The last harvest before the frost.

In about two weeks the first hard frost. Snow after that. We are taking spruce needles, the last yarrow heads, and Labrador tea into the shed now, and the stove is the workshop.

Spruce needles and a sprig of Labrador tea on kraft paper — Spruce needles and Labrador tea on kraft, late August on the homestead.

Late August on the Little Susitna still looks like summer if you only watch the clock. The sun hangs on. The mosquitoes have already thinned. The grass at the edge of the clearing has a different idea. It goes stiff in the morning, then soft again by noon. That is the first rehearsal. The real frost is about two weeks out. After that, snow.

This is the week we stop thinking about midsummer and start thinking about oil. The spruce needles are still green and loud when you crush them. In a month they will lock down for winter and smell quieter. We take them now, a little from many trees, never a whole branch off a young spruce, and we carry them to the kettle.

In the oil now

The stove is the workshop from here to breakup. We infuse spruce needles in oil on the stove, a measured pot, hours not minutes. The house fills with that cathedral smell. We strain. We pour. That oil goes into our salves, oils, and grooming.

Yarrow heads that have gone papery get crumbled into a separate jar for the winter pot. Labrador tea leaves, already leathery on the bog, dry low in the shed for the household cup and for the outdoor tins. It is a kitchen and a history: people in this country have been putting the last green into fat and into a pot since long before we bought the land.

The stove is the workshop from here to breakup. Notebook, August 2026

The last baskets

We keep one basket for the shed and one for the kettle. The shed basket is dry goods: leaves, heads, hips after the first cold night. The kettle basket is resinous: needles, and pitch only from beetle-kill trees. Both go in before the frost, because frost changes the work. After the ice, we render what we already have and we ship. We do not wander the bog hoping for one more take.

You are the one who will open the tin in November. We are the ones who put the last of August in it. That is the whole job of this week.

The winter shelf

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