NorthStarNature

Appreciating the Beauty and Wisdom of Nature

You are here: Home / Archives for 2023

Archives for 2023

Sky and Prairie Partners

by 2 Comments

There is something about a prairie in the high months of Summer. The sun is warm, the wind is cooling, and the sky is a partner to the rolling hills of waving grasses. It’s a great place to roam where the mosquitoes prefer not to tread. There is another insect, however, that will garner your attention—the leaping, jumping, bumping-into-shins antics of August grasshoppers. I find them much easier to ‘take’ than biting, swarming mosquitoes. We found this new prairie after hiking miles of trails through a forest. There were patches of wetlands with cattails and Blue Vervain, and along the trail, we found random boulders of granite that established themselves as a grounding focal point in the swaying vegetation.

The Maple tree forest delivered the news of drought and of the coming change of seasons. Already in mid-August, the signs are there—Summer is waning.

The meeting of sky and prairie is an open invitation to experience freedom.

The restored prairie was relatively new, as the Canada Wild Rye was tall and abundant, its curving seedheads nodding in the breeze. Canada Wild Rye is a native, fast-growing perennial bunchgrass that is used as a ‘nurse’ crop for restored prairies. Nurse crops offer protection for the slower germinating grasses and wildflowers while they develop and get established. Nurse crops can provide erosion control, furnish wind, frost, and sun protection for young seedlings, and suppress weeds. Eventually, as the other grasses and wildflowers become more established, the Rye grass will gradually disappear.

There were other grasses maturing into seedheads—Timothy grass (above) and Sideoats Grama (below).

Daisy Fleabane, a bouquet of tiny daisies all in one plant, were scattered throughout the prairie, along with some spent Wild Monarda, Black-eyed Susans, and newly blooming Stiff Goldenrods.

Daisy Fleabane
Pink leaves of spent Wild Monarda
Spent seedhead of Wild Monarda
Black-eyed Susans
Stiff Goldenrods with Canada Wild Rye

Blue Vervain likes to grow near the wetlands, and the brown, cylindrical flowers of cattails are food for the grasshoppers. Long-legged Leopard frogs leapt across the trail when we neared the lowlands.

The trail led us back into the woods where Maple seedlings covered the forest floor, pink-leaved asters tried to bloom, and boulders appeared in all their granite glory.

A well-worn and gnawed-upon cow skull lay beside the trail, and burs of every kind were getting ready to hitch a ride on any passers-by.

Cockleburs

We passed a bark robe draped over a leaning tree and an unusual wound in a large Maple. The forest glowed green in the dappled sunlight.

Soon we emerged into another prairie area where the blue sky and puffy white clouds once again met the waving grasses. We came to a large granite boulder that had been split with feather and wedges and revealed a hodge-podge of different kinds and colors of granite. We guessed that the area had been explored for granite quarrying but rejected when the stone wasn’t true and uniform.

The prairie grasses, the wetlands that met the grasslands, and the plants and critters that lived there were a part of the all-encompassing title of ‘prairie.’ Each works together, in all their unique ways and means, to bring about the visual beauty of late Summer and the working structure of the prairie ecosystem. It would be mind-boggling to list the benefits the prairie system provides for our world, which include carbon sequestration. It’s not just a pretty place.

Prairies are often overlooked with an impatient ‘there’s nothing there,’ but it requires us to look more closely. It also provides a master class in the evolution of blooming plants throughout the three seasons of growth and decline. I especially appreciate the role of the Canada Wild Rye in the establishment of a new prairie. While nurse crops are used intentionally during prairie restoration, Mother Nature uses nurse plants and trees to protect and promote young seedlings in natural ecosystems. How do we as humans offer protection for our young ones? How do we offer that to the vulnerable people in our society? Close spatial association of the ‘nurse’ has a positive effect on the developing organism, or I would add, to the weak, sick, vulnerable, or wounded. A parent’s role is to be that nurse for our children as they grow and develop—to protect and shelter. But what happens when as adults we are in a vulnerable position—after sickness or surgery, new or old trauma, or loss from these increasingly horrific environmental disasters? We need people and organizations who are ‘nurse’ plants for us while we heal, grow in strength and agency, rebuild, and regain a sense of freedom. There is something about a prairie that pertains to us all.

Legacy of the Rocks

by Leave a Comment

If you were to ‘leave your mark’ on the world after you are gone, what would it be? To compress that even further, how would you do that if you had only the medium of a granite cliff and red ochre mineral pigment mixed with animal fat? And the only way to get to your granite cliff was by canoe? How would you condense your life experience into a message of importance to those who come after you?

The pictographs of Hegman Lake in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness are such a legacy, though we don’t know the person who drew them or the reason why. Many have tried to interpret the meaning of the pictographs, but there is mystery as to the story and even to what exactly each part of it represents. It is estimated that the Native American rock artwork is between 500 and 1000 years old, but even that is a guess. But there is something compelling about it that draws thousands of people to Hegman Lake to paddle the clear, cool water to see it (or to ski or snowshoe to it in the Winter.)

A day permit is needed to enter the lake, and one has to portage canoes and packs of any kind 80 rods (about a quarter of a mile) from the parking lot to the lake. It’s a beautiful portage with many giant White Pines. Rocks and roots concentrate your gaze at your feet, however. We had three canoes and three experienced young people to portage them, as Chris and I carried packs, fishing poles, paddles, and water bottles. It wasn’t long before we were gliding across the beautiful South Hegman Lake!

Three of us were fishermen and two of us cameramen, along with our paddling duties, so the pace was slow and easy. Fish were caught and released, some micro, some larger, some recorded, some returned to their home with a “thanks, good to see you.”

The Pines and Spruces were stately and impressive in all stages of life. One had fallen into the lake and was bleached white by sun and water. Another had tipped over onto the hillside, and its shallow roots had lifted the shore rocks with them, creating a pinwheel of wood and stone. Water levels of the past had left stripes of algae on the shore boulders.

After a second short portage of only five rods in which we just carried canoes upright with everything in them, we entered North Hegman Lake. The terrain looked even more rugged with huge outcroppings of rock along the water.

