Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Archives for August 2015
The Lost Forty
It was a mistake that happened a long time ago. In 1882, Josiah King and his three-man survey crew traveled forty miles from the nearest white settlement as part of the first land survey of the Northwoods area. In canvas tents with minimal rations, the team battled bleak, daunting marshes and bogs in the six square miles between Moose and Coddington Lakes. In the November wind and snow, Coddington Lake was plotted to be a half mile further northwest than it actually lies. That mistake saved The Lost Forty.
By the late 1800’s, Minnesota was one of the largest timber producing states in the country. The state’s enormous white pines were gold for the logging companies. But the stand of virgin pines that was plotted as a lake went untouched and continued to grow.
The Lost Forty is part of Chippewa National Forest. The red and white pines are 300 to 400 years old with trunk diameters of 22-48 inches and heights over 120 feet tall–a forest of giants.
White pines have corky, gray bark and soft needles in clusters of five, while red pines have stiff needles in clusters of two and scaly-looking red bark.
It’s not easy to find the Lost Forty, and you must certainly have it as a destination–it’s not a site to stop by on your way to someplace else. With maps in hand, we drove west from Ely through miles and miles of forest, occasionally going through a small town that had somehow survived. As we got closer to our destination, the landscape changed–it got scruffier, more barren, less beautiful. We were entering the peatland area. Minnesota has over six million acres of peatland–more than any other state except Alaska. These poorly drained lowlands act as a water reservoir, and they filter and store huge amounts of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere.
Once we got to the Lost Forty pine forest, it felt like we were in another world–a peaceful, ‘Ferngully’ world. We couldn’t see the tops of the towering pines, and it was dizzying looking up with awe and joy.
Imagine the extensive root systems that feed and hold up these gigantic trees…
and the thunderous crack and crash when one of the old giants falls to the forest floor.
Large amounts of standing and fallen dead plant material is part of the definition of ‘old growth forest.’ It provides habitat for plants and animals; in fact, if dead and dying plant material is removed from the forest floor, plant and animal life decreases by 20%!
Old growth forests have trees of all sizes and ages; however, the canopy is dominated by trees from 120 to over 400 years old. The trees, shrubs and plant material undergrowth are shade-tolerant–like the ghostly Indian Pipe plant that contains no chlorophyll.
Fires were part of the natural cycle of forests and have left scars on some of the old trees. Fires also prepare the seed beds for new red pines.
As the old trees fall, leaving patches of sunlight, the new seedlings take root and grow.
Finding the Lost Forty in barren north central Minnesota was a gift–especially to the Tree Man I’m married to. Perhaps it was to see what the fruits of his tree-planting labor will look like in a couple hundred years.
Sometimes things are lost by mistake or by accident. Other times we lose things because of neglect, pettiness, or vindictiveness and retaliation. What happens when we lose something important? First, there’s that uncomfortable feeling of panic. Disbelief (this can’t be happening), anger, blame, and tension blaze through our bodies and minds in our search for what is lost. Sadness and grief can slip in when we realize that we may never find what we have lost. And what if we are the ones who are lost? Did we take a wrong road, not follow our maps correctly, get confused by conflicting information, forget who we are?
Things can also be found by accident–or is it serendipity? We can find things by intention–like our trek to The Lost Forty. And then we can find things, and be found, by Grace–when no amount of panic, anger, intention, blame or grief does the trick. It is a profound Gift to find what we are seeking or to be found when we are lost. Joy comes unbidden into our hearts when the gifts of the lost are revealed.
The Wilderness Trail
In wilderness is the preservation of the world. –Henry David Thoreau
The trail to Aaron’s house for the summer veers from an old, non-traveled road. It winds through rocks and blueberry patches to a huge white pine. There, on a platform of wood is his tent, partially covered by a blue tarp. Clothes hang from a line that stretches under the tarp, a canoe paddle leans on the platform, and a couple of plastic totes house his clothes and possessions for the summer.
This is not his first summer in a tent–he has spent parts or all of six previous summers living in a canvas tent and guiding people through the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). The BWCA has over a million acres of wilderness with over 1,000 lakes and streams within Superior National Forest. This preserved wilderness was established in 1964 under the administration of the US Forest Service.
