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Walking Where Bears Tread

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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 and shimmering about that. But many people dread the coming cold and snow and how the days are short on sunshine and light. I have learned to appreciate the gray clouds of a Winter’s day and how the light has shifted from peeking into the north windows of the house to the full, long gaze through the southern windows. It’s a warm gift from the tilt of the Earth. Receive it with an open heart. And the invigorating cold and the beautiful snow…but I’m getting ahead of myself!

Before our trip to Mille Lacs Kathio State Park a couple weeks ago, I checked the website for alerts and notices, and at the top of the list was this: “The bears are active! Please practice bear safety and plan accordingly.” Good to know. The DNR has a couple of dedicated pages to bear safety—what to do, what not to do, and reassurance that bears (like so many wild animals) are not ‘out to get you.’ So we were well aware that we were walking into bear territory as we packed our snacks, but we soon had Fall’s colorful changes in our eyes and on our minds. The perennials—ferns, grasses, and flowers—go through their own color transformations that add interest to the forest floor. The greens of mosses and ‘evergreen’ plants are the rich outliers in the Autumn palette.

I loved how some little creature had tucked an acorn into the thick moss that was growing up a rough-barked Pine!

An amber wetland with spikes of dead trees was surrounded with the rust and red glory of Oak trees. A water trail through the cattails made by a beaver connected him to the forest trees.

The woods were quiet except for our rustling through the fallen leaves.

Then I recognized and remembered a Grandfather Pine ahead of us on the trail. Old darkened claw marks from a bear had scarred the tree from year’s past with beads of hardened sap like amber rings on the claw print. And on the other side of the tree, there were much newer claw marks with whitened, sugary sap dripping from them. (Not so new that the sap was still wet!) Mad respect for claws that can do that to an old tree.

The backpack camp site where we were hoping to eat our snacks was occupied with tenters—lucky them to be camping on that beautiful place overlooking the lake! So we curved back through the glorious Maple trees towards a bog, one of dozens in the 10,000-acre park.

The bog was ethereal as the sun lit up the golden Tamarack trees. They weren’t quite in their full glory, as some were still tinged with green, but there is hardly anything more beautiful than a stand of golden-yellow Tamaracks before they drop their deciduous needles!

Bogs are fascinating ecosystems! Peat moss looks like a solid substrate from which all the trees and plants grow, but with only one step into the bog from the forest floor, my boot sank into the water just under the surface. That’s why only certain trees will grow there, those adapted to wet feet and acidic environments. So even while the colorful Oak seedlings germinated in the mossy bog, they don’t stand a chance of maturing there.

We circled around the bog, often walking on boardwalks over the low spots. Orange mushrooms, green moss, gray lichens, and a scattering of leaves decorated the fallen logs and ground.

All I could do was peer into the bog, into its mystery. I wondered if a bear would cross a bog. What creatures live in the floating fantasyland? These places where we cannot go capture our attention and imagination.

Colorful leaves camouflaged a colorful Fly Agaric mushroom popping from the ground in its Autumn season. This one is pretty but toxic.

The trail veered away from the bog and was covered with a golden blanket of Big-toothed Aspen leaves. Old logs, like troughs, held the shimmering leaves. Drink in the beauty.

Claw marks from a smaller-than-a-bear animal were etched into a mushroom on the trail, but soon we passed another large Pine tree that had the head-high scratches from a bear.

Another sign was a torn apart rotten log where a bear had been on a quest to find ants, grubs, or rodents.

One tree gone back to the Earth, a new one to take its place.

Towards the end of the trail, there was a wetland of rushes and grasses carving out a space in the forest of Oaks and Aspens. The most beautiful part was a ring of young Paper Birch trees standing in a singing circle close to the edge of the wetland.

There is mystery and intrigue with bears and bogs. Both are natural and necessary parts of Northern Minnesota. The water-laden peat moss is an unsteady anchor for most trees, yet others have adapted their root systems to splay out in order to stand tall. The bog plants are unique in the same way—adapting to the sometimes harsh conditions in order to thrive. The bog and the bears stand apart from passers-by (usually), even as we are in their midst. We know on whose ground we tread (or tread around.)

Autumn is a glorious time—perhaps to fill our hearts with goodness and appreciation in order for us to traverse our more difficult Winter. Life is like that—we have goodness-filled glorious moments to sustain us through our hard times. Through it all, we are walking the trail of our Life’s journey towards our true self. We begin to see our own true colors and those of the people around us. And there is always a place, a part, a piece of us that seems like a place we cannot go, a place we fear to go. It nags at us, consciously or unconsciously, and intrigues us in some wistful way. That’s where we need to go—it’s an invitation and a map. There may be bears and bogs that frighten us and deter us, but our true self is brave. Our hearts are open to receive it. Drink in the Beauty of it.