Green mosses and white Caribou moss, which is really a lichen, covered the rocks under the evergreen trees. A combination of sun and shadows painted the rocky landscape.

It is a miracle how the trees grow out of the rocks. How adaptable they are! We expect they need feet of soil for roots to form—instead they have feet of rocks with crevices of soil!

I love the look of the cushy, ghost-like Caribou Moss. The arctic lichen is sometimes one of the only food sources for caribou and reindeer in the Winter. It gives them carbohydrates to keep warm, and each has adapted by having special microorganisms in their gut to digest the lichens.

At the north end of North Hegman, we saw the granite cliffs that were the huge canvas for the proportionately tiny pictographs.

Splits and shifts in the rock face created little ledges and crevices, and right above a ledge was the red-stained painting of a bull moose, a human figure with large hands, a mountain lion/wolf/dog figure, a line under the animals, canoe-looking marks with two people in two of them and one in the other, hash marks by the human (six or seven), and a cross or x above it all. What is the story or message of the pictographs? Carl Gawboy, an Anishinaabi artist, has studied the drawings for decades and believes them to be Ojibwe depictions of constellations of the Winter sky—Orion–Winter Maker, the Great Moose, Great Panther–as Spirit of the Water, and the North Star at the top. Perhaps this was a map of sorts using the stars as guides. Maybe it was an encouragement to persevere through the long months of Winter. Maybe it was just art for the sake of art or art for the sake of a story. We can certainly relate to that.

We can each make our own story about it—three canoes, two people in two and one in the other–just like our three canoes that day. Six strong decades of life with a faint line of the seventh yet to be. An ongoing wish to see a Moose. And my trek towards my own North Star.

The palisade of granite and the layers of different colored rock are works of art in their own right.

On our way back, we passed by a line of boulders that jutted from the water. I thought these giant rocks needed a name and deemed them ‘The Guardians of the Bay.’ (Perhaps that is where the Moose lives.)

On an island past the Guardians (or maybe it was an extended peninsula), we pulled over for a lunch break. The point of the island was all rock, like many campsites in the BWCA, and the view was typically beautiful and wild.

Aaron filtered some water to replenish our Nalgenes, and Chris spread out our lunch food on the rock table. In turn, we made our peanut butter bagel sandwiches and grabbed a handful of nutty and sweet gorp or a homemade granola bar. Simple and satisfactory.

Then the kids jumped into the lake to cool down and float and play in the wilderness water like otters.

The bees and I explored the island flora. Wintergreen crept along the ground on the northwest side, and blueberries grew among the rock crevices in their sparse bits of soil. I picked and ate a few blue ripe ones, but most of the crop was yet to be.

I admired the tall Grandfather White Pine who stood sentry on the rock outcropping. His roots grew on top of the rock, clutching and crawling and anchoring to anything that would hold him. His shedded needles created paths of brown that will eventually transform to soil. As the swimmers dried themselves in the sun, I soaked up the warmth of the rock and rays in a healing sauna of sorts.

Time is pretty much irrelevant in the wilderness, besides getting to where you need to be before dark, whether campsite or car. The sun and our bodies become timekeepers for travel, eating, and rest. It doesn’t take long to re-set to this natural way of being—if you allow it.

As we paddled back to the portage, a Loon swam along beside us. Its feeding of the day was finished, and he preened and cleaned his feathers as he floated along.

The water had calmed, and reflections of the kids in their canoes made a comforting picture. The water softly rippled as the point of the canoe cut through it and the paddle lifted and let go of the medium of our travel.

Part of our legacy in the flesh floated along beside us—do they know that they are our messages of importance? That we carefully and consciously gave them our time and attention with brushstrokes of love? That we allowed space for creativity and immersion in Nature? That we now are turning the story over to them? The story of Chris and I as individuals encompasses more than our many chapters of parenthood, and our footprints in time will reach more people than our children. But sometimes those parts are forgotten after decades of parenting. Carl Gawboy asked about the pictographs, “Who are the people that met there? And said, well, this is what we have to remember and this is what we have to teach.” What we have to remember and what we have to teach—it really is the foundation of a legacy. What is your message of importance? How have you grown out of the rocks, the hard times? How have you anchored yourself despite those hard times? Our messages are conveyed by words, art, and actions, and the reality of it is the message is just as much for ourselves as those who come after us. The receivers of the message see it with their own eyes and their own interpretations. It may be inspiring or discouraging. So it remains mysterious, no matter the message or the medium. And still we grow on, move on, and love on to what is yet to be.

Where the New Ones Grow

by 2 Comments

We’ve all heard of ‘black and white thinking’ and have probably participated in it at some time in our lives. It is when we think or feel in absolutes—good or bad, right or wrong, valid or in-valid—with no in-between or gray area. This dichotomous thinking (or splitting) is often a self-protective trauma response when we feel unsafe. It often goes along with ‘me thinking’ when we feel or believe that others ‘should’ think the same way we do and therefore act the same way we do. (And of course ‘me thinking’ is always the ‘right’ way.)

Part of that way of thinking is to try to maintain some sort of order or control over any given situation, which is exactly what traumatized people are always trying to do when they get triggered or activated or to keep from getting that horrible feeling in their guts. We also like to ‘order’ our time with categories, routines, schedules, and things that make sense to us. It helps to ‘calm’ our bodies and minds. We do it with Nature, too. We want the natural world to fit into our categories—just think Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall—‘white or gray thinking,’ ‘light green thinking,’ ‘dark green and bright colors thinking,’ and ‘yellow and orange thinking.’ But at every turn, Nature is moving us beyond those categories, beyond our limited thinking.

Chris and I walked through a predominantly White Pine forest in the middle of the year at the height of summer. It was dark green with mature foliage and rich brown with tree trunks and only glimpses of bright color at a few chosen places. The trail was covered with pine needles and strewn with pine cones. Sunshine through the trees dappled the pine carpet.

I walked quite a ways on the noticeable carpet of pine needles and cones before I realized that everywhere we walked, tiny Pine seedlings had sprouted from the seeds that had been released from the opened cones. Right in the middle of summer there was new growth sprouting like it was early Spring! Hundreds of thousands of them so tiny and new that our boots could not miss them.