Wilderness is a relative term. Any of us who live in a house with running water and electricity would most certainly agree that Aaron lives in the wilderness. But Aaron says the true wilderness is deep in the BWCA where you can paddle for days and not see another person, a building, or a road. Where you take shelter in the tent you carry and set up, cook your packed-in food on a fire after gathering the wood, and where your companions are the wild things all around you.
Nonetheless, I believe if the trail to your house is the same trail a bear travels, that is wilderness enough for me. Earlier this summer Aaron and his friend Jake were walking back to their tents when they saw a black bear on the trail ahead of them. After looking at the two-legged creatures for a minute, he lumbered away. Aaron and Jake followed–yep, followed, to see where he was going. The trail leads to a high ridge above an open marsh area. (read about the firefly phenomenon in the marsh)
Now I say, ‘Luckily’ they saw the bear down below them in the marsh and not on the ridge. The bear did look up at them again but wandered off into the forest.
When we visited Steger Wilderness Center at the beginning of August, we didn’t see a bear, but we noticed evidence of one when we were on a morning hike. Along the trail, a large log had been rolled over a young sapling, exposing grubs and insects underneath. A little farther along the trail were two large ant hills that had the tops scraped off–bears love Thatching ant eggs and larvae. After seeing this ‘evidence’, Aaron did mention that one of the other interns had seen a black bear on this trail earlier in the week! Okay, keep your eyes peeled!
photo by LAn
Our hike that morning was mainly for two reasons–to see a remote lake where the guys go fishing and to pick wild blueberries along the way. The trail led deep into the forest and was beautiful and serene in the morning air. For some reason, the mosquitoes didn’t bother us, making the hike all the more pleasant. The conifer forest was filled with flora that we don’t normally see, even in Central Minnesota.
Wintergreen crept along the rocks. Gaultheria Procumbens produces oil of wintergreen, a flavoring for chewing gum, mints, and toothpaste. We chewed leaves to taste the minty flavor.
photo by LAn
Bunchberry (or Creeping Dogwood) is a woodland ground cover that loves cool, acidic soil. The berries are edible and rich in pectin, making them good additions to thicken puddings and jellies.
photo by LAn
Sweet fern was the most intriguing plant I saw but had no idea of what it was at the time. It’s a small, woody deciduous shrub with scalloped foliage that resembles ferns. The leaves are fragrant and can be used to make tea or as a seasoning. Sweet fern leaves can also be used to repel insects, as an infusion in water to treat poison ivy and stings, and as a lining for a container for picking berries to keep them fresh longer.
photo by LAn
Ground cedar is an evergreen perennial club moss that has been used for Christmas decorations.
photo by LAn
Along with these interesting plants and many types of moss, we trekked by patches and patches of blueberries. At first, we didn’t see any blueberries on the tiny bushes, and I blamed that bear who had left his mark at the beginning of the trail! Finally we came to a large patch that was loaded with berries, so we filled our containers with the small, delicious fruit.
photo by LAn
photo by LAn
After more than an hour of slowly making our way through the woods, we arrived at the lake. Overlooking this beautiful lake was a one-room log cabin, and I hastily exclaimed that I would live there! We sat on the rock outcropping for a few minutes, taking in the peace and exquisite beauty of this wilderness paradise.
photo by LAn
Aaron is a summer intern at the Steger Wilderness Center. The older Homestead is the hub of activity where the interns gather from their tent outposts. An old lodge houses the kitchen, library, and office space powered only by solar. Dishes are washed like the interns’ grandparents or great-grandparents did it, since there is no running water. Food is stored in an ice house and cooked on a gas stove. The ice house is a large cellar built into the hill. Behind three thick, wooden doors is a room filled with huge ice chunks gathered from the lake in February and covered with saw dust to insulate. An adjacent room is where the food is stored at a very refrigerator-respectful 42 degrees F.
Twice a week, the sod-roofed log cabin sauna is fired up for the hard-working interns, stone mason apprentices, and others who want to heat up before jumping into the lake.
The center of attraction at the Steger Wilderness Center is the amazing building that Will Steger envisioned and sketched on his trans-Antarctic expedition. It’s situated high on a hill overlooking the lake, the Homestead, and the surrounding forest. It is a work in progress as materials, labor, and money is made available. It is truly a labor of vision and love.
