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 July 2022
Hanging on Lightly
What happens to your body when someone says, “Hang on tight!”? Usually your hands latch on to something and grip it tightly. Your muscles contract, often throughout your whole body. You ‘brace’ yourself for what’s to come, whether that’s for a physical wild ride or an emotional rollercoaster. There is an element of survival that takes over—your sympathetic nervous system is activated. Adrenaline is released, your pupils dilate, your heart beats faster, and you become hypervigilant. There are plenty of times in life when this response is the prudent thing to do—it can literally save your life.
Chris is back to short hikes—yay!—so we hiked up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park in the western lakes region of Minnesota. The trail zig-zagged through mostly prairie in this part of the 9,200-acre park. Mid-summer wildflowers bloomed among the still-growing green grasses that had begun their blooming, too. Lavender-colored Wild Bergamot or Bee Balm was in all its glory, attracting bees and butterflies with its minty fragrance and tubular flowers.
It was not long before we noticed dragonflies darting around above the plants. It was a breezy day, and I noticed a colorful dragonfly holding on to a dried flower stalk. I thought to myself he must be hanging on for dear life in this wind with his three pairs of legs! Halloween Pennant Dragonflies (isn’t that a great name?!) alight and fly in a different way from most other dragonflies—they have a fluttery flight like a butterfly.
The wooly purple coats of Purple Prairie Clover are wrapped around the gray thimble head of the spikey flowers, belying the typical flower of the Pea family. But like most members of the Pea family, Prairie Clover can increase soil fertility by capturing nitrogen from the air and transferring it to the soil.
More and more of the Halloween Pennant Dragonflies were hanging on to grasses and dried flower stalks, some right by the trail. As I looked more closely at them, it seemed like they were very comfortable on their precarious-looking perches.
Black-eyed Susans brighten the prairie with their cheery ray flowers, and their seeds are favored food for Goldfinches and House Finches.
A larger, more traditional dragonfly with its black and silvery transparent wings is named Widow Skimmer. The male has a long powder blue abdomen and is thus named because he leaves (or widows) the female by herself when she lays her eggs just under the surface of the water. Other male dragonflies will fly with the female while she lays her eggs.
A large, crater-like mushroom captured rainwater and became a ‘watering hole’ for insects and small animals.
The coloring and veins of the dragonfly’s wings create intricate patterns, and their large compound eyes see 200 images per second with nearly 80% of their brain being dedicated to sight! They have specialized spines on their legs used as an ‘eyebrush’ to clean the surface of their compound eyes.
In our northern climate, the growing season is condensed into a relatively short amount of time, so fruit and seed development happens quickly. Signs of decline are already noticeable in the later part of July.
Again, like I noted in my last post, the Monarchs are few and far between anymore. In all the prairie we walked through, we only saw one Monarch. It was perched on its host plant—where eggs are laid and where the caterpillars eat and grow—the Common Milkweed.
Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil (Beggar’s Lice) is a woodland plant with pretty pink flowers on long stalks that produce sticky seed pods that hang on to fur or clothing of passers-by.
The silvery-gray color of Artemisia complements all the other prairie wildflowers and grasses.
I was surprised to see a whole Artemisia plant covered in bugs! The black creatures (Black Vine Weevils?) look like the ones who have invaded our house in the last month, and the big, black ants must be getting some sort of nutrition from them.
We ascended to the top of Hallaway Hill, once a popular ski hill in the 1950’s and ’60’s, even after the State Park was established in 1963. 196 vertical feet above Lida Lake gave us a view of the many lakes, the rolling Maple-Leaf hills, and of the storm clouds that were gathering to the west.
Dragonflies spend most of their life in the aquatic nymph stage—the larger ones from three to five years—but only live as an adult dragonfly for five weeks or less, some only for a few days. Their ‘flying’ days are limited.