A meadow opened up to bright sunshine and grasses. Mullein, like dancers of the prairie, were standing five feet tall with a spike of yellow flowers that open before dawn and close by mid-afternoon. This wooly plant begins its biennial life with a low-growing whorl of fuzzy leaves in its first year. It needs cold temperatures to induce flowering the following year. It is capable of self-pollinating, and each plant can produce 100,000 to 240,000 tiny seeds that are viable for decades! Respect!

Another beautiful fuzzy plant is the Common Milkweed. The veined leaves are a work of art in and of themselves. And then the incredible ball of flower! Milkweeds are considered a ‘fugitive species’ in the southern Great Plains—their growth is dependent on disturbance because they can’t compete with other vegetation. Here in the northern plains, they are a more permanent member of the ecology.

Milkweeds contain cardiac glycosides that infuse the Monarch caterpillars who eat their leaves (and also the butterfly) with a toxin that deters birds and other predators. Genius defense. (Not to mention the Viceroy Butterfly who looks similar to the Monarch to take advantage of Mullerian mimicry.) But the butterfly we saw on the Milkweed was a not-colorful Wood Nymph whose unusual characteristic is over-wintering as a hibernating caterpillar instead of in the protection of a cocoon.

Who would ever think there is a mushroom called the Funeral Bell?

Two old Bigtooth Aspens grew side by side. Aspens are clonal plants that can grow from root suckers. They are categorized as a ‘pioneer species’ that is one of the first to grow after fire or clear-cutting. Five hundred different species of plants and animals utilize the Aspen tree in some way! What an impact one species of tree can have on the world!

Bulrushes grow near and in rivers and lakes. They are important for fish and bird habitat, including spawning areas for Northern Pike, nesting cover for Bass and Bluegills, and food for ducks, geese, and swans.

Swamp Milkweed (Asclepias incarnata) is named after the Greek god of medicine (Asklepios) and is a food source for the Monarch. They have specialized, scented white roots that like heavy, wet soil.

The forest had many trees as large as these twin White Pines, stately, iconic Minnesota trees. They give a person a feeling of grandeur and history—all the things these trees have seen in their long lives! Wow!

And right there on the forest floor, from the nourishment of old trees, needles, and leaves, the new ones grow.

Nature is neither bad nor good—it defies dichotomous thinking and human categorization. It has gray areas galore. It has diversity and interdependence that connects species and truly makes the world go round. How many of the amazing ‘facts’ did you know about these few plants? Can you believe that individual people have similar ‘amazing facts’ that make up their lives? Just as Nature is a moving circle of Life that creates, develops, grows, matures, and dies, we are the same. We cannot be placed in ‘them or us’ boxes. I have thought and reacted with black and white thinking in a desire for control of who or what was triggering the horrible feeling in my gut. I did it for many, many years, but trying to control other people or things is not the way to erase those feelings. The work is ours, and it is on ourselves. Nature can be our guide to move us beyond our limited thinking, to help us show respect for the unique individuals in our midst, to see beauty and interdependence with ‘colorful thinking,’ and most importantly, to help us heal the wounds that have hurt us all.

Storytellers and Swimmers

by 3 Comments

I cannot begin to count the number of days in my life that have slid by in a blur. Some were in the self-centered days of early childhood when as children, we concentrate on getting our needs met and learning about the world. Others were in the extreme busyness of going to graduate school while juggling the activities and needs of three kids. Still others were once again in self-centered mode when pain could not be relieved, and my world shrunk down to cocoon-size in an attempt to manage the overwhelm. I have no negative judgement of those times—we do what we have to do in any given situation. But because of plenty of those blurry, constricted times, I am very aware of the times that are sharply outlined, slowly delicious, and wonderfully expansive for my mind-body-spirit freedom.

A good way to discover that mind-body-spirit freedom is to find some water, trees, and wild sky to park yourself in for a few days. The ‘agenda’ becomes play in the water, hike to the hill-top, and watch the moon rise over the trees. The process originates from our senses—noticing what we see, hear, smell, taste, and touch. And all of the feel-good sensing and activities are grounded in our bodies, memories, and soul by sharing them with people we love who love us. It’s a win-win-win.

One of the first sounds I heard was a loud, chirping/cheeping chatter. It sounded like a much louder version of the baby chicks we used to house on our back porch until they were big enough to move to the chicken coop. A pair of Osprey sat in a haphazard nest in the dead top of a Pine tree and told their story to all who could hear them.

The water the Osprey overlooked and fished from was clear and cold. Red-stemmed Water Lilies floated on the surface like silver coins, along with the silver star reflections made by the afternoon sun.

Yellow Pond Lilies and Northern Blueflag Irises decorated the water and shore with their Summer colors.

A Painted Turtle had crawled up on shore and dug a hole with its sharply-clawed hind feet in order to lay eggs. Our presence interrupted those plans.

One of the common foods for Painted Turtles is Dragonfly larvae. They live in the water through numerous molts, then crawl out of the water, learn to breathe air, shed their skin, and emerge as an adult, winged Dragonfly. A larva shell is stuck to the bark of this fallen log. (right in the middle of the picture) A new Dragonfly flies away!

Freedom is often depicted with the image of a butterfly that has completed its metamorphosis from egg to caterpillar to larva in a cocoon or chrysalis to adult butterfly. Freedom to develop, nourish one’s self, grow, incubate, isolate, change, and fly.

Another resident bird of the lake can sing a person to sleep in the evening as the western sky still holds the day’s light. The Common Loons also woke me in the early morning with a flurry of calls and a swimming/flying routine I called ‘motorboating.’ I wasn’t sure if they were doing their morning exercise or if this activity was for another purpose; I did notice their calls seemed more vigorous than usual.

Then I saw another lone Loon in a different part of the lake, so perhaps they were defending their territory.

Rocks are the hold-in-your-hand or hold-up-your-feet entities that make a person know what gravity is, what sun-induced warmth is, and what eons of history are in this place. Lichens and moss are the writing that tells the story.

