand, arrives at a place without really listening to it, or being open to it on it’s own terms. He arrives with a camera or some other type of lens through which the interpret his surrounding. Always removed and impersonal. He habitually takes in the world as some kind of presentation, rather than a participant. Aren’t all civilized people acting as tourists then, even when they are at home? Removed and alien, forever uprooted, not involved with the dialogue and culture of where they are. In a sense, this lack of presence is a denying and banishment of soul. But poetic language, or indigenous perception, allows us a way back into experiencing our lives as people of place, as being involved directly in an animate speaking Universe.”
If you wonder to ask… no this doesn’t ruin my experience, but I almost literally need to be on a drug trip to throw off all the distractions of noise and flashes and stupidity that happens at these touristic locations. The worst of all is the image it creates with the locals, for I am viewed in the same light, until that is I generate a reputation as other. When I can speak to the indigenous locals and explain to them, I am not a tourist, actually I am one of you. Teach me and I will listen. I really would like to see tourism take a new direction, into more spiritual directions, at least more coherence and sense because I think it brings a lot to small struggling communities but when there is such separation between the set and setting of the individual, it all goes off kilter. I personally feel that the real tourism is going alone and trusting in yourself, not planning anything too rigorously, and people will recognize you are not seeking to exploit them and the true adventure begins. I can’t stand seeing people walking around like drones, trying to get the best selfies to put online later, and then forget, as if the whole purpose of the trip was for narcissistic reason. Real travel and experience happens without a camera, though it can be a valuable tool, it is more of a distraction from the real. Find it in your heart to try something new or at least accept the difference. We think of these other cultures as primitive, unsophisticated, low, or strange, but when they are visited as part of a ‘tour’ they become a form of abstract admiration. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Be culturally sensitive and aware of where you are going, and this might benefit our inter-global relations, maybe there would be less violence and more love in the world if this changed.

!Otro Mundo es Possible!

thee Olde English VVoodhaven: a dedication for gossamerwingzz

This be a dedication to one Zabyth who writes some of the most eloquent animistic poetry and captures truly ethereal photo relics for her gossamerwingzz.com wordpress. A supporter of atwa and this planting project. In the township of Witherslack, reputed to be the last refuge of the English Wolfe, is a reconverted sheep pasturage, now grown over in patches with Gorse or Furze, a young forest now spreads its roots, planted from my hands, in gift.

465 Oaks, 250 Birches, 250 Geans (Cherry), 252 Hazels, 125 Hawthornes, 150 Crab Apples, 75 Willows, 150 Alders, 50 Aspens, 40 Hollys, and 20 Yews.

Still yet I will put in my roots for another month when I return from the greater Europa and Africa, and do a little more in Scotland where the trees are missing. It puts me just over the crest ov a good number of 150,097 thousand trees returned to the world.



Tree Planting Started down in the Prisons

If you spend long enough in a tree cemetery, and put your shovel down into the ground more than a felon swings his mattock, you will start to really think about what your doing is no kind of hippy love affair with the forest, and the backbreaking labor alone will make you feel as if you might as well had the chain around your ankle some days. You start wondering why you are doing it, and how you were convinced once again to don the leather bags, that has become to standard. For me, planting has become a sort of penance in this last year. I enter into a camp full of woes or guilt for one thing or another, usually having just went through a relationship fail or depression or period of destitution. Unlike most planters, I see the irony and the tragedy in planting trees, sometimes it can be good, like I would imagine cell mates getting their one hour to be outside and breath the air, look at birds, and lift weights, then back to the grind and the 3 walls and iron, or in my case, the slick rain, broken slash and thorns to trip you up, and the old piecework rates to keep you struggling. Just like our forefathers in the mines and cotton fields. Tree planting started out as labor camps in the prison systems of New Zealand. An article from the newspaper, The Mercury dated June 1911 reads “Prisoners on the Land   The New Zealand System” an excerpt from a fuzzy scan I was able to find online reads:

“we have isolated spots which lead as it were, to nowhere, and from which escape would be almost impossible. During the last five years only one prisoner got clean away. and I believe lie is now serving a sentence in this State. We have three tree-planting camps in Waiotnpu, 21 miles from Rotorva-Waipa. on the shores of Luke Roto-Kakhi, and Hanner Springs, 90 miles north of Christ church. The first, which is the largest has accommodation fr 70 prisoners, but at present contains only 36. About 10 per cent, of the total’ number of convicts are at present engaged in tree planting. The prisoners are housed in weatherboard structures, one hut, with two distinct rooms. Each room has a window, and the prisoner is supplied with mattress and blankets; Some years ago-a fireplace was provided, but the prisoners used to go out, trap rabbits and birds, and roast them. Of course, that had to be stopped… 

There isn’t a rifle on the place. In the early morning a warder is sent out three miles over the hills with the prisoners. The warder is unarmed, while the prisoners take out with them long ‘slashers’ and other implements. What would be tho use of arming a warder when there are 10 men, with slashers. A slasher is about four feet long, and very sharp. The men could overpower the warder if they wished, but the point is that they don’t desire to do so.

