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Chasing Winter

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I was getting a little impatient. Was it because of the left-over drought? Was it climate change? Roll of the dice? We had had so very little snow along with warm temps up to December. It was out of the ordinary. So we went chasing Winter. We booked a camper cabin up north at Bear Head Lake State Park west of Ely for the following weekend. I had watched the weather radar sweeping across the ‘arrowhead,’ so I figured they had snow on the ground. The Ely forecast for the weekend changed every day—some snow, no snow, a foot of snow?!

On our departure day, we awoke to a dusting of snow with fog hanging low to the ground. With temperatures heading north of freezing for the day here at home, we headed north in search of Winter. Bear Head Lake State Park encompasses over four thousand acres, and only a small portion of that is available by road or even trail. As we drove farther into the park, the road became snow-covered, and deer sauntered by us.

There was an envelope taped to the door of the Park Office with ‘Welcome, Brakes’ written on the front of it and a key and ‘list of rules’ tucked inside it. The ranger drove by as we were looking at the map, and she warned us of the snow forecast for Sunday, saying she would refund our second night if we wanted to leave before the storm….

We unpacked our things in the cozy little log cabin named White Pine, then walked the short distance (thank goodness) to the outhouse. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, but the sun was so low in the sky that the shadows stretched out like it was sundown. It is the time of year in the north when the sun rises, peaks, and sets in the south, a strange anomaly for our circadian brains. We began our hike in the empty campground and followed Beach Trail to Bear Head Lake.

Wild Blueberry shrubs (red leaves) and Ferns (brown leaves)

The lake was still low from Summer’s drought; we walked out on the ice for a ways, but with the snow cover, we had no idea how thick the ice was at any given place.

The park boasts an ‘up North, Boundary Waters feel,’ and even though we had not experienced the Boundary Waters in the Winter, the solitude of our December camping amongst the Pines and lakes felt like we were in the wilderness. The old growth Pine trees had been too small for logging in the late 1800s and now stood like giants along the beach and Norberg Lake trail. And just like all the past centuries, young seedlings continued to grow to become future giants for future generations to stand under in amazement.

Tiny, tree-like, evergreen Club Mosses of different kinds pushed up through the snow, a testament to the life that flows through Winter.

The beach area of the park was spectacular! A small portion of Bear Head Lake was visible, and an invitation to explore ‘beyond the bend’ was compelling. It was a place to love and appreciate, a place that puts our own (small) lives in realistic perspective to the amazing world of Mother Nature.

Nestled in the trees was a beautiful trail center constructed with large open beams. It was warm and available for restrooms and rest. A large wood-burning stove, tables and chairs, puzzles and games, and a small kitchen area invited us to stay for awhile, but we were aware that the sun was low in the sky and we still needed to hike back to our cabin.

The rest of the hike back was in the twilight of dusk through the giant Pines. It was so peaceful, like we were walking through a different era.

Back at the cabin, Chris brushed the snow from the picnic table to heat up our soup on the Coleman stove. Emily and I walked down a short trail to the North Bay of Bear Head Lake to see the final rays of light over the Pine horizon. Our day of chasing Winter had culminated in the rich gift of a quiet, peaceful, and solitary hike in the wilds of Northern Minnesota.

Our first after-dark trek to the outhouse was under a dark sky full of bright stars. In our light-soaked lifestyle, we forget how dark the dark can be and how brilliant the multitude of stars. The temperature was falling into the teens for the night with a stiff breeze. Later Emily and I walked around the campground circles, our headlamps beaming onto the reflective snow. By that time, the stars were gone—clouds had moved in on the stiff breeze, and we were reminded of the storm forecast.

Chasing Winter had brought us to this warm, cozy cabin in the Northwoods. We had only seen the ranger and one other vehicle—the huge park virtually belonged to us and the critters. Why do we ‘chase’ things? Chasing dreams, chasing butterflies or fireflies, chasing boys, chasing rainbows, chasing wealth. What fuels those desires? Chasing implies the process of going after something—it does not in one way or the other indicate whether we attain the desired. So perhaps the pursuit is the raison d’etre—the reason for our existence.

By late morning on Saturday, we had to decide whether to weather the storm—the forecast calling for seven to thirteen inches of snow on Sunday—or to leave early. The tables had turned—Winter was chasing us. We thought of the Winter wonderland that would sparkle outside our cabin door, of when the roads would get plowed, of whether we would have to spend an additional night. We had enough food and water….but in the end, we decided to cut our Northwoods visit short.

In the last week, here at home, it has snowed three times—the ground is delightfully light with snow, the trees decorated and frosted in Winter apparel. Is it Nature’s rhythm—the chaser and the chased? We chase after those things we desire, but perhaps our desires are also pursuing us.