Like a foraging Black Bear or a hungry Gray Jay, I browsed through the brush of Wild Blueberries growing in the scant soil over the large rocks. They were just beginning to ripen, so pickings were precious and few. Not so with the Juneberries on the shrubby, thin-branched trees—they were ripe and abundant and oh-so-delicious!

The smell of campfire smoke is like a signal to relax, prepare some nourishment, eat slowly and laugh often. Usually only one or two people of the group become the fire-tend-er; others take care of food, clean-up, and equipment—there are shared responsibilities even when time is slow and relaxation is the goal. As evening smoke drifted up into the calm sky, a beaver swam in circles in the lake—again, it seemed like he was doing it for fun, for the pure joy of movement. At one point we startled him, and he slapped his tail on the water with a loud ‘crack’ and dove out of sight. But soon he was back to swimming his laps. We saw him swim to the shore where a bright green branch of leaves grew or lay in the shallow water, and he nibbled and nibbled his post-workout snack until it was almost gone.

Late evening and watching the almost full moon rise above the trees and reflect on the water—I wonder if these moments could get much better. It’s a ‘savor-moment’—it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay in a time when so many things make it feel otherwise.

Then morning comes after a Loon-call-filled night. Mist from a warm day, cool night floats above the water. Reflections on the calm, still water give us a slightly different view of reality, expanding our minds.

We all go through constricted times in our lives when facts and feelings are blurry. Pain, whether physical or emotional, is a constrictor. We don’t usually have the capacity to do much beyond dealing with the very real but usually distorting pain. Looking back to those times in my life, I realize there were negative consequences to my being in the cocooning pain, but there were also gifts to be had and lessons to be learned. Extreme busyness also tends to blur the perceptions and memories of a given time. Both pain and busyness are integral parts of Life. We won’t escape them, but we can cultivate more feelings of freedom. Being in the arms of Mother Nature, listening to the Loons and Osprey, seeing the full moon rise over the trees, smelling the campfire, tasting the Juneberries, and touching the warm rocks all expand my mind, body, and spirit. I feel like I could fly. I want more of that.

The Unseen River

by Leave a Comment

In the early seventies—yes, back in the nineteen hundreds—I was one of millions of kids who watched the one television set in the house with my siblings. We watched an array of programs—The Brady Bunch, Saturday morning cartoons, American Bandstand, Dark Shadows, the Merv Griffin Show, To Tell the Truth, Hee Haw, Laugh-In, and so many more. One of the shows we watched—The Flip Wilson Show—popularized an idiom “what you see is what you get” when Flip impersonated his drag persona ‘Geraldine.’ And no one, not my Republican parents, not the ‘media,’ not half the members of Congress, or concerned citizens thought this show was ruining, grooming, exploiting, or influencing children. It was a comedy show with a humorous man dressing up like a sassy character, and it was funny! Looking back at any of those programs could indeed bring on some cringe moments in this day and age, but we survived our tv-watching childhood and became who we were meant to be.

“What you see is what you get” is a statement often used by a person who is unapologetic of who they are or how they are behaving, especially if another asks them to do or be something different. It implies there is no hidden or unknown features, traits, or characteristics beyond what is seen or immediately apparent, and it also implies that the person has no interest in changing. This statement can run the gamut from a person who is humbly grounded in who they are in the world to a rude reply of ‘hey, I do what I do, and I don’t care what you or anybody else thinks.’ I’m not so interested in who says it or for what reason, but in the premise that what we see is the whole story.

When we went north to Bemidji, we were on a bee-line to see the bog, and I was thrilled to see the blooming bog plants. After our bog walk, we picnicked beside Lake Bemidji, a medium sized (7,000 acres) lake with clear water, sandy beaches, and abundant fish species. We hiked along the beach and along the northern shore for a ways, noticing boats and float planes traversing the waters.

Other floaters seemed to ignore the few people fishing and swimming. A red-headed Common Merganser swam close to the beach. A large Snapping Turtle floated to the surface near the dock, then lazily swam under the dock as fishermen threw their lines close by. A school of Yellow Perch doubled their numbers with dark shadows of themselves. A Blue-Winged Teal preened on a rock by the fishing dock, then swam close to the hiking path.

Along the rocky shore where Bass Creek flows into Lake Bemidji, Harlequin Blueflag Irises displayed their showy purple flowers, and the ball-shaped buds of Yellow Pond Lilies floated above their lily pad leaves.

June Wild Roses proliferated along the wetlands, their sweet smell and pink faces bringing joy to those who noticed them.

Bass Creek cuts a path from Big Bass Lake to Lake Bemidji, part of the 396,000 acres of land that drains into Lake Bemidji. The rushes, reeds, and cattails create a scenic wetland and provide food and shelter to the animals who live there.

There is much to see at Lake Bemidji State Park, as with so much of northern Minnesota. It hones your observation skills and makes one appreciate the incredible diversity that is contained in a rather homogeneous area. What you see encompasses a large part of the story, but it is not the whole story. We tend to think of water flowing into a lake as becoming the lake—Bass Creek becomes Lake Bemidji. But there is something we don’t see. ‘Bemidji’ means ‘lake with crossing waters’ from the Ojibwa word ‘Bemidjigamaag.’ The Mississippi River, whose source is less than fifty miles away at Lake Itasca, flows into Lake Bemidji from the south and west, crosses the Lake and exits on the east side. A river runs through the lake. This large and impressive River flows through a number of northern lakes before it begins its southward descent to Louisiana.

The things we don’t see are powerful parts of the story of a River and a Lake, just as they are with the stories of our Lives. My premise is the idiom of ‘what you see is what you get’ is how a person wants to be seen, not all that is there. It’s more likely a way to hide a vulnerability or a painful part of oneself. We have amazing, creative, resilient ways to armor ourselves against pain and loss, but the spirit of who we are runs through us whether seen or unseen. I like that we and all of Nature are an amazing combination of both. I think the challenge is to integrate all those parts of ourselves—the swagger, the shadows, the funny parts, the vulnerable parts, the knowledge, the fears, and the weaknesses—into an authentic, happy, beautiful Self while shedding those behaviors that separate us from ourselves and others. What is the unseen river that runs through you?

