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Quiet Creek Herb Farm & School of Country Living

Cascade Complications 

6/25/2012

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_ Hearing about it from all the locals, my family decided to hike to the Ucelluline Cascade, a beautiful waterfall and river gorge. From there we would descend, to what on the large road map was a dotted line, and thought to be a hiking trial. If only, we had looked a little closer.

We set out at ten o’clock stopping along our way. Our first stop was parking our bikes near a 400 year old mill beside an 800 year old dry stone bridge that dated back to the time that Genoese, Italy controlled Corsica. We then hiked to an old and very tall church halfway surrounded by tombs.  Before lunch, we ventured to a wild yellow plum orchard that became dessert after arriving in San Nichalao at noon.

With a hearty meal of cheese, sausage and French bread, we strolled along a thin mountain road toward the cascade (waterfall).  Enjoying the view from a granite peak, we heard the roaring flow, long before our arrival. As we approached, we were deafened by it. It was not that the cascade was large in volume with a high flow rate (about 100 gallon/m) that made it so loud; the ten meter drop into a rocky pool, with a rainbow sparkling through the mist, seemed to accentuate the sound.

We admired the cascade from a modern bridge built to emulate the curved arch of the Genoese era.   There, surefooted, we viewed the center of the cascade around 2 p.m. We then followed a path to the base of the cascade and looked up as the water threw itself over huge boulders. Relaxing awhile we then decided to take that “path” to eventually find our bikes waiting along the river gorge.

As we trekked downhill, the caynon became wider, steeper and the number of boulders continued to grow. I split up from the rest of my family in hopes of finding a path through the taller lithic structures. I jumped from a platform downward, but had to stop when I came upon an eight foot drop onto a slippery boulder. Out my comfort zone, I took ten minutes to convince myself, but finally I leaped landing on all four limbs sliding slightly sideways.

I continued downward till I reached the lower pool. My family, trying to get down through a crevice, was stuck. Back tracking, I met them there where together we figured out how to get them down.  Sliding around one rock then dropping down a few feet to another, each of my family members faired with only a few scratches.  

Jumping from boulder to boulder, we traversed the gorge until we experienced another difficulty. This time the four of us had to slide two meters down a slippery rock at a 45 degree angle.  Unable to see the other side where we would drop, we considered turning around.  Fortunately my dad found a belly-squeezing hole underneath a fig tree allowing us to descend further. 

After each impediment, we realized that more difficult situations were ahead of us. The next one was a thin vertical stone chute, lined with sharp projections, which dropped into another shallow pool. I made myself into a wedge, trying to slow myself as I slid quickly down. As the chute evened out, I jumped into the shallow pool to avoid a hard fall.  I coached my family through -- first catching our backpacks, shoes and socks and placing them on a dry rock.

My brother Ashton went next sliding a few feet then plunging too soon into the water, making a big splash and laugh. My mom, who waited till the end of the slide, jumped like I had done. My dad came last and fell the hardest when he pushed himself off the crevasse.  I could tell he was not enjoying our hike by his scowl and the shaking of his head. 

At this point we, as a team, discussed our situation. We did not think we had found the “path” but we thought it was easier to continue on then to try to find a way back up.  Ashton was having the most fun by sliding, falling or jumping from rock to rock. His amusement stopped however when he accidently slid across a stinging nettle patch and the barbs went through his shorts.

  Our movement became easier as the gorge started leveling out. We followed the steep rocky stream down to where it became a level bubbling brook. I could tell moods were lifting as we came upon a deep swimming pool. My brother ripped off his shirt and jumped in making another big splash and my dad followed him. My mom and I watched as they swam back and forth cooling off.  We all assumed we were near the end of our adventure; we had no idea how wrong we were.

Refreshed from the respite, we gathered our belongings ready to complete the final descent. On the contrary, the gorge started to steepen and widen again. This made it easier to find a way down, but did not heighten our hopes of the gorge ending. We scaled down waterfall after waterfall, some of which were larger than the original cascade. Deep pools with huge green silhouettes of algae tempted to lure us in, but we knew it was getting late in the evening. 

Unable to descend the gorge because it became too steep, we climbed the ravine into a thick forest.  We bush wacked awhile, and then found what looked like a wild boar path. This was better than nothing, although we had our reservations about Corsican boars. 

 A stone wall came into view and I saw an orange circle that marked all hiking trails in that area. We got out our small hiking map and found that if we followed the trail it would take us back down towards the river where we began our adventure.

With a huge sigh of relief, we relaxed as our bikes came into view. Riding back to our villa, we felt extremely accomplished, but somewhat confused. What had that dotted line on the road map symbolized?