Winter Nesting

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It’s a thing, you know—nesting. It usually refers to when a woman is beautifully curved and round in late pregnancy—when she has a natural instinct or urge to prepare her home for the impending arrival of the baby. It may manifest as cleaning, arranging, organizing, or buying furniture and clothes. It is a way to practically and mentally prepare for the birth of a child. It helps a woman feel in control of her environment, to prepare a place that feels safe and secure for her and her baby. Most animals do a similar ritual of preparation for their offspring by building nests or dens in protected places. This flurry of activity is usually done in Spring….but let’s think about nesting in another way….

We returned to Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. I was hoping to see a lake full of waterfowl preparing for their long migration. The Platte River was beginning to ice over, the River and ice formations curving between and around the banks of golden slough and prairie grasses.

Under the ice and under the mud in the River are turtles and frogs hunkered down and protected from the cold Winter weather. Safe and secure.

Old logs and thick, coarse slough grasses provide cover and a place to make a cozy, cold-weather nest for small mammals and birds.

High in the branches of a deciduous tree, bare of leaves, was a pouch-like nest of an Oriole. It is a structural phenomenon! The female begins her nest-building with support strands placed around branches—this industrious weaver found some purple twine that worked well for her hanging nest. She gathers long, strong fibers from plants like swamp milkweed for the outer bowl, then uses her beak almost like an awl to thrust and pull the grasses and fibers to finish the weaving process. The nest is lined with soft fluff from Cottonwood trees in order to cradle up to seven eggs. The process takes resources, patience, finesse, and one to two weeks of time.

We saw no waterfowl—no ducks, geese, or swans. Where were they? Had they already flown south? It had been so warm, and I hadn’t seen large flocks flying overhead. What we did see were eagles—three or four of them flew over Platte River and Rice Lake, following us on our trail, it seemed.

A hole formed from a burned out part of a tree, with leaves and fluffy Cattail seeds, could make a warm, protected nest for some little creature.

The Eagle’s nest is another engineering wonder, a dark structure of sticks highlighted by the white Poplar bark branches that hold it.

‘Nesting’ comes from the ritual of nest-building in preparation for the raising of offspring. I propose that nesting happens at other times of the year also. Preparation for Winter produces similar activity—finding and making ‘nests’ to protect creatures from the harsh elements of cold and snow. It is done for safety and protection. As humans, we do Autumn rituals to protect our plants, our equipment, and our animals from cold and snow. We gather wood if we have wood-burning fireplaces, we cover tree roots with mulch and perennials with leaves, we may put straw bales around barns or sheds, and disconnect mower batteries. We may move furniture away from drafty windows, get out the afghans and slippers, buy hot chocolate and herbal tea, and light candles. We gather and decorate for Thanksgiving and Christmas and prepare warm food and baked goods. We are practically and mentally preparing for Winter, for cold temperatures, and for darkness. It is cozy; it is hygge; it is safety and security. May the light shine down on our nests in this season of darkness.

Flour and Ice Water (+ Butter = Pie)

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What do the largest flour mill on the banks of the Mississippi River, Grasshopper Chapel in Cold Spring, MN, and a state forest have in common? John Pillsbury. Pillsbury was co-founder, along with his nephew Charles, of the Pillsbury Company, which boasted the largest flour mill in the world in the early 1900’s. John Pillsbury was also the 8th governor of Minnesota (1876-1882). After years of a devastating grasshopper plague that destroyed hundreds of thousands of acres of wheat, oats, barley, and corn, Governor Pillsbury called for a day of prayer on April 26, 1877 to help end the plague. A subsequent sleet and snow storm killed many of the grasshopper eggs, which brought an end to the plague in the coming months. The little chapel in Cold Spring that was close to our previous home, was built in honor of the ‘miracle’ and nicknamed Grasshopper Chapel. Then in 1900, Minnesota’s first state forest was established when Governor Pillsbury donated 1,000 acres to the state. It is known as Pillsbury State Forest, has over 25,000 acres now, was the first state tree nursery, has managed timber harvesting, reforestation, and recreational development. It has 27 miles of trails for horseback riding, hiking, biking, and snowmobiling.

Last weekend Chris and I traveled up the west side of the Mississippi River to Pillsbury State Forest. The snow that we had had at home was mostly melted, but as we got closer to Pillsbury, there was more snow on the ground. We bundled up for a small hike around the Rock Lake campground. The Lake was ‘building’ ice but still had areas of open water.

Trumpeter Swans were lying on the ice, their heads and necks folded into their feathers to protect their sleeping bodies from the chilly wind.