On a Quest for the Elusive Pitcher Plant

by 6 Comments

Two years ago for my birthday we hiked at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park where I discovered the intriguing deep red flower of the Purple Pitcher Plant. But it was in the middle of a bog, unreachable, unattainable, elusive. So I was never able to see the actual plant—the ‘pitcher’ part, the insect-eating, carnivorous, cartoonishly-scary part of the plant. So a few days after my birthday, when I knew the Pitcher Plants would be blooming, we got up early in the morning and headed north to Lake Bemidji State Park. The boggy land between and among Lakes Bemidji, Big Bass, Timber, and Big Bog has been protected as a park since 1923. The bogs are a result of water-filled depressions formed by the receding glaciers that over the years has filled with partially decayed plant material or peat. Bogs contain decayed sphagnum peat moss which can hold water like a sponge and is used to enrich garden soil. The bog environment is cold, acidic, and low in oxygen, a rather challenging ecosystem for plants to thrive. So they have adapted by becoming efficient in the use of light, moisture, and nutrients. Many have evergreen leaves to extend the growing season, some have thick, fleshy leaves to store moisture, and many have showy flowers to attract pollinating insects, then produce huge numbers of seeds. We found our way to Bog Walk Trail, prepared for mosquito attacks, and walked through the upland woods to the bog boardwalk.

Bunchberry Dogwoods are a low-growing groundcover, a northern Dogwood with the iconic showy white flowers. A cluster of bright red berries forms after flowering.

Soon I spotted the elusive Purple Pitcher Plant flower among the Horsetails, its heavy head bent over, its stem buried in the abundant vegetation of the bog! I strained to see the base of the flower, the ‘pitcher,’ but could not see it.

My attention was drawn to a single purple flower on a smooth stem, a Dragon’s Mouth Orchid! This beautiful flower will produce up to a million seeds! That is mind bog-gling!

I did not have to walk far before I saw more Pitcher Plant flowers on their sturdy, curving stems, and this time I was just able to find the green-mouthed ‘pitcher’ at their base.

If one was walking the boardwalk even at a stroll, there are many plants and flowers that would be missed. This is a place that compels a person to look closely, to stop and peer into the green wonderland of this soft world. Twinflowers rise from a single stem, then a pair of pink, bell-shaped flowers opens above the creeping evergreen leaves. These tiny flowers (1/3″ to 1/2″) are fragrant for their diminutive size (almond scented), are part of the Honeysuckle family, and have the lovely Latin name of Linnaea borealis!

At the Mille Lacs Kathio bog, I was enthralled with the clumps of Tussock Cottongrass. At Lake Bemidji bog, a different species—Slender Cottongrass—grows. It is smaller, droopier, but no less stunning!

Large-leaved Showy Lady’s Slippers (Minnesota’s State Flower) were in the bud stage, just about to bloom. Another of the Orchid family species, the Stemless Lady’s Slipper or Moccasin Flower, was in full pink bloom.

Starflower, a type of Primrose, and Labrador Tea, a type of Heath, were abundant in the bog. Most of the Labrador Teas were past bloom, but we found some in shadier spots that were open and seemingly desirable to some insects. (Speaking of insects, we were amazingly not bothered by mosquitoes!)

I saw more and more of the nodding Purple Pitcher Plant flowers as we walked the boardwalk trail. Even when they were close to the trail and in relatively open vegetation, the Pitcher Plants were well-camouflaged. The ‘pitcher’ is a very specialized leaf in the shape of a cylinder. It is an engineering marvel with a ‘wing’ structure down the front to strengthen it when it is full of rainwater. The lip is densely covered with stiff downward-angled hairs that help glide the insects into the enzyme-rich rainwater where it drowns and is ‘digested’ so the nutrients can be used by the plant. The red-purple veining and nectar attract the insects to their demise.

We saw more bright Moccasin Flowers, a few other Dragon’s Mouth Orchids, and some Wild Lily of the Valley. The forest part of the bog was occupied by Tamarack (Larch) and Black Spruce trees who like wet feet and acidic conditions.

The Pitcher Plant flowers are in and of themselves a work of art. Their thick, waxy petals can be in all states of opening—from tight buds to open, expanded umbrellas. After the petals fall the seed capsule remains on the long stem into Fall.

The mossy floor of the bog is suspended above water and is the substrate from which the plants grow. The trees grow horizontal roots to help them stand in the wet conditions. Marsh Marigolds, with their veined round leaves, were at the end of their blooming season; we saw a few of the rich golden flowers.

As we got closer to Big Bog Lake, we began to see some cattails growing with the bog plants. Wild Calla Lilies, with their beautiful heart-shaped leaves, grew in the outlet of the lake.

Wild Blueberries were bountiful in the bog and were setting fruit.

Smaller even than the Twinflowers are the Bog Cranberry flowers (1/4″) with pinkish-white petals that curl back away from the stamens and pistil. They have viney evergreen leaves and produce a small, red fruit. Now look even more closely—at the bottom center of the photo below the small Cranberry flowers is another carnivorous plant of the bog—Round-leaved Sundew. The round, reddish tinged leaves have sticky hairs that trap and enfold insects that are digested for nutrients for the tiny plant.

The bog is a fascinating ecosystem with beautiful and interesting plants. The elusive Purple Pitcher Plants ended up being plentiful in the Bemidji bog! Their pitcher leaves turn more colorful with the sun and the progression of the season. They are a perfect example of evolutionary adaptability that all the plants of the bog display.

From my first encounter with the alluring Purple Pitcher Plant flower, I became kind of obsessed with them. I had heard of carnivorous plants, but did not realize they were right here in the wilds of Minnesota! And while they were elusive in the bogs I had visited, I was hardly a bog aficionada (well, I do have the enthusiasm and appreciation.) I had the desire to see more and learn more (a quest) and was happy to get up early to go to a place we had never been before. There are many desires in our lives that seem unreachable, unattainable, or elusive. How can we find these hard-to-catch yearnings? Being in the right place at the right time is more than just a cliché—some of our longings absolutely need to be timed correctly and situated in the right place—or the pursuit will be unreachable. It also helps to have the right people who are willing and able to walk beside us, be patient and encouraging, and who possess a kind heart and sense of humor. I’m grateful my bog boardwalking partner is all of that. Most every one of us have a bountiful life teeming with beauty, diversity, and goodness. Stop for a moment or two and peer into the wonderland that is your life on this amazing, great green Earth.