Thank you, readers! I am grateful for all of you who have joined me on this glorious Autumn walk. This post marks my 500th post of North Star Nature! I began this venture almost ten years ago (March of 2014) to share Nature’s beauty and wisdom, never dreaming I’d write 500 posts and share over 7500 photographs! A special thank you to those of you who have been with me from the beginning. If you love the great outdoors, be sure to like and share North Star Nature!

Awe All Over Again

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I love details. Details are up-close things to be noticed and examined. All the tiny nuances and changes, colors and shapes, normality or pathology. When I was in graduate school, I could spend hours with my eyes to a microscope looking at chromosomes of triticale, histological specimens of mouse testes, and morphological characteristics of sheep sperm. So fascinating! When I lifted my eyes from the microscopic world, I tended to look closely at details of the people around me. What was different? Why was it different? What’s going on with you? There are certainly situations where noticing details and questioning changes are super-powers—it works well for scientific research, but it can have its limitations when it comes to certain aspects of interpersonal relationships. Just ask Chris. This literal ‘short-sighted’ attention to details can bog me down in the minutiae of life—I am not thinking about the future or the ramifications of my inquiries; I’m just gathering facts and information. And I can get stuck there. Perhaps that’s why I’m extremely near-sighted. But I would hate life without my ‘corrective lenses’—I also want to clearly see what lies beyond my armlength! There is a world of wonder in the whole spectrum of near to far! Just like most things in life, it comes down to balancing the details with the big picture. While Chris has had many annoying moments with my detailed fact-gathering, I am fortunate that he has balanced me out with his foresight or far-sightedness. I am literally speechless when he asks me a question about how I envision something in the future. “I have never thought about that,” is usually my answer after realizing the void in my brain. So while I try to sing the praises of details, he challenges me to move my eyes to the horizon.

Last weekend we encountered Autumn in its full glory at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. The first thing on my list was to climb the 100-foot fire tower to see the big picture! But I had to wait my turn! Cars were parked along the narrow road, and a line of people waited for their opportunity to climb to the top. Each section of stairs brought me closer to the tree-tops, then far above them until I could see, on the horizon, the shining blue water of Mille Lacs Lake, Indian Point peninsula, and Rainbow Island. It was glorious to get a 360 degree view of the beautiful Fall forest. The Oaks and Aspens were brilliant in all colors of rust and red and golden yellow. The clouds were thick and moving, so at times the sun would burst through and brighten and lighten the colors. I felt like I could touch the sky!

When my feet were back on the ground, we drove to the interpretive center overlooking Ogechie Lake, a historical producer of wild rice. The conical-shaped Tamarack trees that lined the wetland of the lake were not quite to their peak golden-yellow. Then we hiked the Touch the Earth trail that led to the bog boardwalk.

Big-toothed Aspen leaves were falling to the ground and the red and rust of Oaks shocked us from the yellow-of-it-all.

The bog was beautiful despite the toll of the summer drought. The leaning Birch trees were golden along with the Tamaracks while the Black Spruce trees and Labrador Tea maintained their constant green.

Most colorful in the bog were the Wild Blueberries in shades of red and pink.

It takes time and intention to notice the details. One has to put aside the compulsion to hurry, make every second count, and get in the recommended number of steps in a personal best time. Letting go of that compulsion, as hard as it may be, releases something inside yourself and allows a different dimension of time and success to flow through you.

The new-brick color, the number and shape of the leaflets, the environment of sticks and leaves, how it touches moss, the wear and tear on the leaves, and most extraordinarily, the veining of the leaflets and how a heart shape is formed—those are the details of an Autumn Wild Geranium leaf.

A Wild Cherry tree wears a unique Fall color that draws our attention to it—not quite yellow, not quite orange, not quite rose, but a combination of them all.

The beautifully barked Pine trees are a constant through all the seasons, though they, like the other trees in Autumn, drop some of their needles to create the fragrant carpet of rich brown.

The source of the Rum River is Mille Lacs Lake. It runs through Ogechie Lake, meanders to and through Shakopee and Onamia Lakes, and joins the Mississippi River at Anoka in its 154 mile run. It is a State Water Trail, a designated Wild and Scenic River, and was originally called Mde Wakan or Spirit Lake River by the Dakota people. It is a venue that encourages paddlers to see life from the River’s point of view, up close and personal.