it also says the the convicts usually have to earn trust and be in their third year before planting and that Since 1901 we have planted over 33 million trees, one prisoner alone planter 3000 in a day. The men appreciate being sent away tree-planting, and work hard with the object of obtaining; some remission of their sentence.” So perhaps they eventually grew fond of the hard labor. Planting in prisons were also introduced in New South Wales in the early twentieth century and the Mukobeko and Khami prison in Africa.

https://79956ed1c5-custmedia.vresp.com/da2cc5290f/eth-wolk-planting%203.jpgNowadays, tree planting, at least in North America is Britain has become one giant monoculture atrocity. I disagree heavily with the practices of the modern forestry who are aiming to grow timber and non native species for cabinets, hotel furniture, newspaper, and other useless creature comforts. The work of forestry has seem to evolved into this irreversible mess, that doesn’t resemble nature. Only now are sustainable practices seeming to be developed. I currently plant in northern England, bordering on the Penine Mountains in the Lake District. These past two weeks I put in my crimes and times down in a natural woodland, none of the alaskan spruce and pine from overseas, as much as I appreciate them as trees. Under the rolling glens, a mere century ago, miners bore and worked in tunnels and shafts next to the Irish sea. I remembered these men in a way as I planted. bird loving cherries, aspiring oaks, sacred rowans, hallucinogenic yews, pure birches, and missive hawthorns. I personally can’t bring myself to the bore of just the work itself anymore. I try to make it interesting. I put spells on my trees, I take time to actually enjoy when I can, and I don’t care about going fast.

There is work all over Canada, England, Scotland, New Zealand, Australia, USA, and as of late, Africa, Norway and Iceland from what I know. I am definitely not through with it all yet. From the mattock to the bizzare Finnish pottiputki, right down to the d-handle, and the seed balls, they all have their own kinks and aces about them, and these hands have been scarred and bled with most of them. I’ve penetrated the dark moist vaginal openings of the earth about 150,000 times now, and I still wonder if it is enough to carry on. I can only hope they meaning something as much to the rest as they will to those who walk beside them, and those who went before me. Roughened men of peasant life, outlaws, bush roamers, and forest tramps like myself. I honor you.

Below is a tricky little seedball recipe by a certain wise wizard behind the iron:


2 parts potting soil or fine compost

5 parts pottery clay mix from your local art store

1-2 parts water

1-2 parts native seeds of your choice

A tablespoon of Cayenne Pepper (add more depending on how large the batch)

Large tub to mix ingredients

Large box to dry and store seed balls


Mix the soil, clay and 1 part water thoroughly. There should be no lumps. Slowly add more water until the mixture is the consistency of the toy store molding clay that comes in a can.

Add seeds. Keep kneading the dough until the seeds are well mixed in. Add more water if necessary.

Take small bits of the clay mixture and roll into ball about one inch in diameter, or desired size. The balls should hold together easily. If they’re crumbly, add more water.


Planted grove for Two Snakes and herr Sumarliðr, ATWAR

manson-7In the highlands, there is a grove in the Glencruitten woods of Oban, which I here dedicate for Two Snakes, and herr Sumarliðr who helped fund this project with movement in the all in one, and the inspiration instilled to make it happen. BE:ING+DO:ING. I made pilgrimage to Scotland in the dying days of autumn, and the grove, consisting of some 5000 Coniferous trees were planted in the spirit of the word. ATWA. At.War with the forestry mongoloids who aim to cut down these woodlands. Through Scottish gales, muck, and brash, I, Wolfshaman planted these trees alone, but not alone, for the purpose of re:wilding a scarred and broken landscape. A tree graveyard. A roe deer revealed his presence before the planting ensued, and two harris’ hawks carried by handlers were walked in procession around the trails before being released a couple days afterwards. An appropriated rite for Tyr and Freyr, the land wights, and allies was made at the land. You know who you are my brothers.

Sagas of the Inner Hebrides: The Atavist Planter

Rusting ferns take up the gradients, where land pitches lowly the still waters of the bog saturate the soil, heath grass chokes the small saplings in swathes, with the occasional bog myrtle or heather flowers eking out a living. In this peat, the only thing that thrives are the sritely spruce, and scotch pine, starkly a birch grove may be seen, a cluster of strong willed oaks, or the offset hawthorn or rowan, but methinks the latter are planted merely for some quota ascribed to the land, not that this is their ideal habitation. It is without hesitation that I rise to meet the day, yay, even eager to put on my weather garments and drive the near two hours into the highlands and restore at least a couple hectares of land with coniferous trees and their allies, but my higher instincts tell me there is a suffering. The plantations are not sustainable forestry. My work plays out like the repeated conflictual story between the noble peasant and the opulent rulers of society. I take my highest pride in putting trees back into the earth, about 10,000 of them so far here in SCOTland; spruce, lodge-pole, oak, pine, rowan, hawthorn, birch. I have sunk my essence in vials into the grounds, a sort of tribute sacrifice, these lands are known to have preserved a number of bodies from the Stone Age forwards. Planting alone, climbing over knolls crested with drystone ruins of elder houses I am reminded of folktales of exiles, rugged, highlanders and witches, you had to be one of them to live this far out of the way in a stone hut like that. I touch the stones, raise one of my own near the site and move on. I have encountered two standing stones in an old burrough town, far off the beaten path. Markers of a far more elder migration route perhaps? Who raised them? What would they think of the land now, beside the loch where their family may have dwelt a time seeking arable land. I am left confounded with the quandaries and dichotomies of this LAND. A land fought for by the grandfathers and their fathers, of the clan, rich with fauna and the magnanimity to inspire. The latter is still true, the places, and spaces do emit a tender charm, a freedom of openness, but this easily turns to the feeling of desolation as the memory overcomes the mind. A patchwork forest, the longed for grunt of the Stag, the absent scurry of the door mouse, the straight lines of conifers, the tracks of heavy machinery. I pine away at what has become…