Autumn meets Winter when the beautiful rusty-brown Oak leaves floating on the water get captured by the forming ice.

The campground is small, first come, first served, and has 18 campsites along the shore of Rock Lake under a stand of Pines.

The forest ground is large and interspersed with private land. We drove from the campground to a day-use area for canoeing and horseback riding. We were slowed to a stop by Wild Turkeys crossing the road. They had a gathering place on the sunny south side of some big round bales, and a few were crossing the road to the farm place on the other side. They seemed quite confident of their place in this forest.

We traveled by road to another trail called Section 27 Road and ski trail. The trail was an old logging road that cut into the forest. We wondered if the whole area had been Pines at one time. Now it was mostly Aspen, Birch, and some older Oaks. The ‘ski’ trail continued when the logging road came to an end, and it became apparent that the trail had not been maintained for quite a few years. Fallen logs crossed the trail, making skiing pretty much impossible unless there was feet of snow.

At this time of year, the sun stays low in the southern sky on its dawn-to-dusk trajectory, so there are always shadows that stretch out from the trees and from the smallest weeds. The Oak leaves make a pretty pattern on the snow, and the tracks of all the animals can be ‘read’ by passersby.

John Pillsbury made a huge impact on Minnesota with his businesses, his philanthropy to the state and to the University of Minnesota, and his political career. The state forest that bears his name offers a great place for recreation, especially the many miles of horseback riding trails. This transition time as we slip from late Fall into Winter brings a change that is difficult for some people. The very short days, the often cloudy skies, and the cold temperatures create a ‘hibernating’ quality that is accompanied by low energy and sometimes depression. I combat that with actually getting out into the cold—when one is dressed appropriately, it can be invigorating and calming at the same time—something that Nature is good at! It’s a time to pray for the end of the pandemic, to ‘build’ on our relationships, to be kind to ourselves, and to make plans for next Spring and Summer. It’s also a good time to sit by a southern-facing window, soak up some warm sun, and eat a yummy Pillsbury baked good. Enjoy!

Flirting with Winter and Warriors

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I wanted to embody the archetype of the Warrior. In June, I attended a retreat/workshop hosted by friends of mine and created and facilitated by Dr. Chelsea Wakefield. By examining feminine archetypes, we were learning to live a life of self-awareness, peace, and connection. I was very familiar with the Mother archetype but didn’t think I was warrior-like in any way. All weekend, I yearned to become more of a Warrior. My idea of what it meant to be a Warrior was formed by the cultural/masculine idea—bold, strong, invincible, forceful—which was the opposite of how I felt.

I had passed by the small tree hundreds of times without recognizing it. It was camouflaged in the woods with other deciduous and evergreen trees. But as everyone else lost their leaves, the brilliance of the little tree caught my attention, and I excitedly examined its branches to confirm my notion. “It is a Wahoo!” I exclaimed to Chris. Eastern Wahoos are captivating trees to me—they are small, unique, ethereal, beautiful, and tough. Dakota Indians gave them the name Wahoo which literally means ‘arrow wood.’ The ‘warrior spirit’ of Euonymus atropurpureus was believed to keep enemies out when planted around encampments.

The corky, winged branches identify the Wahoo as belonging to the Genus Euonymus, the same Genus as the invasive shrub species ‘alatus’ commonly called Burning Bush.

Chris has been growing Wahoo seedlings for a number of years now. Their Fall color is spectacular along with the showy, heart-shaped seedpods that burst open to display red seeds. The leaves fade to yellowish-pinkish-white.

On my Fall-flirting-with-Winter walk, Crabapples hung from the bare branches gathering snow, and a yellow Maple leaf tried to remain sunny.

A green-as-Summer Fern leaf and the prickly stems and lime green leaves of a Gooseberry shrub wore their snow coats with courage.

Wild Ginger leaves, one of the first to show in early Spring, had laid down to hug the Earth in late Fall. Then snow blanketed them.

On our walks, Chris and I had been eyeing a Jimsonweed plant growing in the ditch, wondering where it came from, thinking we should ‘get rid of it.’ It is an unusual plant with pretty, trumpet-shaped flowers and burr-like seedpods. It is a member of the Nightshade family, has been used to treat various ailments in traditional medicine, and the plant is highly poisonous. Good and bad all in one.