I have traveled through decades of Autumns, and with each passing year I experience awe all over again. Isn’t that wonderful?! Nature has so much power and beauty, uniqueness and wonder that each season of each year is like new again! It allows us to touch the sky in order to see the big picture and to touch the earth and see the amazing details. I think we each have a tendency towards one or the other of ‘the pictures,’ so it helps to surround ourselves with people who can see things differently than we can. It is also a personal challenge to do that within ourselves when we know we can get stuck in always striving towards that future big picture or we are bogged down in the details of the moment. Nature helps us see the whole spectrum, from near to far—in the world and in ourselves.

Magical Reflections

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I’d hate to try to count the number of times in my life that I’ve employed ‘magical thinking.’ Developmentally, it’s a common occurrence with young children—the line between creative fantasy and reality is blurry. But adolescents and adults commonly find themselves with false beliefs about how their thoughts, actions, or words can cause or prevent undesirable events. I remember my Grandma believed that her worrying would prevent ‘something bad’ from happening. Chris’ Grandma believed her daily prayers brought her son home alive from World War II. Is it ‘magical thinking’ or ‘a belief?’ Is it a problem or a solution? Is it superstitious or factual? (Hmm, seems like we can all relate to a good amount of that in our world in the last few years.) Magical thinking is a common indicator of trauma. It’s a form of dissociation, a coping mechanism employed by our psyches in response to an overwhelming event. It’s an attempt to feel more in control when we feel totally out of control. So I don’t disparage magical thinking—it’s been a major player in my coping-mechanism toolbox.

The definition of ‘magical’ from Oxford Languages is ‘relating to or resembling magic’ (as in supernatural or mystical) or ‘beautiful or delightful in such a way as to seem removed from everyday life’ (as in extraordinary or incredible.) I’m not much interested in the former definition, but the latter describes so many things I discover in Nature!

Last weekend we hiked at Moose Lake State Park. It’s a relatively small park established in 1971. They have a beautiful park office that houses the Agate and Geological Center which displays Minnesota’s state gemstone, the Lake Superior Agate. On the Rolling Hills trail, we wound through towering Pines with an ethereal carpet of Meadow Horsetails—it looked like the homeplace of fairies.

Dark red fruit known as ‘haws’ loaded a thorny Hawthorne tree. It has hard and durable wood, edible fruit, and is the subject of many legends and myths. The Hawthorne tree is an emblem of hope and is said to heal a broken heart.

We passed by Wildlife Pond but did not see any wildlife. Instead we noticed beautiful White Water Lilies still blooming in the Autumn water.

White Water Lilies represent rebirth and enlightenment—an extraordinary occurrence in a person’s spiritual journey. They are a symbol of peace, love, and harmony—a magical blessing for anyone.

Across the trail from the Wildlife Pond was a smaller, more hidden pond where ducks and geese lazily swam and dove, bottoms up, to find food.

We heard the distinctive call of a Pileated Woodpecker before we saw him. They are not easy to capture with the camera. As a ‘spirit animal,’ the Pileated Woodpecker symbolizes strength, resilience, and determination.

The rather magical transformation of leaves was displayed with every step we took. The Maples were dressed and dropping their cloaks of red, orange, and yellow.

The Birch and Aspen were beginning their metamorphosis to golden yellow.

A tiny little environment of moss and mushrooms blossomed under the fallen leaves. Who else lives here?

Round-lobed Hepatica leaves were conspicuous through the leaf litter. These hardy leaves turn a rich burgundy color, persist through the Winter, then wither away when the lavender-blue flowers begin to bloom in early Spring. The new leaves unfold after the flowers bloom. The dark color and shape of the leaves reminded people of the human liver (thus the name Hepatica), and at one time was used by herbalists as a ‘treatment’ for the liver because of this connection. Magical medicine?

I noticed a large, golden-tan mushroom that had been eaten. At first I thought it was from a larger animal, but then I saw the shimmery shine of slime and dozens of snails attached to the underside and stem! Not an everyday sighting.

At one section along the trail, the Birch trees were bowing, creating an archway fit for royalty. As ordinary citizens, as lovers of Nature, as flawed and seeking humans, we marched under their humbleness with honor for them.

I have always thought of Autumn Quaking Aspen leaves as golden coins scattered on the ground—an abundance of riches, not for the taking but for appreciating.

A few Asters were still in full and fresh bloom, reminding us all that blooming happens in different seasons for everything (everybody.)

In contrast, Fireweed had bloomed, fruited, dried, and released its seeds into the wind with the help of fluffy cotton. Fireweed is a plant that represents rebirth and resilience, since it is one of the first to grow after wildfires. The lake-side Swamp Milkweed had also released its seeds, the empty seedpods creating a bouquet against the water and reeds.

