Archives for September 2022

Work Well Done

September 25, 2022 by Denise Brake 5 Comments

I’m not a betting person. I like a sure thing, not the maybe–potential–good day–bad day–luck–fate thing that seems to juice the adrenaline of gamblers on any kind of betting opportunity. Too much drama for me. That’s why I love the changing of the seasons—it’s a sure thing. And yet, there are humans who want to make even that a little more dramatic! When will the leaves be at peak color? Don’t miss your chance to go North to the place where the Fall color will be the most spectacular at this particular time! We even want to game Mother Nature. (I guess that’s nothing new.) Don’t get me wrong—I love the spectacular colors of Autumn leaves at peak times. It really is the epitome of storybook Autumn, especially when paired with pumpkins, hot cider, fingerless gloves, red cheeks, cozy sweaters, and Uggs. But I also love the process of Fall—the subtle shift when plants stop growing and pour all their energy into the production of fruits and seeds, when there is ripening and fullness and deep color to the produce, when waning energy production is noted in the loss of gloss or slight color change in leaves, and when a morning temperature in the low 40’s produces a heavy coat of dew on the warm, sun-soaked earth of the previous day.

Thursday was officially the first day of Autumn, but signs of the process of Fall have been showing for weeks now. Last Sunday Chris and I hiked at Oak Savanna Park in Sherburne County. 140 acres of the park were gifted to the County by Bill and Margaret Cox on the outskirts of Becker. There was a hint of coolness in the cloudy air when we began our hike from the parking lot of Sherburne History Center whose signage reminded us of ox-cart trails, Indian land, and settler farmers who tried and often failed at making a living on the sandy soil. In essence, they urged us to go forth on this land with the knowledge of who and what came before us.

At this park, as at the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge to the south, there are acres and acres of wetlands.

The rolling hills above the wetlands were home to an impressive Oak stand that is being managed as an Oak Savanna as invasive species like Buckthorn are removed.

Sumac is one of the first tree/shrubs to display their brilliant Fall colors and even show the process of how the leaves change from the outside tips to the central vein of the compound leaves. Aren’t they beautiful?!

Poison Ivy is coordinating its Fall colors below the Sumac.

Certain plants are stand-outs at this time of year—purple-stemmed Raspberries with carnival striped leaves, pale purple and albino bracts of Spotted Horse Mint, and the spiny brown balls of Cockleburs.

The park has horse trails and an extensive disc golf course, so at times we found ourselves on someone else’s turf.

Ash trees are one of the first hardwood trees to change color, and again, the leaves show the Fall process of losing chlorophyll.

And Gooseberries, one of the first shrubs to open their leaves in the Spring, have turned a rosy color along with the Virginia Creeper growing at their feet.

There is a subtleness to Autumn along with the spectacular color. It’s like a sigh after work well done.

Mother Nature has worked hard all Spring and Summer to grow, reproduce, develop, mature, and produce—the work of all our lives in one way or another. It takes a tremendous amount of energy (thank you photosynthesis and Sun) along with imperative resources like soil nutrients and water in order to get to the point of ‘work well done.’ Sigh…

I think we have a tendency to want the ‘good stuff’ right away—the spectacular peak colors, a great paying job as we start our career, a well-furnished ‘dream’ home—the epitome of American life. But when we embrace the process, we don’t ‘wish away’ the time it takes to get to the ultimate experience. The proverbial ‘life’s a journey, not a destination’ holds true in Nature and in our lives. If one only lives for the ‘hit’ of peak colors or for the money jackpot, what happens next? The apex experience only lasts for a minute or two, then we strive to reach the next ‘hit.’ There is wisdom and satisfaction in the process—growth and development comes one way or the other, the embraced way or the hard way. We can go forth on our journeys, satisfied with ourselves and what came before us to get us to this moment, enjoy a time of rest, then move forward into a new season of growth, development, and production. Enjoy the process!