How many times have we walked past the ‘warrior spirit’ without recognizing it? How many times have we gotten the meaning of what it means to be a Warrior wrong? The beautiful Wahoo was a literal boundary and defender of Native encampments. Do not underestimate the power of the ‘warrior spirit.’ My idea of a Warrior was modified after the retreat weekend. At the closing, I had come to realize that I was much more of a Warrior than I realized! As a child, I had navigated a family tragedy before there were grief counselors; I had birthed and raised three children (which takes a good dose of Warrior along with the nurturing Mother); I had been a graduate student (as a mother of three) in departments that were predominantly male; and I have walked the woods all my life, then learned to make a website and write a blog. I am bold and strong in my own way! Each of us has the Warrior in us, but there is danger when it is wielded without wisdom and training. It is good and bad all in one. Useful and poisonous. That is true of all the archetypes, and therein lies our work. The most important work is recognizing what is happening within ourselves. We need to have courage, and we need to learn when to lay down our weapons. Another common name for the ‘warrior spirit’ Wahoo tree is ‘hearts bursting with love.’ That’s a good way to be a Warrior.

Distilling Down to Brown

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If we were to distill down life into one color, what would it be? I mean literally distill down every cell of every being. No matter what color we and the trees are to begin with, I think all living beings become brown.

Brown is my second favorite color. Of course my favorite color is azure blue of a clear sky day along with most other blue hues. But brown is a close second. Most people wonder how ‘brown’ of all colors could be a favorite, and I don’t really know—it just is. It feels natural and warm and comfortable. Brown is the color of the Earth—perhaps that’s why it feels so grounding and good. It’s also the star color of late Autumn.

Apparently in color mixing terms, brown is a combination of red, yellow, and black and is described in categories of reddish-brown, yellowish-brown, or gray-brown. But there are more descriptive names for shades of brown: smokey topaz, burnt umber, russet, desert sand, chestnut, and taupe. (My favorite descriptive brown—taupe represents the average color of fur of the French mole—who knew?!)

Autumn is the transition time between the vibrant productivity of Summer and the slow-moving dormancy of Winter. Those of us who have journeyed into the Autumn of our lives know that we have already lived longer than we will yet live. Our vibrant productivity has waned, and we can embrace the brown-ness of our lives. (I mean that in a good way.) There is something stabilizing in that realization and acceptance.

There is a richness in brown-ness, a richness in having the high productivity years of child-rearing and striving and accumulating behind us. We are no longer moving at the speed of multiple school activities. Striving has morphed into a steady maintenance and kindness for self. And we tend to want to pare down on possessions, to lighten our load. Our growth and vigor have produced rich, brown seeds.

In Autumn, we can look at ourselves and appreciate the many varied colors of our being. We are so much more than we thought! Age has a way of revealing those gifts.

So we can discern Sumac brown…

from Ash seed brown…

from Pine needle and Pine cone browns…

from Pine bark brown…

from multi-stemmed Caragana brown…

from Oak and Poplar leaf brown…

from Hazelnut brown.

Autumn is the time of life when extraneous activities, possessions, and thoughts are distilled down, pared down, settled down. The most important aspects of life are extracted. It allows a person to see more clearly, for there is a long history of hindsight. The experiences of Spring and Summer have borne fruit and seeds in order for the cycle of life to continue. It’s not the end, however; never fear—distilling produces the ‘good stuff!’ Things become more pure, whole, and stable. Settle into the brown-ness. Settle into the warmth and richness. Settle into the goodness.

From the Inside Out

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I have a scar on my thumb and one on my hand where glass chards from a kitchen door window slashed through my skin. As a kid running home after getting off the bus to see who’s first in the house, it wasn’t the blood that was most unsettling—it was who was going to be in trouble when Mom and Dad found out about it. I have a few other ‘story’ scars—when a rock hit my shin when I was mowing and ended that chore for the day and one wide, repeated scar from three c-sections, all with their own ‘war story’ but with three beautiful children as the result.

I have been thinking about wounds and scars and healing since that is what we’ve been dealing with in our household the last couple of weeks after Chris had surgery. A simple wound, one without extensive tissue damage or infection, takes four to six weeks to heal, with scar tissue formation taking much longer. Our bodies are amazing healing organisms! First step, stop the bleeding and keep the germs out! (Of course with this surgery, the medical professionals inflict the wound and begin the healing process by stitching, stapling, or gluing the wound shut with all safety protocols in place.) Second step, immune cells begin to clean up the damage, waste, and any harmful bacteria from the wound. Third step, create new tissue—skin, blood vessels, new collagen frameworks, etc. to repair and mend the damage. And more long term, the fourth step, remodel the temporary tissue formed at the outset with stronger skin tissue and scar formation. Whew! Our bodies do a lot of work to heal—work that takes extra energy and building blocks (amino acids, minerals, cholesterol, etc.) beyond the process of normal, daily metabolism and renewal of cells. And one of the most important aspects of healing is rest. Our autonomic nervous system with its two branches—the sympathetic fight, flight, or freeze and the parasympathetic rest and digest—determine what is happening in our bodies on a cellular basis. The parasympathetic system is also called the rest and repair system—in order to digest our food properly and repair our bodies, we need to be in rest mode. It allows our bodies to do the ‘work’ of repair.