Puzzling Places

by Leave a Comment

I appreciate our brain’s ability to ‘fill in the blanks.’ In any given situation, our brain has a puzzle of sorts before it—some pieces are the sensory information our body gathers on an ongoing basis—what we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, the temperature on our skin, the ground under our feet, and so many other things we are not aware of in the moment. Other pieces are the actual facts—the day, the time, the place, who is with us, what is happening. Most of this puzzle-piece-gathering happens in an instant of time and often without our conscious awareness. But then there’s a dilemma for our brain—the picture is not complete. Some things are missing. In a desire for order and wholeness, our brains ‘fill in the blanks.’ We use our past experiences and/or our imaginations to extrapolate the rest of the picture—and it feels better, more satisfactory. It’s a remarkable ability that allows us to function in a productive way, so we don’t have to ‘re-learn’ everything in any given situation. It can also get us into trouble when the puzzle pieces we have inserted look like they fit but are really the wrong pieces.

Going to Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in the southeastern corner of Minnesota challenged many of my Minnesota optics—the land of 10,000 lakes vs. an area with no lakes, a glacial state vs. the ‘driftless’ area that is devoid of the sand, gravel, and silt (called drift) deposited by the last glaciers. It is an area like no other in the state, and at first, it’s a little mind-bending. One of the mind-bending occurrences was the disappearing river that we learned about on our Mystery Cave tour. The South Branch Root River disappears into the cave which is at a constant, year-round temperature of 48 degrees, and is cooled by its journey underground. That is why 700 miles of streams and rivers in this area are designated cold water trout streams. The landscape here is known as ‘karst’ where limestone and other soluble rocks have eroded to form sinkholes, springs, underground rivers, and caves.

Mystery Cave is the longest known cave in Minnesota—over thirteen miles of underground passageways. Ours was the one hour tour that is accessible to most, but there are two and four hour tours that include much more rugged terrain and smaller pathways that require crawling. The cave is home to hibernating bats in the winter (they have a special door to get in and out) and is an actively forming cave with dripping water from above and pools and streams of water below the walkways. Come explore the cave with me!

Flowstone
A tree root growing through the ceiling
A hole in the ceiling formed by upward flowing water
Reddish ‘bacon’ formation
Broken stalactites
Cave popcorn
Turquoise lake

At one point in the tour, the guide turned off all the lights, and we were in total darkness. Our brains are not used to functioning in complete darkness, and some people still ‘see’ light. Our brains are ‘filling in the blanks’ again. The cave tour was such a cool, interesting part of our day. Later that night, after supper, when sitting around the campfire, a sliver of a moon shone in the western sky. We began to hear noises down by the dumpsters—the lids opening and banging closed. What could it be? It wasn’t people. I walked down the path to see who was doing the dumpster diving.

A truly tubby raccoon was climbing in and carrying out leftover food to eat on the top of the dumpster. He was not concerned when he saw me but returned to his supper routine.

The evening air was still, the campfire smelled of clean-burning wood, the trees were silhouetted against the still-light sky. It was a peaceful, restorative place.

The next morning, we drove to the little 1850’s village of Forestville at the northern end of the park. It was a ‘forgotten’ town when the railroad bypassed it, and eventually one man bought the whole town. A tour bus of people were gathering for a historic visit. Chris and I took to the trails that rose from the South Branch Root River up the forested bluff. Oak and Maple trees shaded the forest floor that was covered with ferns, Wild Geraniums, and Mayapples with an occasional red-pink Columbine. It was beautiful!

An overlook at the top of the bluff looked out at another bluff. This area of wooded hills and valleys seemed like a different world than central Minnesota—it was a confirmation of the splendid diversity of landscapes all encompassed in one state.

As I looked over at the next bluff, I noticed a stream flowing through the trees—it seemed so unlikely that a stream could be flowing so far up on a hill! But the karst region is a tangle of streams that begin from springs that flow through the underground rocks and defy the usual flow of water, just like the upward flow of water etched a hole in the ceiling of the cave. My brain’s ‘filling in the blanks’ of how things are, how things work was wrong in a place like this.

Our brains do what they do to expediate processing—we use what we have learned in the past to figure out what is going on in the present. But just like working on a real puzzle, when we have put a wrong piece in place, we eventually ‘see’ that it is wrong and remove it for the piece that really fits. That is the gift of learning—the picture becomes more complete, more satisfactory, more real. When we are stuck in our ways, stubborn in being ‘right,’ and unwilling to change out an ill-fitting idea or ‘fact’ for a valid one, we end up with a dystopian, Picasso-like, distorted picture. I never expected a Minnesota State Park, a place we went to for peace and comfort, would be a place that expanded my thoughts about darkness and water. We have an opportunity to learn every day, in every situation. Are we willing to do that in pursuit of a more whole, realistic picture of Life?

The Sweet Fragrance of Our Toil

by 2 Comments

I remember the incredible energy and enthusiasm I had in early adulthood to make my way in life. I was naïve in the ways of the world and idealistic to a distinct and long-lingering fault. My pragmatic friend Judy tried to point out my rose-colored vision and give me a reality check, but I cheerfully resisted and persisted in my verdant views of life. I was young, fresh-faced, and immature in experience and judgement. I was in the early Spring of my life, teeming with tender ideas and raw emotions.

One month after we had been walking through those resistant, persistent snow piles in central Minnesota and after our short stay in Cassville, WI for Mary’s burial, Chris and I spent a couple of days in the verdant hills of Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in southeastern Minnesota. The trees had not fully leafed out yet—groves of Walnut trees, shy of cold temps, were just pushing out their young compound leaves. Everything was fresh and green and flourishing! This ‘driftless’ area of Minnesota was unglaciated in the last two glacial advances, but the glacial meltwater cut through the limestone and created the bluffs that predominate the area. Winding through and at the bottom of the bluffs are shallow, cold water streams and rivers that support trout, making this an angler’s paradise. After a death and burial, our bodies and minds do well to have a respite from the busy, ‘normal’ life that feels like an assault against the tenderhearted soul work of losing a loved one. This rich green park was a perfect place to buffer ourselves for a transition time back to normal life.