Hanging on tightly is a way for us to survive—physically and emotionally. In fact, in our young years, it is a reflexive act to connect us with our caregivers for all of our dependent needs. When resources are scarce—food, shelter, safety, and love—we tend to hold on more tightly, even when doing so doesn’t get us those things we need and desire. But as a child and young adult, we don’t know any other way to do it. But what of the fleeting adult life of the dragonfly? The Halloween Pennants were hanging on lightly—not clenched but attached, not contracted but relaxed, not grasping but flowing. They embodied freedom—like an eagle soaring in the wind, like a feather floating through the air, like a leaf drifting on the water. Is it the culmination of their reproductive life that allows them to live out whatever days are left with such freedom? Or is it just a ‘mammalian’ thing to hold on so tightly? We can learn from the dragonflies. We can mature into hanging on lightly. We can brush the cobwebs from our eyes. We can be attached and relaxed. We can live day by each wonderous day, confident in our ability to rest when we need to and fly when we can.
Empty Homes
One fall day I looked out the kitchen window and saw a swarm of butterflies flying through the yard. We had a garden full of nectar-producing flowers, so we were used to seeing butterflies during the three seasons of blooming. But this was different. I walked outside and realized that they were no longer relaxed and meandering from flower to flower—they were on a mission—a Monarch migration mission to be exact. And while I stood there, the air filled with the orange– and black–winged beauties! They were everywhere! Some were close enough for me to touch, seeming to fly towards me, then up into the sky, above the tree tops, and beyond! It was awe–inspiring and joy–producing! Millions of Monarchs!
In a matter of minutes within the hour, they were gone, moving south in their annual migration from southern Canada and the northern Midwest, gathering all from the eastern United States, on to central Mexico where they spend the winter high in the mountains on the Oyamel Fir trees. Abies religiosa means ‘sacred fir.’ These trees and the wintering Monarchs require the same ecosystem for survival—cool and moist—which is now being threatened by our warming climate. Climate change, along with increased use in pesticides and herbicides, loss of northern habitat for Monarchs, and logging of the sacred firs have all contributed to the alarming news that was released this past week. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature has placed Monarch butterflies on the endangered list, just two steps from extinction, because of their fast-dwindling numbers. In just ten year’s time, the population of Monarchs in North America has declined between 22% and 72%, depending on the method of measurement. Other groups have seen even larger declines of the iconic butterfly. The most well–known and beautiful butterfly, once with a population in the billions, is headed towards extinction.
Loss of Monarch habitat in the north mirrors the declining number of acres of prairie, grassland, fence lines, and wetlands. There are statistics for these losses, but anyone who loves the prairie, who loves seeing cattle on grassland pastures, and who delights in a fence row of wildflowers has noticed the disheartening change in the last decade.
There is untold value in a prairie environment—home and food source for insects, birds, and mammals; erosion control; and carbon sequestration to name only a few. This time of year, the prairie displays a brilliant culmination of months of unseen root growth and a sea of green vegetative growth of grasses and wildflowers as they burst into flower and seed production. It is a beautiful sight! It was a good year for Butterfly Weed, a member of the Milkweed family. I have seen more of the bright orange flowers this year than I can ever remember.
Common Yarrow inconspicuously grows in most grassy places but is a dazzling background for Hoary Vervain’s sharply–toothed leaves and spikes of violet flowers.
And the grasses….each with their distinct–colored seedheads are the foundation of a healthy prairie.
In the acres and acres of prairie, including all the showy Butterfly Weed, I saw one Monarch. I was paying attention—awareness of dwindling numbers of Monarchs has been on my ‘radar’ for years now, and this year seems particularly bad for the numbers. The prairie had many Common Milkweeds, the primary host plant for Monarch caterpillars. Empty homes, waiting for the striped caterpillars to munch on their leaves, spin a cocoon, and produce another butterfly.
Evening Primrose is a night–blooming plant with buds that start to open at the end of the day and close up by noon of the next day, making them an unusual and enchanting wildflower.
Another favorite wildflower for butterflies is False Sunflower or Ox-eye Sunflower. The prairies that are planted and preserved in parks and natural areas are trying to bring back habitats for the butterflies, bees, and other creatures who depend on wildflowers and grasses for their survival. But is it enough?