The amazing afternoon sun and clouds were reflected on Echo Lake (echo lake).

Reflections of what we see in our lives and echoes of what we say are really the basis of our magical and not-so-magical thinking. As parents it is our responsibility to help our children ‘see’ things in a more realistic way and to ‘hear’ the facts and make sense of this world, while at the same time honoring their visions and words at whatever stage of development they are going through. It’s a huge, challenging endeavor that I know I had failings at, as hard as I tried. As loving, caring adults, it is our responsibility to do the same for ourselves and in our community of life and work. When there is a vacuum of loving exchange, a hole of information that could help us ‘hone’ our thoughts and ideas, that’s when we are left to figure it out on our own. To me, that’s what magical thinking does—it helps us try to figure out a situation in our own heads. It helps us identify our needs and wants—they are plainly being played out in our heads. The challenge is to straighten out our skewed thoughts and move them from our heads to our real life—easier said than done. Trauma in childhood can be crippling for life. Magical thinking is our good faith attempt to try to repair it. It’s part of our healing process. There are many things we employ in our lives that are not based on facts and reality of the moment—hopes, dreams, faith, prayers, affirmations, and our magical thinking. They are all a part of our nonfactual spiritual journey. Nature, with all her magical, delightful, and extraordinary creations and moments, is an integral part of my spirit, healing, and reality.

The Lone Wolf

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I remember in the first year of my marriage to Chris that I consciously struggled with what it meant to be one part of a couple versus my own person. Were they compatible, the me with him and the me for me? It’s not that I was a lone wolf for years before I met him—I had just graduated from college and was living at home with my parents. I had lived with people all my life! Though I was an introvert and liked being alone, I also valued belonging to a family. The importance of being an independent person within the interdependence of a married couple was an issue that hadn’t occurred to me before marriage. But I had come of age during the tail-end of the cultural revolution of the Women’s Movement, so the issue had been constantly in the background of my life. Who are we as women in our own right, not just from the family we came from or who we married?

I’m intrigued with the term ‘lone wolf.’ On one hand, it describes a very independent, solitary person, a rugged individualist who forges their own path. On the other hand, the negative connotation of ‘lone wolf’ is a person who commits a crime or act of terrorism by oneself rather than as part of a group or organization. The myths and stories of ‘lone wolves’ make for good songs, books, and video games, but the reality of a lone wolf in the wild is quite different. A lone wolf is defined in wildlife biology as a ‘dispersing’ wolf. He or she will leave the pack they were born into when they are 11–18 months old, depending on the availability of food. In essence, lone wolves are young adults who are ‘leaving home’ to find their own mates and start their own pack or family unit.

The size of a wolf pack’s territory depends on the availability of food. In northern Minnesota, there is a high density of white-tailed deer, so wolves do not need to travel far for food, though they can easily travel thirty miles in a day. If food is prevalent, packs are usually bigger with multiple generations, including non-breeding young adults. Minnesota wolves make up nearly half of the wolf population in the lower 48 states, so it is not unusual to see wolves in the wild in northern Minnesota.

In our September trip up north to Ely, we stopped at an overlook to see the Fall colors. At the opposite corner of the lake clearing, we saw a dark shape in the grass. Was it a bear? Zooming in with the camera, I saw a charcoal-colored wolf. I’m sure he saw us before we saw him.

His first instinct was to run away, and I thought that was all we would see of him, but soon he circled back to look again.

He turned away, but his curiosity kept turning him back towards us!

He headed away from us to the water behind some reeds, but once more looked our way.

Finally he trotted off into the forest, into his home territory. Was he a lone wolf or part of a pack?

‘Lone wolf’ personality qualities include being introspective, intelligent, self-aware, and self-motivated. I can relate to that. But like any human or animal ‘lone wolf,’ we all are social animals. We begin our lives in a family structure that (ideally) feeds us, defends us, keeps us safe, and teaches us to someday function on our own and perhaps have our own ‘pack.’ The makeup of the ‘pack’ can vary with circumstances and environments, most especially for us humans. When I was first married and for the many years subsequent to that, I have embarked on the very human journey of navigating my individual life with my life as a partner, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and co-worker. It’s an honor to be on such a journey, and perhaps that is not just a human journey.

Later that night, around the campfire, two of our fellow campers lifted their heads and voices to howl in tandem. In a spine-tingling response, we heard the whole pack answer in an orchestra of different voices and tones. I know the charcoal wolf we saw was one of them.

For more information on wolves, visit the International Wolf Center in Ely, Minnesota or go to their website: https://wolf.org/

Courage of an Explorer

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Imagine your life as a lake. There’s a trail around the life lake that allows us to explore, day after day, this gift we are given. There is mystery, uncertainty, beauty, sustenance, and a calling of spirit that keeps us moving onward. Our lives are the ultimate exploration!