In the words of Will Steger: My mission for the Center is to make a lasting positive impact for the future by bringing small groups of leaders, educators, and policy makers seeking to re-imagine solutions to the world’s most intractable problems. It is designed to activate our understanding of what it means to be interdependent—with each other, with our earth and as a society—to inspire clarity and break-through innovation that sparks the synergy, inspiration and fresh thinking essential to developing innovative and workable approaches to protecting our planet and creating a better world.
But why the Wilderness? Couldn’t all of this be done at a more populated, ‘civilized’ place that is more convenient to get to, more conventional? The answer to that question is revealed when a person spends time in the wilderness. And it’s hard to explain, yet you know it when you experience it.
All three of our children have lived for at least two summers of their lives in wilderness areas. Our oldest daughter Emily, like Aaron, lived near and guided people through the BWCA. She lived in a very small community of people where it was essential to work together and problem solve. She also spent quite a bit of her time alone and became self-aware that if anything happened, there was nobody else there to help. (She had one summer of a frequently visiting bear also.) She discovered a peace in the wilderness, a feeling of unity, and a strong knowing of her place in the world. Aaron believes the wilderness has grown his confidence in his abilities and has shown him that mental limitations, not physical limitations hold people back most often. He also mentioned how the wilderness has helped him maintain a larger perspective on life, while focusing on the simple, yet important things–food, water, shelter, and more.
The challenge of the Wilderness-minded people–the ones who know first hand what interdependence with our earth means on a daily basis–is to carry that feeling, that knowledge, that wisdom to the larger population. In essence, it is to straddle both worlds. My kids do that in small ways every day of their lives, and Will Steger does that in a big way with his mission and legacy of the Steger Wilderness Center and Climate Generation. Each of us has a wilderness place in our lives–perhaps it’s Central Park in New York City or a neighborhood creek in Missouri or a favorite camping place in South Dakota. Allow that wilderness place to challenge you and lead you on a trail to self-awareness, a world-wide perspective (we’re all in this together), and a sense of unity and peace within yourself.
Living on the Water–Part II
We left the beautiful waters of Lake Superior and traveled ‘inland’ through Superior National Forest to our destination–the Steger Wilderness Center outside of Ely, Minnesota. The washboarded and potholed gravel road of six miles seemed much longer than that, but finally we turned into the fire number-marked driveway. After another mile or so of forest-lined trail, we rounded a corner and spotted the smiling face of Aaron Brake, at the Homestead. Even though our youngest will soon be twenty-three and it had only been a little over two months since we watched him drive away, my heart beat with joy when I saw him. (A mother’s heart for her beloveds.) Aaron introduced us to Will as he walked down the hill to his next destination. I have to admit, I was a bit star-struck by the meeting and greeting of this man. While I was raising babies in the late 80’s, early 90’s, Will Steger was leading teams of explorers by dogsled to the North Pole, across Greenland, and in the epic 7-month, 3,741-mile traverse of Antarctica! It puts nighttime feedings and endless diaper changes in clear perspective. And now, in this remote wilderness, he is leading a team of young interns, apprentices, volunteers and guests in an even bigger quest–to inspire solutions to the issues of climate change that are now affecting everyone on the planet and to be a living, working example of ecological stewardship.
Aaron led us to our accommodations for the next three nights and days–a boat house on the lake–we would literally be living on the water!
That night as I lay in the comfy bed cove of the cabin with a full moon shining through the many windows, I heard rain and wind marching across the lake in another squall, like the ones we had driven through all day. The boat house rocked ever-so-gently in the wind as waves lapped against the floats. I was amazed at how steady it was. What a place this is, I thought, as sleep finally overcame me.
The next morning, I discovered we were sharing our living on the lake with a couple (hundred) creatures. As the sunrise painted the sky and water pink, we heard the eerie, echoing call of a Common Loon.
He swam slowly past the boat house, singing the song of northern Minnesota. (If you are unfamiliar with the song of the loon, click here.)
Our other lake dwellers shared the boat house with us. On the outside of a window was a triangular web, an egg sac, a huge mama spider and hundreds of babies! The Nursery Web Spider resembles a Wolf Spider in size and color. Wolf Spiders carry their newly hatched spiderlings on their abdomen, while the Nursery Web Spider builds a nursery tent web, puts her egg sac into it, and stands guard over the nest and hatchlings until they are old enough to disperse.
Nursery Web Spiders live and hunt on the water! They can walk on the surface of still water and will dive to catch their prey. The females ferociously guard their nests–they can jump 5-6 inches and will bite an invader.