Reckoning Our Storytelling

September 18, 2022 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

We are all fantastical storytellers. You may remember your own yarns as a child, or more likely, those of children, as fanciful, creative chronicles spilled from their imaginations and mouths. And often, they were a key character in the saga. At some point in development, there is a reckoning between fantasy and reality, often involving those joyous childhood participants in legend—Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Disillusionment and disappointment. Even anger at the deliverer of such bad news. It is all a part of growing up, a step towards maturity.

Our creative, imaginative brains, in an attempt to make sense of any given situation, continue to make up stories throughout our childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. The stories tend to live and twirl inside our own minds. They gather strength and even ‘evidence’ as the story is imagined again and again and again. “I can’t do math.” “Nobody likes me.” “I’m a freak.” “I’m a bad student.” “She’s a bad teacher.” “People are taking advantage of me.” “Someone is out to get me.” What starts out as an inner insecurity often morphs into an outward blaming of others.

Last Sunday, Chris and I traveled to the Minnesota River Valley at Fort Ridgely State Park. The fort was built in 1853 near the Dakota reservations of Upper and Lower Sioux Agencies on what had been Dakota land for thousands and thousands of years. It was used as an outpost, Civil War training facility, and buffer between the Dakotas and the surge of settler–colonists coming into the area. In the middle of the fort stands a granite monument to honor the soldiers and others who fought and were killed in the bloody Dakota War of 1862. On large brass plates on four sides of the monument, a story of the battle is articulated by some person thirty years after the war. Reading the narrative in this day and age shows a stark bias against the Indians with how the storyteller articulated false motives of young Indians who ‘started’ the war and who were ‘out to kill’ the white settlers and soldiers. The modern signage around the excavated ruins of the fort told a different story. The Indians on the reservations were being starved when food promised them from government treaties was not being delivered. The man in charge told them “to eat grass if they are hungry.” Forced from their homeland onto reservations, then starved by the government is a different reality than the story told on the monument.

The Minnesota River valley was cut out from glacial till by erosion over thousands of years. The ridge above the River has been returned to prairie.

Orange Sulphur butterfly on Rough Blazing Star

After our fort tour (the museum run by the Minnesota Historical Society was closed), we began our hike behind the CCC-built picnic area. We curved down a hill to the Fairway Trail in a wide strip of prairie that started on top of the ridge and went all the way down to Fort Ridgely Creek. (In 1927, a golf course was built on the park grounds and has since been returned to prairie.) The Ash trees were tipped yellow, Goldenrod and Sunflowers were in their full glory, and crickets chirped an Autumn song.

At the top of this hill is a chalet used as a warming house for Winter sledding and snow sports.

This area of Minnesota has been in drought conditions, and Fort Ridgely Creek and the Minnesota River were very low. We did see minnows swimming in the shallow water of the creek.

A couple miles north of the main park was a horse camp area in the valley of Fort Ridgely Creek. Huge walls of rock and clay on the east side of the creek created a quiet, protected area.

We passed many horseback riders as we hiked, and one proclaimed that it was much easier the way they were doing it than the way we were—but I didn’t know how right he was until we climbed the trail out of the creek bottom to the ridge.

The upper prairie was dominated by Indian Grass, its deep rusty-brown seedheads swayed in the wind and paid homage to the ancestors who had lived and died here.

Sunflowers were brilliant, their golden pollen attracting Goldenrod Soldier Beetles, a beneficial insect that doesn’t harm the plants.

A Cranberrybush Viburnum gave a different vibe from the fall-ish yellow and browns of the prairie.

Sideoats Grama Grass and Common Milkweeds with their full pods of seeds, lined the trail in the Indian Grass prairie.

Fort Ridgely closed in 1872, and soon after, settlers unlawfully pillaged the buildings for stone and wood. In 1896, the land was set aside for the US–Dakota War Memorial, and in 1911, with an additional 50 acres, it was designated a state park, the fourth oldest in Minnesota. Now it has 537 acres of history and stories. It is a stark example of how the story changes with time and with who writes it. As I read the story of the US–Dakota War etched into the brass plates on the granite obelisk, I wondered what the Dakota version of the story would be. Our complicated, damning history.

