REFLECTION · October 27, 2026 · 5:30–7:20 p.m. · Upper Watch

The sun has set. The wind is calm, and the temperature is probably in the low 40s. I'm sitting in the back room at Upper Watch.

I've been setting up my workshop before beginning construction of the Peeler Skiff. The garage is nearing completion, although we still need the garage doors installed, and there's a considerable amount of stuff to get out of the way.

I've been hanging a few things on the workshop walls.

The wall after the maple shelf was installed on October 28.

Near the ceiling, on a couple of pegs, I hung my bow. It's a modern bow, only about a 30-pound draw. That's about all I can handle. I occasionally practice out back when I find the time.

Beneath it I hung my drum, which I brought up from the lean-to. Over the past year I've worried about mice or squirrels eventually chewing on the rawhide. It's also fairly humid down there, never really dry.

The workshop is much drier, and I'd be more inclined to use the drum if it were ready to play. When the rawhide absorbs moisture and loses tension, the drum doesn't sound right. Instead of a clean beat, there's a rattle accompanying it.

I like the drum hanging beneath the bow. It looks good there.

Chris mentioned an upcoming drum gathering somewhere around Saranac Lake. I don't know much about it, but if I find myself available, I might go. What the heck. I'd like to see what it's like.

Recently, I brought up a few things from home that I thought might look good on a small shelf beneath the bow and to the right of the drum. Two small pottery vessels, one Hopi and one Navajo, that we picked up on an Arizona trip years ago. Along with them are two figures that I believe are Hopi katsina carvings. I'd have to look at them more closely to be certain.

The four objects on a maple shelf cut from wood milled at the place. Their individual identifications remain provisional.

And then I began wondering what any of it meant.

Nothing, really. They're just interesting objects that I happen to like.

But the pottery, the figures, the drum, and even my modern bow, which I associate with Native American history, got me thinking once again about Indigenous peoples and what life must have been like before European contact.

Not just centuries, but thousands of years, and the changes in how people lived over that time. Mind-boggling, really.

I think about the yearly cycle here at The Place. Spring, summer, fall, and winter. Each season brings its own work, and winter can be particularly demanding. Even with heated buildings, machinery, and the ability to obtain practically anything we need, there's plenty to contend with.

People had their own technologies and an understanding of their surroundings developed over generations. They weren't starting from scratch each season. Still, the physical demands of daily life must have been considerable.

The two dugout canoes recovered from our northern fen are part of that broader interest. They're evidence of people using this watershed centuries ago. We've learned something about the boats, but very little about the people who used them.

And I find myself wondering about the spiritual side of those lives as well.

It's now 7:20 p.m. I've been working on this reflection for nearly two hours.

I'm lying in bed, looking through the west-facing windows. The trees are silhouetted against the remaining light in the sky. It's one of many western views I get to enjoy from here.

Upper Watch — 7:20 p.m.

West has acquired a particular meaning for me. I've encountered its association with the setting sun, the end of life, and the spirit's journey in some Indigenous traditions. But over time, I've come to think of it in my own personal, spiritual way.

Perhaps my life will end here, looking out these windows. Perhaps not.

However it does end, I'm having plenty of these views before it does.

And I'm grateful.