The water in the lake was clear but dark in color, probably due to the mineral content of the rocks and soil. In late afternoon, the shore water glowed an amber color, like fire dancing beneath the surface.
That evening, the blue moon–the second full moon of the month–rose over the trees. The lake reflected a stream of white light.
In the early morning hours of our last night at the Wilderness Center, Lightning presented a dramatic show, accompanied by Thunder and Rain. As I lay awake watching the flashes and hearing the pelting of the drops against the windows, I realized that living on the water makes one feel like an integral part of Nature.
Chris shook me awake a few hours later to witness a rainbow of the sunrise.
And like everything else, the colors of the rainbow were mirrored back by the water.
The lake was calm and still after the stormy night, quietly reflecting the world around it.
The abstract reflections encouraged a closer look at reality on shore.
Living on the water in this remote northern wilderness, even for a few days, changes the way one sees the world. The water tells the stories of the shore, of the sky, of the creatures and humans who reside there. Reflections–mirror images to our sight, echos to our ears, and contemplations for our minds and souls. Are we brave enough to really see the belovedness of this Earth we call Home? Are we strong enough to listen and look closely at our own roles and responsibilities? Do we have the courage to stand guard over that which we love and hold dear and for that which sustains us? Whether your journey in life is by dog sled across the Arctic or by walking through parenthood, listen closely to the steady Song of Mother Nature. She will tell you what you need to do.
Living on the Water–Part I
Standing on the high rocky cliff overlooking the Lake, it was easy to imagine how a huge November storm in 1905 sank or damaged twenty-nine ships and killed thirty-six seamen on Lake Superior.
That disastrous storm was the impetus for the building of Split Rock Light Station by the federal government on the North Shore. It went into service in 1910 and served the freighters carrying iron ore mined from northern Minnesota and shipped from the ports of Two Harbors and Duluth/Superior. Three identical lighthouse keeper homes were constructed at the same time, along with barns, oil house, and fog signal building that contained a gas engine-powered fog horn that was used when visibility was poor due to fog, smoke, or snow. During the first twenty years, the station could only be reached by boat, so the keepers and their families would stay during the shipping season and leave for the winter months. After the construction of the North Shore Highway, the keepers and their families could live there year-round, and the Split Rock Light Station became a popular tourist attraction. The Lighthouse remained in operation until 1969 when navigational equipment made it obsolete. It is now a National Historic Landmark.
Lake Superior is the largest of the Great Lakes and the largest freshwater lake in the world by surface area. It was an ocean to my midwestern eyes. The horizon of unending water was unforgiving in its flatness, and with my amateur photography skills, I realized too late that I tilted every water horizon. But tilt or no tilt, the Lake was magnificent in its immenseness. A rain squall that had detained us in our car when we arrived, had moved out over the Lake. The sky and water danced with light and wind.
Living on the water in this remote location was tough for the three keepers and their families. Supplies that came by boat were carried up the cliff with a hoist and derrick system until a storm destroyed the hoist engine six years after it was built. A tramway rail and stairway were then constructed from a dock and boathouse on the Lake to the top of the hill and was used until 1934 when supplies could be trucked in by roadways. Storms destroyed the dock and boathouse in 1939 and 1959, respectively. (The tramway ran just left of the stairs.)
The Lighthouse was lit from sunset to sunrise every night during the nine month shipping season for nearly sixty years. The keepers would rotate four-hour shifts in the night in addition to working during the day. They had to be skilled at repairing and operating the equipment along with bookkeeping and administrative duties.
Living on the water in this treacherous rocky shoreline and lighting the dark waters of Superior for a range of twenty-two miles provided a lifeline for the many freighters who moved the ore. Who knows how many lives were saved thanks to the Lighthouse keepers?
There are times in our lives when Storms sink our dreams and destroy our resolve. We feel powerless and small in the face of the hugeness of a task or an obstacle that looms as large as an ocean in our mind. We wonder if anyone even notices us…
But then we remember that the Lighthouse is lit every night–every single night–storm or no storm. It is the Light that chases away the darkness, reflects off the water, gives us resilience, allows us to be seen, and keeps us moving in the right direction. And as the days and nights of many years pass through us, we realize that we–each one of us–are the Keepers of the Light and beacons for one another.