Our stories are often paradoxical—many different versions of the same situation and all of them bearing some, but not all, of the truth. And as I mentioned before, we all have a tendency towards the fantastical, when a story does not correspond with the facts of reality. It really is a human conundrum. We tell ourselves illusory stories in part to have some sort of control over the situation, to put ourselves at the helm when things feel out of control or overwhelming. Perhaps it is ‘practice’ for real life. But too often, we only want our version of the story to be told, fantastical or not. We want our version of other people’s stories to be the truth. I have had many stories live and twirl in my mind in unrealistic fashion, so I know of what I speak. We become entwined with our own story, and the unwinding of it only promises disillusionment, disappointment, grief, and anger. No wonder we are so reluctant to the reckoning. Growing up is not easy, and growing into maturity is even more difficult. How can we be mature and generous with our storytelling? How can we navigate a fair way? How can we pay homage to our own struggles and to the struggles of others? It might take the very thing we started with as children—an open and creative imagination. Can we imagine the homeless person’s story as part of our narrative? Can we include a poor, young mother’s abortion story as part of our own mothering story? Can we envision what a displaced, starving person would do to try to regain health and agency in a repressive culture? We can have our own values and at the same time listen deeply to and walk with a person who is in a situation unlike any we have ever imagined for ourselves. It grows us as a person into a more seasoned version of ourselves. Welcome to the hard-earned, fruit-bearing, browned and aging Autumnal season of Life.

Reclamation

September 11, 2022 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I lived in eastern Pennsylvania for a good part of my growing-up years. Since the late 1800’s, Western Pennsylvania was known as coal country. In the 1960’s, strip mining began to replace underground mining, and with the heightened awareness of environmental issues by the first (April 22, 1970) and subsequent Earth Day Celebrations, strip mining was a big issue. I chose that topic for a term paper I wrote in high school, because the pictures of what strip mining did to the land turned my stomach and kind of broke my heart. Even the phrase ‘strip mining’ has a violent, ugly sound to it, and now tends to be replaced with the term ‘surface mining,’ which also includes ‘open-pit’ and ‘mountain-top removal’ mining. (Two other methods that sound as ugly as they are.) Strip mining is more efficient and cost-effective for the mining companies and safer for the miners, but it is an environmental nightmare that pollutes waters, scars and alters the landscape, erodes soil, damages infrastructure, and destroys wildlife. In the early 70’s, the mining companies promised ‘reclamation.’ They said they would reclaim the land—return it to its natural state. But also by then, the evidence of their reclamation claims was almost non-existent. The scarred and barren land was most often abandoned.

Minnesota also has a long history of mining—not for coal but for iron ore. Iron ore was discovered in the Cuyuna Range area in 1904 and became a mining boom during the World War I and II years. Twenty to thirty mines were dug and new towns sprang up in the area—Ironton, Cuyuna, Crosby, and Riverton, to name a few. Twenty mines were still operational in the early 1950’s, but most were shut down a decade later. The mining companies abandoned huge pits 100-525 feet deep with rock piles 200 feet high. Through the combined efforts of the Iron Range Resources Rehabilitation Board, local and county governments, volunteers, and the Department of Natural Resources, the Cuyuna Country land became a State Recreation Area in 1993. I don’t know how much of the ‘reclamation’ was human manpower and how much was Mother Nature doing what she does, but the area has been transformed back to a more natural state. The 5,000 acres of land has six natural lakes and fifteen deep, cold, mine-pit lakes that house Rainbow and Brown Trout. Aspens, Pines, Birch, Basswood, and Ironwood have regenerated the land.

Asters and Zigzag Goldenrod brighten the landscape with their late summer blooming, enticing the pollinators.

The pit-mine lakes have clear, deep-aqua-colored water that lends itself to scuba-diving, canoeing and kayaking, along with fishing.

The before and after pictures of Portsmouth Mine and now Portsmouth Mine Lake are dramatic. I would like to see the before-the-mining pictures. The damage is gut-wrenching, and I am reminded why I fervently wrote about strip-mining in high school.

Aspen trees are naturally a ‘reclamation’ tree—they are one of the first to grow after a forest fire. Their colonized root systems and fast growth allow them to quickly regenerate vegetation on barren land.