Our fourth hike at Savanna Portage State Park encircled Lake Shumway, the lake adjacent to the campground. Curious about the name, I found out ‘Shumway’ is the Americanized form of the French name ‘Chamois,’ which is a metonymic occupational name. In essence, it names a person by what that person does for a living—in this case, a person closely associated with the mountain goat ‘chamois’ or the leather produced from it. Interesting!

The beginning—of our lives or of the day—is pristine and fresh, misty and mysterious as to what lies before us. The colloquial saying “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” is true! Each dawn of a new day reminds us of that.

After our morning Continental Divide Trail hike and lunch, we began the loop around Lake Shumway. The lake reflected the early afternoon sky—a different look from the sunrise sky and water.

Much of the trail was covered in Pine needles which gave rise to the heady, comforting scent of glorious Pine with each step. We passed by the impressive work of a beaver who had felled a large Pine and removed a chunk of it from the trunk—his work was ongoing.

As with many places along the trails of life, we came to a divergence—one trail continued around the lake, another veered off into the forest towards a bog. We took the bog trail, knowing we would need to backtrack to continue around the lake. How many times do we have a choice in life, take a path, have to backtrack, ‘lose’ time or money, and/or find a treasure?

The bog was in a sad state—our Summer drought had taken its toll on the wetland. The mosses were dried up and discolored; luckily the rhizomal roots of Labrador Tea provided enough water to have kept them green. We found a few Pitcher Plants near Bog Lake with red leaves and dried, nodding flowers. The environment matters as to the flourishing of the members in any ecosystem/community. Temporary droughts/setbacks can be overcome, but continued distresses often cause permanent damage.

Red leaves of Pitcher Plants
Spent flower of Pitcher Plant and seedhead of Cottongrass
Spent flowers of Pitcher Plants

We backtracked back to Lake Shumway trail and found the lodge of the busy beaver. He had a great place to live in the protection of a jutting peninsula.

We boardwalked over a stream and wetland that still had rosy blossoms of Joe Pye Weed and a bright array of yellow Sneezeweed. Beautiful ‘weeds’ in just the right places.

The trail rose in elevation where Maple trees lined the path. We crunched through red leaves that had fallen in the early Fall. Sunlight dappled the dotted trail.

A stand of Pines lined the shore about halfway around the Lake. It was a peaceful place to loiter, to stand back-to-trunk with a tree to breathe in the beauty.

Two-thirds around the Lake, we left the water’s edge to skirt a wetland area. Again, we climbed up into the forest hill until, again, we came to another fork in the trail. After examining the map, we decided to take the narrow, more rugged trail that would take us by the lakeshore. It would also lead us to a backpack/canoe-in campsite I wanted to see. The campsite was situated on a rounded peninsula, tucked into the cove side. It had a beautiful view of the Lake from a tent area closest to the water. A picnic table sat under the tall trees with a fire ring close by. A three-sided, rough-hewn Oak lean-to with a long bench and peg hooks offered protection for firewood and sun- or rain-drenched campers. I was really excited that the site had its own outhouse, not just a trail latrine! I could live here! I thought.

I didn’t take any pictures of the campsite, but I kind of want to go back and camp there sometime. It was an unexpected find with a special feel to it—that spirit of the wilderness that combines discovery, freedom, peace, and a satisfactory sense of being.

The white sign shows the campsite from the water’s view.

Tree roots made stair steps, ‘like a railroad track’ observed Chris—the ways we get where we’re going.

The bright berries of a Winterberry shrub that climbed close to an old Birch tree help us know that we can be fruitful during any season of life.

On the last part of the trail we passed another beaver lodge that was covered with Jewel Weeds, and beside the lodge was an old, fallen tree that seemed to be a practice log (or maybe a teeth-sharpening log)?

We also passed a random boulder that was at the edge of the Lake—out of place but purposeful, it seemed.

We finished our hike and found the campground had cleared out—it was only us and one other couple in this loop of the campground. Evening on Lake Shumway was peaceful and calm. We had circled the Lake—what more could we see and learn?

The random boulder from the water’s view.

The next morning after some rain and before more rain, we paddled a canoe onto Lake Shumway. There’s more to a lake than a person can see from the shore, and there’s more to life than walking the trail over the years. Our interior life is a whole new adventure to explore, and in most cases, takes even more courage to navigate.