We closely retraced our path down the mountain. It had taken us 5 hours to hike one kilometer horizontally and 800 meters vertically.  The dotted line was merely a county boundary!    


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6/19/2012

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_ A story my brother Ashton would like to share: Last Tuesday was a lucky day for me.  My family and I were planning to volunteer at Essence Naturelles Corsica, a local essential oil farm.  At 8 a.m. we headed out on our bikes; it was a bright, sunny day.  When we arrived,  our German friend Steffi greeted us with “Guten Morgan!  I am so glad to see you today.  I am on my own and need help distilling the myrtle brought in from the mountains late last night.”

          As I walked into the distillery barn, there to my surprise was a ginormous pile of myrtle leaves.  I reached over and put one to my nose; it smelled delicious.  Albrecht, the farm owner, taught me that myrtle is used to help people focus and concentrate.  Often it is dispersed in the air through a diffuser during hospice situations to ease the stress when someone is dying. 

          My family gathered the myrtle into a huge cylinder to extract the aromatic oil from the leaves.  One by one we untied the bundles and put them into the huge vat which holds two metric tons of raw plant material, approximately one English ton.  Next with pitch forks, we raked the loose leaves into piles; mine was an artisan fork made out of wood.

My dad asked me to sketch the rake design so we can make it at Quiet Creek when we come home after this sabbatical.  While sketching, I watched Steffi power up the “claw” to finish the job.  What I called the “claw” is a huge gripper used to lift herbs into the big vat.  Next we closed the distiller lid, secured the tubing, and turned on the heat.  She predicted we would collect two kilograms (4.5 pounds) of myrtle oil.  I love applying the metric system because it makes so much sense. 

Mom headed to the rose garden to gather flowers and rest of the crew stayed in the barn to sweep up for the next delivery of herbs.  Wanting to take a break, I headed over to the railing overlooking a stairwell.  These steps lead to where the essential  oil drips out during distillation.  With my camera in hand, I jumped over top of the stairwell to the other side.  This is fun, I thought to myself and then a little whisper came into my ear from God, “Don’t jump, you might fall.”

Ignoring Him, I leaped again, ducking under the railing with a one-handed clasp.  Abruptly, my grip slipped off the railing and I tumbled 3 meters downwards (about nine feet), ricocheted off  the cinderblock wall, bounced backwards on the metal stairs, and landed on the cement floor.

My scream echoed through the air and my mom instantly knew it was me.  She dropped the roses dashing to my side; my dad had already arrived.  Steffi, not familiar with children, only considered that the cat was terribly injured and ran to get her Immortelle essential oil knowing it relieves traumatic bruises on cats and humans.  My brother, Walker, saw me fall and thought-- ouch.  My shrieks turned into wails of “God told me that would happen!”

 I eventually obtained the strength to stand up, move my extremities, and show my parents my abrasions.  Mom dosed me with Steffi’s oil and later on only one spot turned greenish purple (she must have missed where I bounced on my leg).  I retrieved my camera laying under the steps, untouched by the plunge, and we all thanked God for keeping me safe.

God encouraged me to journal about this miraculous mishap.  I did so because I had learned my lesson and wanted to listen to God from now on.  He said, “Good job, Ashton.” 

         


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Climbing to Cervione

6/11/2012

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_ After our first few biking trips to Moriani Plage to purchase groceries and to volunteer at the essential oil farm, our family decided to venture elsewhere in Corsica, France.  With a map from the local tourist office, we headed to Cervione, a village situated in the mountains west of our beach villa. 

          The trail we found was paved, but shortly into the trip it turned to a rocky goat path.  The scenery was magnificent – hazelnut, kiwi, and clementine orchards grew at the base of jagged, metamorphosed basalt known-locally as schist.  A rippling brook laced with spicy watercress was a perfect respite for Ashton’s hot feet and my Dad’s and my greasy hands after repairing our bike chains. 

          As the road curved like a serpent to the left, we found a man-made stone wall depicting many shapes and shades of grey rock.  We followed the noise of bleating to a herd of sheep weighted down with winter wool.  The sheep were grazing in the lawn of an ancient ivy covered stone house surrounded by tall cork oaks.  This Quercus genus possessed long crooked branches and bare lower trunks, where the cork had been harvested for capping wine and vinegar bottles.  Within a few years, the cork would grow back ready for future vineyard fermentations. 

          As Ashton climbed and jumped from the stone platforms, my mom and dad visited with Jürgen and Gudrun, a couple staying on a sailboat at the Port de Taverna and had been hiking down the trail we were ascending.  Their English was interwoven with bits of German which was friendly and easy to understand.  With their recommendation, we continued on the trail pushing our bikes with the rising elevation to a small 12th century church called Chappelle Sta Cristina. 