We hiked the Palisade Trail the first morning in the shadow of the palisade or line of cliffs that loomed over the shallow South Branch of the Root River. On the trail down to the river bottom, we saw Mayapples with their two umbrella leaves and single white flower.

Wild Geraniums and Honeysuckle flowers attracted bees and insects and disseminated a sweet fragrance.

The limestone cliff shaded the River and trail from the morning sun—it was noticeably cooler when we descended to the River.

Meadow Rue, Wild Mustard, and Wild Blue Phlox thrived in the cool valley of the rugged limestone cliffs.

With the heat of the sun and the cool of the valley floor, dew had collected on plants, including the beautiful Virginia Bluebells, and soaked our shoes as we walked.

There were fishermen trying to land a trout, and geese swimming in and flying above the River. It was a peaceful, beautiful place.

Later in the day, we walked another trail that wound by the Root River, through the campgrounds, and up over a Maple tree-covered hill and ridge. Ferns of every sort and large Jack-in-the-Pulpits lined the trail.

The park has a horse camp area, and we saw numerous riders on some of the trails we hiked. The horse trail forded the River below the road bridge. Hiking up the ridge was a good workout, and as we puffed our way up, a horse rider exclaimed that they let their horse do the work!

The trail at the top of the ridge was beautiful. I had expected there to be a flattened meadow once we got to the top, but the ridge was literally the ridge between two steep, deeply wooded valleys. Exploring a new place is always an adventure.

Early Spring, whether in our own lives or in Nature’s cyclic rhythm, is a time of fresh and supple greenness. Ideas, beliefs, faces, leaves, flowers, and all accompanying entities are unscarred, unscathed, and untested. Then comes Life, death, soul injuries, insects, weather, loss, and a whole host of things that temper the young, fresh living beings. ‘Temper’ is a key word about the process—it describes how steel is heated and then cooled repeatedly to improve its hardness and elasticity. Life does harden our young greenness, but it also increases our elasticity or resilience, if we include ‘the cooling.’

Whenever there is grief, a ‘heating up’, whether by the death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a stark and jolting reality check, or the gradual realization that a naïve, fervently-held belief is not nor ever has been true, we desire comfort. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”* Comfort is the ‘cooling off’, the neutralizer or counterbalance to the heat and pain of Life. It is often overlooked, undervalued, and not given its due time and respect by society. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”* Green pastures, streams and rivers, old forests, ancient rocks, fragrant flowers, rest, love, words of care and understanding, hugs, and time for self reflection cool us down and restore our souls. Life is a good workout for our souls, but we have to do the restorative work ourselves. God knows it’s hard work, and he leads us on the right paths.* With each pain, each grief, each adventure, and each comfort, we are tempered—stronger and more resilient. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”*—the sweet fragrance of our toil.

*from Psalm 23

Flowing Together Like a Great River

by Leave a Comment

I grew up caring for animals. Always cats and dogs. Sometimes chickens and ducks. Later horses and cattle. I would feed them, make sure they had water, help build their shelters, and take care of their wounds. I hauled hay, cleaned out stalls, helped pull a calf, and doctored pink eye. Taking care of animals teaches responsibility, selflessness (chores come first), and hard work. I loved it, and I loved them.

I’ve been a little obsessed lately about what people care about and how it seems to be skewed in some odd directions. Can you make a list of things you really care about? And how do you know you really care about something? Spend time doing the work of caring? Spend money in support of the cared about thing? Give energy to the entity, relationship, or cause high on the caring list? And then, what is the outcome of your caring? That’s often even harder to identify and articulate. Certainly we gave time, money, and energy to caring for our animals—in return they gave us food, protection, fun, love, livelihood, and lessons, to name a few.

When looking up the definition of ‘care,’ I was surprised that the first meaning of the noun was ‘suffering of mind: grief.’ The second was ‘a disquieted state of mixed uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility.’ The third was ‘painstaking or watchful attention.’ The verb care was similar. Only later on the list of meanings for both was desire, regard, interest, or fondness mentioned. The first definition actually gets to the crux of care—if what we really care about is ‘taken away,’ suffering of mind is sure to follow.

Two weeks ago we pulled out of our driveway on the Great River Road and hours later drove the Great River Road into tiny Cassville, Wisconsin. We left the Mississippi River at times to expedite our trip, but the force of it was ever present on our minds. We returned to Cassville to bury Chris’ sister’s remains beside her parents and infant brother. The four and a half months since her death had taken the edge off our grief, but our disquieted minds still desired the closure of a burial. The permanence of a burial, along with prayers and blessings for the deceased and for those caring, grieving people left to live, is a sealing of that chapter of life.

After seeing the flooding the Great River unleashed in our area, we were curious to see what was happening in Cassville at the little resort cabin we had reserved that was the favorite of Chris’ folks. The floodwaters had risen to the edge of the cabins but had started to recede by the time we got there.

Our first visitor to the deck overlooking the River was a tiny Hummingbird. Soon after, we discovered a pair of Robins had a nest in the Birch tree that provided shade from the western sunlight. The male Robin took great care to bring food to his mate who warmed the eggs in the nest they had built.

The receding floodwaters and subsequent mud provided a perfect playground for a pair of Killdeer and their fluffy, long-legged offspring. Their halting scurrying, bobbing, and distinct high-pitched chattering made them endearing neighbors.

The people-free, flooded dock was a great place for the Northern Map Turtles to bask in the sun. I didn’t even see the little ones in the bright sunlight when I was taking the photo of the big one. The next day we saw one floating down the River on a log—I think they are glad for this warm Spring weather, too!

Across the slough on an island was a dead tree that provided the perfect lookout for an ever-watchful Eagle.