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Massak: Warrior Born Of Winter

I finally received my package for Massak, the Arctic wolf I adopted from the UKWCT. When I discovered the UK Wolf Conservation Trust I instantly knew I wanted to support their efforts, having always wanted to protect wolves in some way, but neverwith the outlet to do this. I felt it was an important life event to shed any effort possible to educate and save these fine creatures, as they are as much a part of myself as the earth. The package came with an elegant photograph of his wolven mane, and an certificate of adoption, as well as a vial of wolf fur, which I am planning to make into a special earthy pendant, and a zine called Wolf Print, which tells of their projectsdone by the UKWCT, like those is Russia, Nepal, Ethiopia, Greece & Croatia, info on the packs who live at their London park, and wolf biology around the globe. Also was enclosed a ticket to see the wolf personally on an open day and take photos with it. The wolves at their site are also taking on countryside walks in the Britsh nature. This also allows to them to grow used to their land, bathe themselves in streams, and run in the fields. and explore their wild instincts. I had made a post previously with a couple photos of him, and m/y mate also recently adopted one of his siblings called Sikko, but here is some words on Massak:

Massak is now entering his 2nd year, born in a snow storm in 2011 with his siblings, Sikko and Pukak. They were hypothermic and would not have survived if it had not been for the quick intervention and expertise of the team from Parc Safari. The trio were showing very little signs of life when found. They were hand reared and once recovered, they needed to be found a home so it was agreed the three young wolves would make the trip to the UK from Canada once they were 10 weeks old and come the only Arctic wolves ever in Britain. Massak is getting used to the sights and smells of the English countryside. He is able to hunt birds and small mammals while allows him to carry out natural behaviours. In the wild, the Arctic wolf has no natural predators and little competition for food. For the next year Massak should keep his coatof white, grey and tan. Massak is slowly starting to understand the enrichment activities he is offered, with stuffed hessian sacks slowly becoming a favorite. He enjoys playing, but only on his own terms. Massak is an independent and intelligent wolf who knows his own mind. If he’s in the mood to join then he will, if not he will lie quietly in his chosen spot, relaxin in his enclosure usually under the shelter of the trees or resting under one of the platforms. Massak is part of the next generation of ambassador wolves, and is involved in behavioural research.

My lupine nature spoke to me in a certain frequency when I was decided which wolf to support. Massak’s own nature of being an independent and relatively reclusive wolf mirrors the traits that I also nourish, (to mention in his photo he also looks like a tibetan monk). He is one of the ambassador wolves, used for teaching, and he enjoys the increasing focus. As with my art and my writings, I feel intrinsically linked to this ambassador nature, and the need to impart knowledge as does Massak.

Here are some pieces of wolven biology that I wish to share as well that and some that were written with the package, some of which I never knew before…
The common coloration of the Grey wolf is actually not grey at all but a mixture of black, brown and white hairs. The wolf is the immediate ancestor to all breeds of domestic dog, they share 98% of the same genes and through 10,000 years or so have become what we know canis to be now as a domestic pet. By smells produced through secretion’s in the wolf’s skin, and urine, wolves can tell the gender, breeding condition, social status, age, condition and diet of each other. Each scent gland plays a different role in the body. Body language is almost predominantly dominant or submissive in the packs. In active submission the subordinate wolf will excitedly lick, hold, and smell the mouth of the dominant wolf (something quite kinky about this).
Besides howling, yelping, and growling wolves also display a variety of auditory communication that represent different emotion or traits; barking, squealing, humming, whimpering, moaning and snarling, most of these are for distress, pain or hunger. Their howls also can be diverse and different frequencies or patterns of howls can decide if they are predatory, protective, solitary, recognizing location, and pack calls. Wolves adapt their coat color to the terrain they live in, as is seen with Ethipian red wolves who live in desicate sandy areas, brownish grey wolves residing in dense forestation, and white arctic wolves in the high north. They also seem to entertain a sort of energy transfer, with tactile communication, play, fighting and grooming. I recently learned that about 10,000 years ago, when human beings started to discover their predator status, it coincided with the wolf domestication. The primitive traits of hunter/gathering from their wolven counterparts helped man to learn basic survival skills, as he mimicked their behavior. They were kept captive for wild hunts, and used for their heightened senses to locate other prey.

I long to meet with Massak at his site, and invoke his spirit when his attentions are needed in my life.