All of that makes me think of Autumn—the prelude to Winter. Autumn is a time when the trees and plants slip into rest mode. No more energy-intensive photosynthesis, no busy, nutrient-grabbing flower and fruit production, and no new growth that requires abundant energy and nutrients just for that. The leaves stop their work and fall to the ground. The already-formed seeds disperse on wind or water or via an animal, who nourishes its body with the fruit or seed and discards potential new seedlings. It is a time to purge in the best of ways, to gather what nourishes for future needs, and move into rest and repair.

All healing happens from the inside out with the help of outside influences—an excellent surgeon and medical team, antibiotic drugs to prevent infection, pain management to allow for comfort and rest, wholesome, nutritious food for needed building blocks for repair, walking for blood circulation and strength, and sleep and rest when our cells can kick into high gear to repair and restore. Healing—the process of making or becoming sound, whole, or healthy again. I want to reiterate the profound amazingness of our bodies’ ability to heal—how responsive the healing mechanism is, how many systems work together to initiate and carry out ‘the work’ of healing, and how the goal of the systems and spirit of our bodies is to return to homeostasis, to balance. As amazing as the physiological repair process is in our bodies, a similar process takes place in our minds, hearts, and spirits to repair wounds of trauma and grief. The language is the same for both—wound, repair, pain, trauma, health, wholeness, wellness, and healing. Healing our hearts, minds, and spirits happens from the inside out also, with the help of outside influences—animals, Nature, therapists, friends, partners, community support, sometimes medication, and once again rest. So welcome Autumn. Welcome the quiet dormancy that Winter brings. Welcome rest…and restoration.

A Walk in the Woods

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Let’s take our hearts for a walk in the woods and listen to the magic whispers of old trees. –author unknown

This is one of the most wonderful, uplifting times of the year to go walking in the woods. Each tree seems to be more beautifully colored than the one before, and some spectacular specimens produce an absolute feeling of awe as you stop and stare up at their fall finery.

It is a time for purging, getting rid of the old. It is a ritual as old as Mother Nature herself—it has purpose and timing, procedure and method. No human interaction necessary…

…until the discards pile up in a thick, crunchy carpet on your yard! But in the forest, the leaves are doing precisely what is needed—they are protecting the roots and crowns of all the plants that hibernate for the winter. In the northern climes, the blanket of leaves waits for a blanket of snow that adds another layer of protection from the cold temperatures.

So Autumn is about purging and decay—just like the trees that die, are used by insects, woodpeckers, and animals of all sizes, and return to the earth. Like the leaves, the wood from the trees is broken down to return nutrients and humus and bacteria to the soil. The wonderful sustaining circle of life.

Walking in the woods at this time of year is a noisy affair—no sneaking up on animals or persons when each step swishes and crunches and crackles. It’s the music of Autumn that somehow infuses a feeling of childlike joy to the wanderer.

Wild and magical mushrooms that push their way up through the soil and leaf litter or grow from the side of a tree always amaze me. They are tough, yet delicate, striking or camouflaged, and have an artful flair.

Autumn is about hiding—the plants and later some animals will hide away under the old, purged leaves, in the old, decaying tree stumps, under the plant material that sinks to the bottom of the lakes and streams.

Two Sandhill Cranes are hiding from us, bathing in the shallow water, and eating their fill of gleanings from corn and soybean fields before they migrate south.

Autumn is a time of reflection. What do I need to purge from my life? What do I want to let go of? What do I need to protect myself? What brings me childlike joy?

What brings artful flair to my life? What inspires me?

And the leaves fall down right before my eyes…

Aqua Terra Part II + Aeris

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I think we all have a natural affinity to the earth or water, either through our long lines of ancestral DNA or the environment or most likely, both. We are the products of nature and nurture. Water is beautiful to me and intriguing. I love the aqua reflections and ripples, cascades and still pools. I’m also not very comfortable in bodies of water like those deep lakes in the BWCA—I carry some fear and an extra dose of caution. But the land…that’s a different story. I feel at home on the land. It is my home.

We camped at Blue Mounds State Park with my Mom. Both her and my Dad came from farm families in eastern South Dakota. The land was their home, their livelihood, and the entity they interacted with on a daily basis. My parents farmed for a living for a short period of their married lives, but the connection to the land continued and was passed down from their parents through them to their children.