It was good to be in Cassville beside the River. The cabin hadn’t changed much since the folks had stayed there, and my mind easily ‘saw’ them standing against the pine-paneled walls or on the deck overlooking the River. These people who we so deeply cared for and loved were home again or still in this River land, in this familiar cabin, and as always, in our hearts. Evening came with softly rippled reflections. The still water seemed ‘alive’ with a humming layer of mosquitoes or other bugs that had the fish jumping. The well-fed fish had little interest in the lures and bait that Chris and Aaron were throwing into the water from the marina dock.

As dusk fell, a Spotted Sandpiper teetered about in the shallow water, and a beaver swam undeterred until Aaron threw his line too close for the rodent’s comfort.

I cared for our animals with diligence and love, and if one of them was injured or died, I suffered their injury or loss. I like the analogy of grief as suffering of mind—it normalizes the pain of loss and gives it a deep container and a long timeline in which to hold it. Time tends to ease a suffering mind in ways that make living a little more doable. I have learned that the next step is to give your suffering mind some watchful attention, some care, some love, so that life becomes more than just doable. If we think about our grief as a palpable display of caring and love, the grieving and the living flow together like a great river. When grief gets dammed up behind a supposedly protective wall, it can easily overwhelm everyday life. It displays as depression, anxiety, lethargy, anger, blame, hate, and violence. Remember, grief is a suffering mind, no matter the cause. I think Mary’s life and death taught me to bind the suffering with joyful living. As a person with Down Syndrome, she needed people to take care of her—there was always uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility with her care (just as with all children.) And she cared deeply for the people around her, for animals, and for her job—she lived with joy. I can suffer her death and live with a peaceful heart. It takes time, energy, and oftentimes money to really care about someone, a relationship, an entity, or a cause. Caring is the business of lifting up, providing for, giving attention to, and suffering at the loss of the cared-for; it is not a frivolous business. We can all step into the great river of caring and grieving, loving and suffering—it is a force that can change the world.

Heartwood

by 4 Comments

When we had a beautiful newborn child come into our lives in the mid-eighties, I remember laying her on the bed with a colorful, hand-crocheted baby blanket and taking her picture. I took the film photos of her on the same blanket once a week. By the time we actually got the film developed and saw the pictures, it was astounding how much she had changed each week in those early months of her life! That is how the last six weeks of Spring have been—an astounding transformation from remnants of snow on the winter-desiccated landscape to fully leaved-out trees, green grass, and blooming flowers! Both are sure signs of the miraculous metamorphoses of Life!

Two weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, I was happy to visit Afton State Park with our son Aaron and his girlfriend Zoe. The park is a short drive to the east of Saint Paul on the Saint Croix River. My first impression was that it was ‘crowded’ with people, as are most of the parks that are easily accessible from the Cities. It had been a cloudy, misty morning, but skies were beginning to clear by the time we arrived. The Saint Croix River is an indomitable body of water that marks the eastern border of Minnesota for part of its length and joins with the Mississippi River not far south of Afton State Park. Afton is one of five state parks that preserves the wild beauty of the Saint Croix River bluffs. We followed the North River Trail, an old railroad bed that followed the River. From the built-up height and railroad bridges, we looked down on the flood waters that crept through the trees and housed dozens of waterfowl.

The leaves of the trees were fresh and light green in their annual coming out celebration. Going from bare branches to abundant, distinctly-shaped leaves covering those branches is a Spring miracle that never fails to amaze me!

Looking over the bridge into the rippling flood waters and tree reflections was a bit disorienting.

The flood plain and riverside are perfect places for Eastern Cottonwood trees to grow tall in height and large in girth. They love having their roots so close to the water.

If my first observation of the park was an abundance of people, my second was the absence of Spring wildflowers compared to the central Minnesota parks. We saw these delightful variegated ferns emerging and found a few clumps of golden-starred Puccoons, along with some white-flowered Rue Anemone, but that was about it.

Green was the color of the day, however, and after a long, white Winter, it is a welcomed change. The flooding and movement of the River had created sandbars, pools of water, and piles of debris. The receding water left patterns in the sand, mats of old vegetation, and opportunities for new spikes of green grass. And isn’t it amazing that along with new leaves, some trees have flowered and fruited already? Winged Maple seeds had flown from their new places on the branches to the sand below.

We left the riverside and began to climb the bluff on the switchback trail that led us up to the top. We saw the distinct, pocketed cap of Yellow Morel mushrooms, the most hunted wild mushroom, I would guess.

Close by was another mushroom, colorful and cute, that I should have taken a closer look at (as in the underside), because it is probably either a Golden Chanterelle (edible and desirable) or a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom (toxic). The Jack-o-Lantern has distinct gills on the underside and has a green bioluminescence when fresh! They glow in the dark—well named!

I also loved this bark palette of blue and green lichens. Mother Nature’s beautiful art.

We climbed past a stand of Red Pines and saw a broken branch that perfectly illustrates why the innermost, oldest part of a trunk or branch of a tree is called heartwood.

At the top of the bluff was an overlook of the Saint Croix River and a backpack campground. It is where the little baby I took pictures of in our old home in Missouri, camped with her college friends.

A bright flower-of-a-bird, the American Goldfinch, flitted from tree to tree, and sitting near the top of a dead tree was a Sharp-shinned Hawk watching the passers-by.

When we returned to the trail where we began, the sky had cleared and reflected blue on the water. There was even change in a couple of hours!

Spring brings constant changes, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, as Mother Nature transforms from dormancy to vibrancy. It is exciting to see the new leaves, plants, fungi, and flowers return. Mother’s Day is a reminder to me of the pregnancy days, the baby days (and nights), those fun-filled elementary days, the incredible growth of personhood in the middle and high school days—how fast they all go! Then the winged children fly away to college and beyond, to different states, different jobs, and different loves. Mother’s Day is now bittersweet for me—I no longer see the daily, weekly, monthly growth of my dear adult children. I can no longer take the weekly photos to stash those memories—not having those reflections is disorienting at times. I cherish the time I get to be with them and mourn the ‘childless’ holidays. I can only hope that they have loved having their roots grow from mine and that they have learned to appreciate Mother Nature’s art and miraculous science. And as they change and I change, I hope they know the love of my heartwood grows with them.