Sumacs are another tree/shrub that easily ‘fill in’ scarred or empty land and also provide food for deer, rabbits, grouse, wild turkeys, and many songbirds.

Cuyuna Country Recreation Area is probably best known for its fifty miles of single-track mountain biking trails. When we arrived in Ironton, I mistakenly thought the mountain bike riders had special red-colored tires for their bikes. We were there with our old bikes to ride on the paved State Trail, and it wasn’t long before our tires picked up the red color from the iron-laden rocks and dirt from the mountain bikers that crossed the paved trail.

We rode along three of the larger pit-mine lakes on the State Trail with only a few places to pull over to see the water. The mountain bike trails wound around much closer to all the lakes. The trails are color-coded and graded from easiest, easy, more difficult, very difficult, and extremely difficult. By the end of our ride on the paved trail, I must admit that I kind of wanted to try a dirt trail, but I was intimidated by how fast the red-tired bikers all seemed to be going!

The best find along our paved trail was a sneak peak through the trees at an Osprey sitting in a dead tree. I screeched to a halt when I saw the flash of a white-headed bird, thinking it was an eagle. When I zoomed in, I saw the dark brown stripe through the eye, the white underbody, and the incredible sharp beak and talons of this fish-catching bird. Ninety-nine percent of their food is live fish, so they are efficient hunters and catchers. They have a specialized toe that grasps the others and barbed pads on their feet to hold the slippery fish. Like eagles, they mate for life and make large stick nests with the males gathering the sticks and the females arranging the nest. Their population numbers crashed in the early 50’s to 70’s when the pesticide DDT poisoned them and thinned their eggshells. After DDT was banned and people helped out by building platforms near water for nesting sites, their numbers began to recover. Unfortunately, now plastic bale twine and fishing line are a concern for young chicks. These bits of plastic get picked up for nest building, and the chicks can get entangled in them.

Cuyuna Country illustrates the demise and destruction of natural resources due to mining and the amazing regeneration that is possible afterwards. Time and Mother Nature are the two driving forces of reclamation, with the help of man, money, vision and commitment for a better way. Great mistakes have been made in the quest for efficient, cost-effective industries. Mother Nature literally and figuratively often gets bulldozed with little thought or care of the impact and ripple effects. Sometimes we do the same thing to ourselves. We sacrifice our own internal resources in the quest for more money, other people’s wants and wishes, a bigger house, or fame. And things can get ugly and devastating before we realize our mistakes. But we can reclaim ourselves. We can return to our natural state. With commitment and time and a good dose of Mother Nature, we are soon on the trail to a miraculous reclamation.

Warning Signs

September 8, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Every one of us has a threat detector or warning system in our brains. It begins with incoming sensory information—things we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, and notice—often things we may not be aware of consciously. Those incoming signals go to the thalamus—a routing structure that sends the information to the amygdala or fear center of our limbic system and to the frontal cortex part of our brain that ‘analyses’ what the information could mean. The pathways are much more complex than that, but basically we process information through our emotional threat center more quickly than our analytical, thinking brain. Our brains and bodies can be activated into fight, flight, or freeze before we even have a conscious knowing of why.

We have all experienced the warning signal from our amygdala—don’t trust that person, don’t walk down that street, don’t eat that food, don’t participate in that action. It is often labeled as a ‘gut feeling’ or ‘intuition’ type of knowing that is hard to explain. Part of our warning system is an inborn, mammalian, basic safety system and part of it is based on previous experience—if we have been traumatized in any way, we are particularly sensitive to any information that feels anything like what we have previously experienced. Our amygdala immediately activates our body to protect us. This is a very good thing to keep us safe when we are in danger, but it can also cause a lot of ‘false alarms.’ After an unprocessed trauma, the amygdala’s ‘reading’ of a situation causes alarm, even when there is no actual threat there. (By unprocessed, I mean the facts and feelings about and around the traumatic event have not been acknowledged, accepted, talked about, worked on, and put to some kind of rest.) That’s why it’s important to take deep breaths for a few seconds and let your thinking brain catch up. Easier said than done. That’s why it’s so difficult—and personal—to determine what is a legitimate threat, whether that is to our personal safety, the protection of our children, or the security of our country and democracy. Our ‘thinking’ brain needs information and data to come to a conclusion—when we refuse to ‘see’ the reality of facts, figures, and footage, we are allowing our ‘fear center’ to run our lives. (And on a physiological note, that is a damaging way to live.)