We awoke when the lake behind us was waking up—the Great Blue Heron was fishing for his breakfast, stalking the wetland and darting his long bill into the water, then stretching his neck to let the fish slide down his lengthy gullet. The sun popped up over the horizon, coloring the dawn sky with the same hues as the quartzite rock that lay in the ground around us. A pair of geese landed on the water, their ripples separate, then merged. And the mega-chorus of blackbirds lifted from the cattails into the aeris.

We cooked breakfast and readied ourselves for hiking. We planned to go on Mound Trail, described as one long, gradual hill—1.5 miles one way. It followed the fence line that enclosed the bison, so we were hoping to see them again. The mowed grass trail was easy to walk on, and as described, the slope was gentle. The tallgrass prairie had gone to seed—the grasses, most of the flowers, and the weeds. Whenever we turned around, we marveled at how far we could see, and then realized we weren’t even close to the top of the Mound.

At some point up the trail we encountered a small group of Bison mamas and babies just basking in the sunlight. Sprays of purple Asters and an occasional Sunflower bloomed in the prairie grasses. Prickly Pear Cacti were scattered throughout the Mound prairie, most often by the boulders that protruded from the ground where the soil was thin and heat from the rocks provided them a desert-like environment. At this time of year, the red fruits of the cacti contrasted from the green paddles and the long, white, needle-like spines.

At the top of the Mound by a landmark boulder called Eagle Rock, we had a full 360 degree view of the surrounding terra. Adventurer, lawyer, and painter George Catlin, on his journey to the nearby Pipestone quarry in 1836 wrote:

“There is not a tree or bush to be seen. The eye may range east and west to a boundless extent over a surface covered with grass. The grass is green at one’s feet but changes to blue in the distance like the blue and vastness of the ocean. Man feels here, the thrilling sensation of unlimited freedom.”

From Eagle Rock, it was a short hike down to the former home of Frederick Manfred, author of many books, including Lord Grizzly (made into the movie ‘The Revenant.’) The home and surrounding land was purchased in 1972 by Minnesota State Parks and transformed into the interpretive center (now closed due to structural problems) and Blue Mounds State Park.

The rock used on Manfred’s home was salvaged from the first school built in 1897 in Luverne that had been originally quarried from this historic red rock quarry. The old quarry site is available to climbers, one of whom we talked to who had just free-climbed the steep wall. Meanwhile, my knees got weak as I inched towards the edge and looked down at the beautiful red rock.

We had 1.5 miles to return to the trailhead on the Upper Cliffline trail loop that passed by the quarry. And here I want to give kudos to my Mom, whose almost-mid-80’s birthday we were celebrating. It was a warm, sunny day for this substantial and interesting hike, and she kept up with us ‘young-uns.’ Young and old are such relative terms—weeks ago we were the ‘old ones’ with our kids in the BWCA, and now we were the young ones. My Mom is an inspiration—I hope I’m still hiking and exploring when I’m her age.

Back at our campsite, we rested, built a fire, and assembled our ‘hobo dinners’ of ground beef raised on my Mom’s pasture land, potatoes and onions dug from her garden, and carrots I bought and cut up–lol. We wrapped it all in foil and threw them on the red hot coals. A delicious dinner in fifty minutes along with a tomato and cucumber salad from her garden! She is still a woman of the land—my terra-mother.

At evening sunset time, the resident heron was standing in a golden pool of water—aqua gold—stealthily placing one foot in front of the other for some late-day fishing. The blackbirds were once again noisily settling into their cattail shelters. And as darkness fell, the moon reflected its golden light on the midnight blue water.

The next day, we added ‘aeris’ to our aqua and terra—the air or atmosphere. We hiked at nearby ‘Touch the Sky Prairie’, a joint venture between the Brandenburg Prairie Foundation and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Photographer Jim Brandenburg splits his time and love between the Northwoods forests around Ely and the southwestern prairies where he grew up. We had followed his path between these two places. I understand his divided love—the prairie never leaves you, and new places can take up residence in your heart.

While I appreciate the water, I love the land, the earth, and I most specifically love the prairie. It is in my DNA and from my terra-nurturing Mom. The prairie allows a person to ‘see.’ Nothing gets in the way. The prairie holds the water, allows it to flow, and meets the aeris with humbleness. It showcases the large bodies of animals, colorful wildflowers, boulders of geological wonder, and a magnificent sky. The tallgrass prairie has diminished to a small percentage of the land since George Catlin wrote about its ocean-like qualities—fields and trees have replaced the waving grasses. Visiting these historic prairie vistas, with bison and purple asters, reminds me of the ripples generated by one person’s life and choices and how those ripples merge, interact, and combine into one entity. The terra-earth is all of our homes, the aqua-water sustains each one of us, and the aeris-air gives us life. It’s a thrilling sensation.

