Bit and brace in hand, I set out to commence the process of burning off, as we call the spring tradition of making maple syrup. A twig of maple is gripped between my teeth, just like my dad used to as he set out to tap the trees. Late February hints of the vernal awakening, the sun rising higher each day, warming the tops of the maples on my property in rural Maine. It drops to 20 degrees at night, rising to 40 degrees during the day, a cycle that stimulates the flow of sap up to the terminal branches.

With a couple spigots tapped into the tree about 4 feet off the ground, I am able to catch a bit of this near sweet life juice on its way up the tree in the morning, and then again as it flows back into the roots while the sun sinks below the horizon. Recalling that first sip of maple sap, as my lips catch the first drop, I continue the tradition I began when I could barely reach the tap.

When the sun smiles warm, the big old producers, centenarians if they’re a day, will fill the repurposed one gallon milk jugs twice. In a good year I can get out 70 taps over 35 or so maple trees. Statistics and yearly totals are kept in the same journal my dad started in the 20th decade of the American republic. Fresh from a tour in Vietnam, he tapped the maple trees bordering his apartment along Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, using a ladder for each tap to prevent tampering.

Unlike most maple sugar producers, I’ll happily tap a Norway, red and silver as well as the preferred acer saccharum, or sugar maple. The five gallon jug slung over my shoulder weighs about 45 pounds. Over 20 acres the trees are scattered, and multiple trips are needed to bring the sap to my 50 gallon holding barrels. This particular season I (and friends) carried just more than 5,000 pounds of sap to the rusty old homemade stove off with which I burn.

Dead pine is my fuel of choice. It burns hot and fast, and I feed the beast as frequently as necessary, 20 minutes between loads. The hotter the fire, the more efficient and steady the evaporation. Early in the season 39 gallons of water have to evaporate off 40 gallons of sap to make a gallon of maple syrup. A face full of the delicately sweet steam, hands blackened with ash, the checked wool coat sticky with sugar, these I savor as I listen in the evening to the mourning dove.