Chris and I went hiking at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge on the Blue Hill Trail. We have been there a couple of times in previous years. I suggested we go the opposite direction than our usual path so we could climb the Blue Hill spur trail. We were usually too tired after the five-mile hike to climb the hill, so this time we started with it! At the foot of the hill, at the entrance to the spur trail, was a warning sign: poison ivy could be growing along the trail. The sign also said they leave the poison ivy (don’t kill it) because wildlife eats the berries that are produced. Hmm, I thought. Well, we know how to identify poison ivy. How bad could it be? After a quick, questioning glance to Chris, I headed up the hill. Things were fine for a little while. If I saw some, I would say, “Poison ivy on the left” or “On the right.” Chris was in shorts, and I had short pants on with bare ankles. I definitely get the itchy rash from poison ivy, but I am not allergic to it like Chris is after an overwhelming exposure he had much earlier in his life that demanded medical care. As we climbed the hill, the trail got narrower, and raspberries and other foliage folded over the path. I peered under the waist-high briars to look for the ankle-high poison ivy that was now surrounding most every step. Are we ready to turn around yet? We passed the ‘down’ trail, so I figured the top couldn’t be too much farther, but by then I was seriously questioning their practice of ‘leaving the berries for wildlife.’ We made it to an observation deck, but we still weren’t at the pinnacle. I left Chris there and said I would see what’s farther up—but the path was barely discernable and covered with brush. Forget it, another time. We had a view to the north from the platform. The first thing I noticed in the landscape of trees was how many dying Oak trees with rust-colored leaves were scattered before us. Then I noticed the sparse gray branches of Aspen trees. Warning! Why were so many trees failing and dying? The drought last year could definitely take out some of the old or damaged trees, but this year had not been so bad. Most of the summer, I have seen places where the Aspen trees looked sick, their leaves sparse and spotted where usually they are shiny green and dancing. Even some in our own back yard were dead or failing. I wondered if the herbicide Dicamba was the reason for the tree treason. It is notorious for its drift and damage to trees. Or was it the changing climate that warmed our winters and allowed more insects to invade. Such a large number of dying trees in a protected area flashes a blinking red warning sign to me.

Warning: Poison ivy.

Warning, expected and benign: At Sherburne and all around the northland—the beginnings of Fall. We seem to be closer to the meteorological calendar than to the astronomical one when Autumn comes the first of September instead of the 21st. At any rate, the process has begun!

Warning: Some plants, butterflies, insects, animals, and even people try to look like or be like others in order to protect themselves or make themselves look bigger or more fierce. False Solomon’s Seal has foliage similar to Smooth Solomon’s Seal, but the flower and fruit are at the end of the stem instead of under the arching stem. How many times has your warning signal flashed when you have met a ‘false’ person?

Warning: There are two types of Elderberry–Sambucus canadensis, one that produces purplish-black berries that make tasty jelly and wine and Sambucus racemosa, red-berried Elder, whose fruit tastes bitter and causes digestive upset. It’s a smart decision to know the difference before gathering and eating berries.

Warning: These petal-less flowers form flat brown seeds with two barbed awns at the top. Devil’s Beggarticks or Devil’s Pitchforks catch and stick to fur or fabric in order to spread the seeds. What kind of negative rhetoric sticks to you and spreads to others with no factual basis? Words of fear and fallacy.

Warning: Toads will give you warts if you pick them up. Nah, that’s an old wives’ tale! Toads have warts on their skin and taste bitter to any predator who dares eat them.

Warning: The stream is hardly a stream and the lake (which looks big on the map) is barely a lake. Cattails and other vegetation have taken over almost the entire Buck Lake! Far into the middle of the cattails, I could see a little bit of water and a Trumpeter Swan family. It’s disappointing (and sometimes embarrassing) having been duped by false advertising.