First, the weather…
It’s like Mother Nature flipped a switch Thursday night. Our temperature dropped from the 70s to the 40s in less than 12 hours. We ran the A/C on Thursday and the heat on Friday. Hasn’t been above the mid-50s since, and that trend looks to hold through at least the next 10 days.
Fall is here. Hallelujah.
To celebrate, I drove 90 minutes to Natural Bridge State Park in Sauk County on Friday afternoon. The park features a sandstone arch and a rock shelter once used by Paleo-Indians. Discovered in 1957, it was formed during the last Ice Age and dates back roughly 11,000 years, making it the oldest documented site of human occupation in the upper Midwest. It’s even listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
Other than me forgetting my camera at home like a dumbass (I brought the case, though–go, me!), I had a great time exploring the park. Ended up hiking about 2.5 miles and enjoying the fall foliage. It’ll be another week or two before it’s at its peak, but it was still pretty scenic. With the cool, crisp weather and a few stray raindrops, it was perfect hiking weather.
Afterward, because Ski-Hi Fruit Farm in Baraboo was a mere 10 minutes away, I decided to grab some apples. ‘Tis the season.
‘Tis also the season for apple cider donuts.
I’m glad I got to do something fun on Friday, because Saturday, Tara and I had a big project lined up. Knowing we’d be dressed head to toe in long pants, long sleeves, and heavy gloves, we’d been waiting for cooler weather to tackle the overgrown poison ivy-filled bed running the length of one side of the house. Tempting as it would have been to skip the dreaded task, I just wanted to get the whole thing over with.
Not gonna lie, I was a bit nervous, especially after my rash from hell earlier this spring. The garden bed was at least 50% poison ivy, and willingly inserting ourselves into the midst of it seemed pure madness. But I was determined to dig it all out, roots and all, and that required getting up close and personal with the devil weed. I suppose we could have hired someone or used Roundup instead, but I’m the quintessential stubborn Taurus.
“We can do it ourselves, babe!” I said. “We just have to dress properly!”
Dressing properly meant socks rolled up over the cuffs, heavy-duty garden gloves on top of snug latex gloves, hat, eye protection, and looking like a dork. I didn’t care, though; I was ready to make that poison ivy my bitch. (A mask is also recommended. I tried that, but my glasses immediately fogged up. We took our chances without.)
At first I was super tentative, giving the ivy a wide berth and digging it up gently. But there was so much of it, growing so thickly, the only way to get it all was to jump right in. So, I did. WE did. This was a Team MarTar effort through and through. Before long we found ourselves surrounded by it, hacking it up, pulling it out by the roots.
It took about three hours, but damn if we didn’t get it all…
Everything was collected in yard debris bags which we then placed inside black trash bags. Six in all. It can’t be burned, composted, or sent to a recycling facility, so we’ll have to add it to our trash. It’ll probably take a few weeks to dispose of it all, and we’ll have to take precautions handling the bags.
After we were finished, we had to very carefully strip out of our clothes, throw them in the washer, and shower off. I threw my shoes away. All the garden tools will have to be washed and then treated with rubbing alcohol.
Best of all? Tara and I seem to have completely dodged any rash. When I got it last time, I started itching pretty quickly. I knew this could be done if we were extremely careful. My mom was worried about us tackling this project ourselves–moms gotta mom, don’tcha know–but I told her I would never attempt this unless I was convinced we could pull it off.
Or pull it out, as the case may be.
There’s plenty more poison ivy around the property, but this was by far the biggest concentration. I’m much less worried about the other areas; most of those I should be able to dig up fairly easily without having to dress like a dork.
Now that it’s done? That’s one helluva sense of accomplishment.
Mark My Words 
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