Reflecting on the paths we have taken, the work we have done, the bridges we may have burned, and the special or not-so-special people and places we have encountered is the soul work of our lives. Asking ourselves questions and waiting patiently for the absolute truth of the answer—the answer that wells up tears in our eyes and resonates deep in our hearts and bodies. It takes so much courage to go there, to explore there, to be present there. But therein also lies the trail to freedom, peace, and satisfaction. We may have felt out of place in the world, but after exploring our interior life, we can be like the lake-side boulder and stand in our purpose and dignity. Our soul work is ongoing.

Discipline of an Explorer

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We’ve all done it. We have walked the paths of those who came before us. Few of us are ‘novel’ explorers—we are more like ‘re-explorers.’ What seems new to us may very well have been the experience of our relatives, of our ancestors, and surely of those who lived in the generations before us. In no way does that deprive us of the immense learning experience and spiritual well-being of re-exploring, but it adds a depth of meaning to the steps we take.

So it was with our third hike at Savanna Portage State Park. After our first night of sleep at the park, we planned to get up early, eat a ‘hearty breakfast,’ and hike the 5.3 mile loop of the Continental Divide Trail. One of the qualities of an explorer, according to exploreratlarge.org, is discipline. When it comes to an early morning routine, there is hardly one more disciplined than Chris. My own discipline gets dragged along behind his due to his steadfastness, his determination, and thankfully, his humor. Even though the dripping rain, that had chased us into the cabin for supper the night before, had continued with faint-heartedness through the night, Chris was up before the first glimpses of daylight. The Coleman stove whooshed and banged metal on metal as he prepared coffee and readied the ingredients for breakfast. The late-nighters who tented nearby may have been annoyed by the early bird, but we were coming precariously close to ‘burning daylight’ in Chris’ mind. After our hearty breakfast sandwich and fruit, we packed the backpack with water and snacks, slipped down the hill, and began our morning hike.

Everything was dewy and wet—thank goodness for waterproof boots—and the sun shone horizontal through the trees. The early morning birds sang songs of delight as we began to ascend the ridge that divided the water flow. On one side, the water would flow east into the St. Louis River, the Great Lakes, and the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic Ocean. On the other side, the water would flow west to Big Sandy Lake, to the Mississippi River and down to the Gulf of Mexico.

This height of land was an obstacle for the people who traveled the ‘water highways’ before roads scarred the earth. For thousands of years, by the Native Americans, by explorers, and by fur traders, a trail connected those two water highways, a trail now known as Savanna Portage. We walked a portion of the old trail that was packed by millions of historic footsteps.

We wondered what ‘dragons’ they had seen and slayed in those six miles between rivers.

We would return to a portion of the Savanna Portage trail on the last leg of our hike, but we continued north on the Continental Divide trail to an overlook of Wolf Lake and the Tamarack Lowlands. On the way, we would occasionally see wolf tracks in the sandy soil.

From the overlook, a trail continued north for a couple of miles to a remote camping site—the trail was named Jacobson Trail. The last leg of our hike was on Anderson Road Trail. After the Native Americans and fur traders, there was obviously a Scandinavian presence in this place. Were any of them my ancestors? A settlement of some kind was close, as the south heading trail was named Old Schoolhouse Trail. We passed a stump with a story, some Red-berried Elder, and an odd sinking ‘dead space’ in the forest where trees had fallen into it and few other plants grew.

We turned again to the east on Anderson Road Trail, the last leg of our triangle loop. The Savanna Portage trail ran alongside Anderson Road and at times merged with it. There were many huge Pines along the path, likely hundreds of years old. One ancient tree had tipped over, pulling up a section of earth, roots, and vegetation that must have stood twelve feet high! It was such an unusual sight to see! And the fallen tree had branches as big as old trees and spanned and sprawled through the forest and across the trail with its impressive now-horizontal height. How many travelers had this old great-grandfather tree seen in its day?

After we passed a small Tamarack bog, the last part of the trail was through a Pine forest. The wind whispered and softly whooshed through the tops of the trees. The undergrowth changed in the Pine forest that had been thinned by loggers—young Oaks and Maples grew along with the ruby-fruited Wild Rose.

At a certain point, another instrument of music joined the whispering Pines—the louder, more jubilant fluttering of the Aspen trees. We were nearing the end of our three-hour hike and still going strong with our hearty breakfast and the invigorating experience of exploring.

A couple hours later, we drove to Wolf Lake to see it from water level. It was a beautiful, wild-looking lake encircled with wispy Tamarack trees in the lowland bog. Wild Celery grew in the shallow water by the boat dock, its flat leaves floating on the surface of the water, green against blue.