My joy in witnessing a Monarch migration happened more than eight years ago—before I began writing my blog. Since that time, fewer butterflies of all kinds visited our gardens. I noticed fewer Monarchs on our hikes. It is a complicated, complex problem with no one in particular responsible for the solution. The statistics are jarring, and Nature-lovers feel sad and angry when they hear the news but powerless in the big picture of our world. Is it loss of habitat—we are personally leaving and cultivating all the Milkweeds we can—or are the populations of butterflies actually being killed by pesticides and by microwave radiation from cell towers that have proliferated in the last ten years? (please read the scientific research below) In civilizations and centuries past, plants have been seen and named as ‘sacred,’ just as all of creation has been deemed so by Christianity and other world religions. I am not an alarmist by nature, but the news of the rapid rate of decline of our favorite butterfly is cause for alarm. Because biologically, what is destroying butterflies, bees, and trees is destroying us, just at a slower pace. We are all connected with all of Nature. I don’t know what the answers are either, but I want all of us to be aware, concerned, and thinking about the big picture in our choices, our votes, and our advocacy. We don’t want any more empty homes.
Protected
One of my most instinctual and intentional qualities of being a parent, as I’m sure is true for most parents, was to protect my children. To protect is to preserve from harm, safeguard, shield; to keep secure from injury, damage, exposure, and destruction. It was a daunting task, and one that seems to be even more so in this day and age. The issue of how we protect our own children, those we know and love, and the children in our communities at large is complicated and emotionally-charged. Add to that who should do the protecting and from what we are protecting them, and the issue gets more muddied, more challenging, and more divisive. It seems like a simple matter—keep kids safe—but it is not.
When reading about Myre–Big Island State Park near Albert Lea, Minnesota, I was struck with them mentioning how the Big Island was protected from fires that had previously swept through the area. Big Island is 120 acres of hardwood forest that sits in the middle of Albert Lea Lake. A narrow causeway connects it to the ‘mainland.’ It is protected by water on all sides. We hiked around the island on a warm, muggy day. Maple trees are the predominant hardwood on the island and offered deep shade with their large palmate leaves. The water was hard to see from the trail in most areas, since the young Maples crowded the shore for sunlight.
It was a beautiful island forest that had been home for humans for over 9,000 years. Not only was it protected from fires, but it provided a secure place for its inhabitants with food, water, shelter, and a moat of safety.
The large Maple and Basswood trees were accompanied by Ash, Red Oak, and Elm trees. Ironwood was the main understory tree. There were many interesting trees in all stages of development, from seedling to decaying. I noticed an Artist’s Conk, a perennial fungus that often grows from a wound on a living tree. The white underside of this bracket fungus is used by artists to etch a drawing into, leaving a sepia-colored work of art! (Google it!)
Woodpeckers, wind, lightening, old age, sunscald, and insects have all made their marks on the trees of Big Island.
The undergrowth was dominated by Gooseberry bushes that had been ‘pruned’ by the grazing deer, despite the fact they have protective spines or thorns on them. The deer eat the tender new growth that is more palatable. I was also amazed at how many Jack-in-the-Pulpit plants were growing under the Gooseberries—perhaps the thorny Gooseberries shield them from damage or offer a symbiotic relationship of some sort.
As we walked, the sky grew cloudier and darker, and the air was so thick with moisture that my camera had a hard time focusing. We cut our hike a little short because of the weather, and in switching paths, we saw five deer, including two spotted fawns. The vigilant does stamped their feet and watched us carefully as they protected their fawns.
Caretaking mothers of all species have an innate drive to protect their young ones—one only needs to spend time with animal parents to witness their fierceness. But their and our determination to protect our children, despite our best effort, sometimes fails. Our children get hurt, exploited, harmed, or damaged by accidents, by bullies, by ignorant cultural practices, or by dark forces that impel people to act in anti-social ways. We cannot become immune to the damage that befalls our children, and we should take every step possible to safeguard their lives. Every step possible.
