Sweet Sap, Strong Roots

A reflection on land, patience, and the deep-rooted tradition of tapping maples.

This year, as we tap our maple trees, the anticipation is more than just excitement for spring. It runs deeper than our gratitude for the land. There is an unwavering sense of connection—to history, to tradition, and the quiet resilience of our Canadian roots.

When we moved to our rural farm a few years ago, we arrived eager to learn the land. We wanted to harness what was already here, preserve the forests and natural habitats, add a sprawling organic garden, and learn the delicate balance between what we take and what we give back. I wouldn’t call our farm a homestead just yet—homesteading, to me, involves livestock, and we haven’t made that leap. (We collect farm fresh eggs from our neighbours every week and “babysit” their chickens occasionally…so basically, we feel like farmers. LOL.) But each year, we take on more. As our knowledge grows, so do our skills, our patience, and our respect for the land we have the privilege to care for.

During our first winter here, we dove deep into the art of maple syrup production—reading, watching, and listening. We studied both the old ways and the new. I was drawn to the traditional metal buckets hanging from the trees rather than the plastic tubing, which is probably more efficient. We were newcomers, eager and wide-eyed. (I am sure the locals had a chuckle when we expressed our excitement.) When the time came, we tapped our first trees, listening for the metallic ping of sap landing in our buckets. We scoured thrift stores for sturdy boiling pots, built a fire in the crisp March air, and watched in quiet awe as the sap transformed over the flames. We learned to keep the fire hot, to be patient, and to wait as the liquid gold thickened and darkened. When the time was right, we filtered it with my now-grown baby's soft cotton cloths and brought it indoors. The final stage required careful attention and a candy thermometer, waiting for the exact moment when sap became syrup.

Each year, we get a little bit better, and the maple syrup tastes more refined. Every season, friends and family join us for the special boil days. They are long days filled with conversation, laughter, and—hopefully—more sun than cold. We don’t have a sugar shack just yet, but that hasn’t dulled the magic. If anything, it has deepened our appreciation for the slow, deliberate way this tradition has been carried through generations. This year, for many reasons, that pride feels even stronger.

Maybe it’s the way the land continues to provide for us, the way these traditions are woven into our history, or how it has grown more politically significant.

But most importantly, it’s a quiet reminder that Canada’s roots run deep—like the maples we tap, steady and strong.

There is something undeniably Canadian about gathering around a fire, the scent of woodsmoke curling into the cold air, sometimes with a beer in hand, and laughter mingling with the steam rising from the boiling sap. There is comfort in standing with those you love while honouring those who came before us and those who will carry on after us.

Maple syrup season is a season of patience—of trusting the process, of waiting for cool nights and warm days to work their magic. It is the whisper of spring, the slow thaw, the gentle awakening of the earth after a long slumber. Living here, in rhythm with the land, I have learned to feel the seasons more deeply—to sit with the weight of winter, to listen for the first soft drip of sap into an empty bucket, to know that we get to begin again.

Another season passes, another reminder that we are lucky to call this place home.

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