But when I turned towards the sun, the floating leaves turned silver and glittered in the silver water. A shining transformation in the wild Wolf Lake. Not far from the shore, I found the silvery leaves and flowers of Pearly Everlastings—priceless treasures of our journey of exploration.

During the fur trading years, Savanna Portage was divided into ‘pauses’ in order to transport the heavy freight of furs and trading goods (not to mention the large canoes that carried it all) over the ridge from one river to the next. The men would carry 160–180 pounds of cargo at a dog trot to the first pause, unload it, stop for a smoke (according to the signage!), then trot back for another load. When everything was transported to the first pause, they would begin again to the second one. Savanna Portage had 13 pauses (so basically a half mile per pause.) It takes discipline and persistence to portage canoes and gear, and in their case, freight. As Chris and I traveled the high ridge, the Tamarack lowlands, the Pine forests, and the old Savanna Portage trail, we walked with the ghosts of Native Americans, fur traders, and explorers. We carried the discipline that had been passed down to us from our relatives. We persisted mile after mile with the encouraging music of the forest. And we discovered treasures that Mother Nature so generously offers to us all.

Persistence of an Explorer

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When was the last time you did something you were afraid of? When did you say ‘sign me up—I don’t know what I’m doing, I know I’m going to be uncomfortable, I’m not even sure I can do it, but I’m going to give it a try?’ That was me when our family decided to do a Boundary Waters canoe trip in 2021. I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew I would be uncomfortable, since I don’t really know how to swim and I’m afraid of deep water. And how would I even keep up with the more experienced and younger people? (Thankfully those people were my family.) But I said ‘sign me up.’ That’s the definition of courage, though I was certainly not feeling courageous at the time. According to exploreratlarge.org, courage is the cornerstone quality, along with curiosity, of being an explorer. And there is hardly anything that makes a person feel more like an explorer than packing your needed goods into a canoe and paddling through the Wilderness! But there was another explorer quality that actually got me through the very difficult first days, and that was persistence. I know about persevering through adversity—it’s a life lesson that comes with age and circumstances. In spite of how difficult it was physically and how overwhelming it was at times emotionally, I kept at it. And my son Aaron gently pointed out that there was no other choice—I was sitting in a canoe in the middle of a lake in the wilderness. I couldn’t give up.

We humans are a part of the Animal Kingdom where persistence is demonstrated daily by our animal friends. One creature that quietly carries on with persistence is the Beaver. Their whole livelihood is defined by their persistent behavior of gnawing down trees with their teeth, cutting the tree into manageable sizes, then moving those pieces from land to water in order to build a dam or build a lodge.

Our second hike at Savanna Portage State Park was Beaver Pond trail, a short half-mile trek around the beautiful pond that housed three beaver lodges. The pond was like the bottom of a bowl—the land curved up and around it in a protective way, so most of the time we were looking down at it. Despite our vantage point, we didn’t see any beaver activity of any kind. We saw the lodges and the pathways through the rushes where they could swim and move logs.

The second lodge was very large and well established, with vegetation growing on most parts of it. But there was a ‘new’ part with additions of logs—I guess a beaver’s house is never finished.

The lily pads had begun their annual color change along with the trees, shrubs, and other plants. Autumn in the pond.

The one place where we were more on the level with Beaver Pond was a boardwalk that dissected the lowland area. A small open creek ran from the pond to an adjacent wetland where bare trunks of dead trees stood in the rushes.

Water Shield is an aquatic plant that likes slow-moving water. They made up a puzzle of etched leaves, like little works of art.

The third beaver lodge was just barely seen when looking towards the pond. A rhizome of Wild Calla made a fence through the creek but nothing to deter the hefty beavers.

On the other side of the pond, we walked into the woods, losing sight of the water. Bright flowers of Orange Hawkweed grew along the trail. Its other name of Devil’s Paintbrush alluded to its invasive status.

I found it amusing that the trail markers were Bigfoot signs. What happens when Beaver meets Bigfoot?

The Beavers lived in an idyllic place, a small glacial bowl surrounded by trees. They had plenty of building materials, plenty of food, and lots of neighboring animals and birds. They lived and worked with strength and tenacity, persistence and humility. Our Boundary Waters trip cultivated those characteristics in me—it was a master class in wilderness exploration, and a voyage into my own self. What’s your story of courage and persistence?

Curiosity of an Explorer

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I’m a homebody in many ways—I love being home and even eschew the idea of leaving for an evening activity once supper and dishes are done. I am usually content with my routine. But I do get an explorer’s thrill when we plan to go to a new place in Nature! The Latin root for explore is ‘explorare,’ meaning to investigate or search out. We had heard that Savanna Portage State Park was a beautiful and interesting place, so Chris had gotten reservations for us weeks ago. He loves the anticipation of a planned trip even as I get a bit nervous about leaving home. But once I’m in the car with a map in hand (sorry Google Maps), I forget about leaving home and look forward to exploring and learning about a new place.