Aqua Terra Part I

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When we emerged from the wilderness of the Boundary Waters in August, I bought myself a bracelet made from Aqua Terra Jasper to remind me of my amazing week. Water and land. Life-sustaining water and body-grounding earth. The colors of blue-green, sand, and reddish-brown swirled and intermingled on the beads, every one a distinct work of art that together embodied the look and feel of Nature’s offering to us in the Boundary Waters. The stone of peace.

Four weeks after leaving the peace of the Boundary Waters with our kids in far northeastern Minnesota, Chris and I traveled to the southwestern corner of the state to camp for the weekend with my Mom. We met at Blue Mounds State Park, just north of Luverne, in the county named Rock, which we quickly saw was merely an accurate description of the land. As we settled into our campsite—my Mom with her self-renovated retro camper and us in our little tent—we soon discovered that Aqua Terra would also be the most compelling environments of this prairie place.

Right behind our campsite was a short path through a few trees to a cliff of red rocks that overlooked a narrow, dammed lake of Mound Creek. It was the inhabitants of this aqua environment that captured my attention each dawn and dusk and serenaded us each night. With our late afternoon arrival and my mini-exploration, one creature stood in the shallow water in front of a field of waving cattails—a Great Blue Heron. He was statue-still, a little bent-over looking, shoulders drooping as his wings hung down in rest or resignation.

He had some unruly chest plumes, but also a tuft of down feathers at the back of his head—a young one, perhaps? His eyes closed and opened in his stillness.

Down the lake a ways, there stood another aqua-creature, again as still and quiet as a statue, and they seemed to be watching one another. A Canadian Goose stood rather awkwardly, one foot behind the other, with a bent head and neck looking in the direction of the heron. Beside her on the water were little piles of down feathers—at first I thought she had been preening herself, but that usually happens when the bird is relaxed, and she was not relaxed. Perhaps there had been a scuffle of territory between the two? They both stayed in the same position for all the minutes I watched them.

There were some waterfowl who seemed not to have a care in the world—a few immature Blue-Winged Teal (most likely.) Happy ducks swimming through duckweed.

After our quick, light supper, we drove to the Bison viewing platform where the rocky, rolling prairie terra sustains a herd of over 100 bison, including the spring-born calves.

There were many outcrops of Sioux Quartzite rocks and boulders, pink to purple in color from the presence of iron oxide and millions of years of formation. Some of the boulders were as big as a buffalo or is the buffalo as big as a boulder?

The boulders are used as ‘scratching posts’ for the bison and have been for many thousands of years. They rub their wooly heads and necks against the corner of the rocks, and in doing so, smooth the boulders to a shiny pink texture while relieving the itch of shedding their thick winter coats.

Another way bison scratch is using a buffalo wallow in the dirt. They may rub their heads or actually roll in the dirt to help with shedding, to get relief from biting insects, or to cool down in the heat.

Officially, these animals are American Bison—Bison bison as genus and species. But many of us call them buffalo. When the French fur trappers came here in the 1600s, they called them “boeuf” because they looked like the buffalos of Asia and Africa (Water and Cape Buffalos). I tried to call them bison for the weekend, to get my brain and mouth re-trained, but my default is still ‘buffalo.’

Gestation for a bison is 283 days—9.5 months—and the calves are 25-40 pounds at birth with a reddish-brown coat that darkens with age. So even by September, they have coats like their parents, and only size helps to identify them from far away. They are also growing horns already—both males and females.

As we watched, the bison peacefully grazed across the pasture and up the hill, disappearing over the horizon. They graze for nine to eleven hours each day, year round, using their massive heads to move snow aside, if need be.

The earth supported their huge half-ton to ton bodies. Bluestem grass, along with other prairie grasses and wildflowers, is the staple for nourishment to sustain their large frames.

As the sun sank in the western sky and the bison grazed away from us, a flock of blackbirds swooped across the sky, and a pheasant rooster squawked and ran through the grass. Deer leapt across the prairie, their coats burnished by the setting sun. And the nearly-full moon revealed itself as the sky darkened.

Back at our campsite, we heard where the blackbirds were settling for the night—that ‘field’ of cattails by the lake behind us. The chorus of their chattering continued long into the darkness. More geese flew in to Upper Mound Lake, their ‘Aquabnb’ for the night. We heard some rattling calls from the heron who may not have been so happy to share ‘his lake’ with all the others.

In the dusky light, the red rock cliff had a pink and purple glow about it—the firm terra at the edge of the fluid aqua.