What Used to Be
There is always an interplay between change and holding steady. Not only does it play out in the overarching culture of the world but also in smaller community and relationship entities. But the most personal, most impactful, and most difficult interaction between change and holding steady happens inside each one of us. We have a desire for learning, a curiosity of the world around us, and an innate drive for ‘something new’—except when we don’t feel safe. Safety is our default system—our primitive brain takes over when we are threatened by anything—real or imagined. When that happens, curiosity, compassion for others, learning, and openness get shut out from our brain and body until we feel safe again. So what happens when the people around us and the media we consume continuously stoke our fears?
I am already a month behind in my posts—it used to be the beginning of June, and it used to be Spring. On our way home from our Duluth wedding weekend at the beginning of June, we stopped at Banning State Park. We didn’t have a great amount of time, Chris was still on ‘no hiking’ status from his hip surgery, and the mosquitoes were ravenous. But Emily and I braved a one and a half mile hike on the Quarry Loop trail that followed the beautiful Kettle River. The trail used to be a railroad.
There used to be a forest of towering Red and White Pines in this area that was logged in the mid-1800’s. The Kettle River was used to move logs to the St. Croix River and to mills. In 1892, the Hinkley Sandstone of the area began to be quarried, thus the railroad to haul it away to the Twin Cities and Duluth for building blocks and road pavers. Then the enormous Hinkley fire in 1894 took trees, lives, and losses for the railroad and quarry. What used to be.
Long before enormous trees and logging, desirable sandstone and quarrying, there used to be a sea here hundreds of millions of years ago. The silica and sand formed the rock that is now called Hinkley Sandstone. There used to be a glacier here tens of thousands of years ago that upon melting created Lake Superior and the Kettle River that formed along a fault line. What used to be.
But in the here and now, the Kettle River is a favorite place for experienced whitewater paddlers with Class III-V rapids named Blueberry Slide, Dragon’s Tooth, and Hell’s Gate.
What used to be—the quarry and railroad—is being taken over by Nature. Ferns, trees, grasses, and wildflowers have incorporated into the sandstone boulders and cliffs once again.
But there are ruins and remains of the Quarry still evident and still standing—the Rock Crusher and the Power House which contained a coal-fired steam generator and interestingly, an artesian well where ‘Sandstone’ water was bottled and sold as a side business to the quarry. What used to be.
Above the Hell’s Gate rapids on a level area once stood the town of Banning, established in 1896 and abandoned in 1912 when the quarrying boom was over. The town site is no longer visible—Mother Nature has covered up what used to be.
Precisely-spaced drill holes remain on this sandstone wall where black powder and slow-burning fuses would simultaneously blast a section of rock off the cliff.
This section of smooth rock wall was not quarried—it is called a ‘horst’ where a section of the earth’s crust is lifted along a fault line.
Strange Liverworts, like plastered fallen leaves, grow on the horst, and water drips from the cracks to nourish the plant life that found their unlikely place to grow.
While reading about the history of the Park, I was amazed that railroads, a town, hundreds of quarrymen, and numerous businesses had occupied the trails we were hiking and the forest that had re-grown. There is value in what used to be—many buildings still stand with foundations and walls made from Hinkley Sandstone. There is also value in looking back at what used to be—how it was accomplished, what mistakes were made, what the unacceptable costs were—in order to move forward in a different and better way. Holding steady is a form of safety, as are ‘the law of the land,’ guardrails, rules and norms, order, and peace. They help us get our bearings and feel safe, so we can be in the here and now with those around us. Change and holding steady are not opposable values and actions. Holding steady—safety—is the foundation from which we can be compassionate, be curious, learn and do new things. Do you know what makes you feel steady, open, and peaceful? Do that. Are you aware of who or what brings unfounded fear and stress to your life? Purge them. Fear is being used as a tool to manipulate people for political and financial purposes—one of the oldest tricks in the book. Don’t fall for it. In the ruins and remains of what used to be—in our collective past or our individual past—there is space for peace and renewal and a place to grow.