Here my mother read to us Corsican history while we sketched—my dad an olive tree, my brother the variety of iron crosses on the gravestones, and me the church itself.  It was fascinating to discover how the Roman, Genoese, Pisano and French domination had influenced the people, architecture, religion, fauna, and language of this 50 by 100 mile island. 

Hunger won the battle as we moved onward and upward to Cervione, the goal of our day’s itinerary.  This town was perched on the mountain so all the streets were either slanting up or down at sixty degree angles.  We locked up our bikes and walked to the town square hosting a Baroque church of the 16th century and a few modern-day cafes. 

We chose an outdoor table and the four of us feasted on Corsican salads with smoked sausage, fresh mozzarella, cantaloupe, basil, tomatoes and lettuce.  The next course was quiche with sweet peppers, onions, prosciutto, and sheep cheese.  We consumed three baskets of chewy French bread dipped in the island’s olive oil, rosemary, and gooseberry vinegar. 

Too full to eat any more, we hiked up to an ancient castle with a fresh water spring.  Here we refilled our water bottles and infused sprigs of uncultivated mint.  As we turned around to admire the view, we saw the outline of the Tyrrhenian Sea engulfed in fog with a glimmer of sunshine sparkling on the water.  In anticipation of swimming, my brother Ashton convinced us to head to flatter ground. 

The biking and hiking were challenging, but the ride down the mountainous road was thrilling.  The wind whistled through my bike spokes and my backpack was full of wild edibles.  It turned out to be a rewarding family adventure completed with elderflower fritters for dessert. 


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Distilling Friendships and Rosewater

6/1/2012

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          At the recommendation of our cousin Max, Quiet Creek’s present-day theatre camp director, we headed into Corsica’s foothills to an essential oil farm called Essences Naturelles.  As a teenager, Max had volunteered there, picking organic kiwi and clementines. 

          My Dad ventured to this unique farm on his own meeting both Albrecht and Steffi, the farm’s owner and manager.  After Dad’s interaction, they graciously invited our whole family to a dinner party the following Friday evening. 

          With bouquet in-hand, we arrived on our rental bikes with excited anticipation.  Warmly welcomed by our hosts, we toured the essential oil garden, distillation warehouse, and laboratory.  Dad joined Steffi in the cottage garden and kitchen digging potatoes and preparing an exquisite sauce to top the pommes de terre with local cream, onions and chives.

The rest of us were entertained by Phillip, a French WWOOFer (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) who was sharing his physical strength in exchange for room and board.  Another guest, Samuel was visiting Albrecht’s daughter Bianca and was preparing for his Swiss woodworking debut in New York City.  Andrea, a chemical engineer from El Salvador, also joined us for dinner.  She had studied essential oil distillation at the farm and was now a perfumer in the infamous town of Grasse, France.

 During a poisson de Corse, a local fish dinner, we comfortably experienced four languages –English, French, German and Spanish.  Incredibly, the gathering offered a diverse, intellectual discourse on the perils of genetically-modified foods, oils of the world, distillation of fruit liquors, Chunnel transportation, and the protective tendencies of Corsican dogs.  The banquet was completed with strawberries and crème fresh while our proposal to volunteer two days a week at Essence Naturelle was enthusiastically accepted. 

As promised, we arrived Monday morning willing to do whatever was needed at the bustling business.  Steffi greeted us with baskets and buckets and mentored us on how to hand-pick roses.  With magnificent aroma surrounding us, we harvested over an acre of flower heads.  She then directed us to the distillation building used for making rosewater. 

The farm did not distill rose essential oil because five tons of petals are needed to make one kilogram of rose oil.  So instead, she weighed the harvest, poured it into a big stainless steel drum, and added five liters of water for each kilo of petals.  Then attaching tubing to the glassware, she explained the rosewater distillation method. 

“The steam from the petals,” she commented while lighting the propane burner under the barrel, “will rise up out of the glass pipe and condense into a liquid when coming in contact with cold circulating water.  This rosewater will then drip into the container below.  The distillation continues until all the rose petals have lost their delicate pink color.  The end product is used in the farm’s laboratory to perfume organic cosmetics.  The flower waste is composted and used in the herbal garden to carry on sustainably.”

Intrigued with physics and chemistry, Ashton and I easily convinced our parents to purchase the needed equipment and to offer this newly-learned technique.  Be on the lookout at Quiet Creek for the expansion of a rose garden and for upcoming distillation classes.  Definitely consider log onto www.enc.fr for the highest-quality essential oil products I have ever come across.


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    Author

    Walker Orner, son of Rusty and Claire Orner

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