The environments themselves—terra and aqua—are incredibly diverse—the number of different species of grasses and perennial wildflowers in a native prairie is in the hundreds, if not thousands. The lakes and streams support the same diversity of aqua species. But the showstoppers of our weekend at Blue Mounds were the birds of the lake and the bison of the land. Both were enchanting. When was the last time you were enchanted? And what was the source of that enchantment? Was it a temporary ‘high’ or a deeply satisfying ‘knowing’ that you were experiencing a bit of magic? The aqua-creatures and the terra-creatures were captivating, especially the heron and the bison. The source of that enchantment was Mother Nature—the creator of all that sustains us, all that supports us, and all that flows within us. Peace.

That’s the Thing About Expectations

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I think me and my expectations need to break up. I have valiantly carried them with me for decades and decades—expectations for myself, my family, my friends, the teachers of my life, the service people in daily life, the political power-brokers, and just about everyone. And by expectations, I mean high ones, but most of the time, I would settle for decent. And still, I get disappointed.

This past weekend, I had high expectations for Mother Nature, too. We had signs of Fall here and there, but the majority of trees were still green, so I figured if we headed north, we would see some Autumn glory. Yes! We went up to Crow Wing State Park in the Brainerd area, and I fully expected to see a forest of beautifully-colored trees and plants. Umm, not okay. It didn’t look any different from those here at home. And sure enough, I felt disappointed.

The only thing I was even half way happy about when we arrived was that the Mississippi River water level was higher than the last time we were there. The last time, rocks poked up through the slow-moving water and the shoreline was sandy-muddy wide—I was so disheartened that I would not even take a picture of it. The drought had taken the ‘mighty’ out of the Mississippi.

Crow Wing River was a narrow channel of water where it flows around Crow Wing Island to meet the Mississippi. The tributary was doing its best to contribute, but the lack of rain up-river starved it of its normal current. Some recent rains had tempered the extreme drought conditions, but we were far from ‘back to normal.’ And that also partly explains the story of the trees—they had had a stressful summer. Their priority had been staying alive—and oftentimes, the endeavor is not pretty. Many leaves had dried up and turned brown from lack of moisture. We crunched through them on the trail. But the green of the trees did hold a slight golden hue, so perhaps it was also my entitled expectation that just got the time-line or the place wrong.

I complained for awhile (forgive me, Mother Nature), even as I noticed the more subtle signs of Fall. The perennial plants and grasses were different shades of Autumn—rust, burgundy, and orange—and they had all produced their varied and valuable seeds! The harvest abundance of Autumn seeds had formed and matured despite the constricting conditions of drought. The will to reproduce is strong.

As we walked and I noticed the pinking of Virginia Creeper on its way to brilliant crimson and the late-flowering spike of Mullein against a tall Oak, I realized that I had been wrong in my expectations. I had been arrogant to think that the forest of Crow Wing should be what I wanted it to be when I wanted it. I expressed my realization out loud to Chris, giving credence and appreciation to the ‘process’ of Autumn. We can’t just be present for the ‘glory.’

And soon, I began to see signs of the ‘glory!’ The sky had cleared to a brilliant azure blue with puffy balls of white clouds. An Ash tree stood like a tower of golden finery. A Red Oak had begun the transformation to its namesake color.

And a little Ironwood tree stood on the edge of a Pine forest like a princess among the royal elders, its skirt held out in a curtsy with dried seedheads for a crown.

Chris’ good snake-eye saw a slim little Red-bellied snake camouflaged among the rusty red Pine needles. That’s a treasure!

A Maple tree, in just the right sunny spot, displayed the colors of Fall—yellow, orange, and red—in the ‘process’ of winding down its chlorophyll production, of letting the summer leaves fall away, and of preparing for the season of Winter. It was doing what it needed to do.

The sun light and the shadows of the things that stand in its way, tell stories that flash into our brains and rest there until we are ready to take them out, hear them, see them, examine them. Expectations are part of those stories.

Disappointment can be the very real outcome of high expectations. It feels like a slap to the face or unexpectantly taking a hard fall. It stings, it’s surprising to our self-centered way of thinking, and it is a betrayal of sorts. That’s the thing about expectations. But just as I’m ready to throw in the towel on expectations so as not to experience disappointment, I become a referee between those high expectations and the results of letting go of them. There are reasons for rules, standards, protocol, doing things right, living up to our better angels, and wanting the best for others. It’s how the game of life is played. It’s how we mitigate chaos, produce results, ensure safety, and live with joy that comes from goodness. Last weekend I wanted the glory of Autumn on my timeline. What I got was a soul-smacking dose of disappointment and a subtle take-me-by-the-hand walk to humbleness. A lesson to temper my expectations? We carry the light and the shadows of our stories, and when we examine those stories, the old things fall away, including some expectations and disappointments. We embrace the process. We celebrate progress, even if that means stepping into winter. The light in our eyes and in our lives gets brighter.