In just over two hours, we pulled in to Savanna Portage State Park, which is in the middle of the expansive Savanna State Forest. Commence our journey of exploration of the Wilderness! There are a number of characteristics according to exploreratlarge.org that define the mentality of an explorer, the first of which is curiosity. What will we see? What will we experience? I was hoping for a chance encounter with a Moose—will I see one? Our first hike was around Loon Lake trail. Loon Lake is a designated trout lake, just a mile or so in circumference, and the trail hugged the lake shore. Come explore with me!

The lake was calm with the slightest breeze occasionally rippling the mirror-like water. Autumn had begun—the Maple trees were beginning to turn color, red reflected on water and leaves falling on the trail.

Large, old Pine trees, White and Red, gripped the ground with their massive roots. A frog was our first creature to be found.

I was delighted to see Wintergreen growing beside the trail, its berries beginning to turn red, its leaves pungent with the flavor we associate with chewing gum or toothpaste. (It was the original source of that flavor which is now mostly synthetic.)

One Pine tree embedded in the lake now reflects arrows that point the way.

Along with the Wintergreen, a number of different species of Clubmosses grew and flowered like little evergreen trees.

The rooted trail led us to, then past a collection of golden-morphing Ferns—so beautiful!

Form and shape, color and contrast, reflections and realities all help us appreciate the diverse plant life in any given environment.

Many of the branches and trees that had fallen into the lake had become floating ‘treeariums,’ growing with mosses, ferns, shrubs, and other plants. Each created its own little environment, some used by the swimming creatures as a resting place.

Along with curiosity, an explorer must use discernment and logic. What are these white piles of dried-up scat from? Looking more closely, the white pieces were bones and pink-tinged shells, probably from crayfish. My guess of otter scat was substantiated when we saw a grass-flattened ‘slide’ from the hillside into the lake! We saw many slides and many piles of territory-marking ‘spraints,’ as otter scat is called.

A very industrious and disillusioned Beaver lived here some time ago. The tree was working to heal that gaping beaver wound.

At times along the trail, a small grove of Pines bordered the lake and path. What beauty in the bark of a mature Red Pine!

Balsam Firs were the other evergreens of the forest along with the Pines. Most were younger and content to grow in the shade of the canopy trees. An orange fungus was a colorful surprise!

Another rather startling discovery was a dead Snapping Turtle, upside-down, over a log. I wondered how he got there. Adult Snappers are sometimes attacked by otters, bears, or coyotes, so that was definitely a possibility. But then we saw a live monster-of-a-turtle swimming in the lake and wondered if the males fight one another.

More ‘treeariums,’ golden ferns, and red leaves decorated the Loon Lake trail as we circled around it. (No Loons to be seen, but we did find a beaver lodge.)

Towards the end of the trail, a large White Pine had tipped over into the water. The root ball was covered with Otter spraints, and we imagined they used the tree as a playground. Playfulness is another quality of an explorer, as expertly embodied by Otters running and sliding, swimming, rolling, and playing.

I fully embrace being a homebody and an explorer of Nature. Each of us has these seemingly opposing qualities in one way or another. Yet I have always lived my life with curiosity and wonder (another quality of an explorer). It has been the foundation of my learning, schooling, and being a scientist, as well as being an explorer. In my next posts, I will share other trails we hiked at Savanna Portage and other qualities of being an explorer. Until then, what kind of explorer are you?

River Dance

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Countless times I have walked the riverside trail at Mississippi River County Park. I have seen the River’s bank and the boat launch during the ice and snow of Winter, the overflowing water of Spring, and the drought of Summer. I know where the low spots are that stay muddy and mosquito-laden, where certain flowers grow, and where the deer like to graze. I am also familiar with Bend in the River Park on the other side of the River with its canopy of Oaks on the high bluffs that overlook the Mighty Mississippi. On Saturday of Labor Day weekend, I saw the River from the River’s point of view. Chris, Emily, and I launched our trusty Alumacraft canoe into the softly-rippling water. I was the duffer—not the desirable position, especially for my sixty year old joints, but a needed one when canoeing as a trio. I sat on a floatation cushion in the middle, on the bottom of the canoe, while the more experienced paddlers took their seats.

The water was low from our ongoing drought. Little beaches of sand appeared in places, many unseen from the land above them. While logs that have fallen into or floated down the River could be seen from the park trail, from the River’s view, they became an integral part of the boundary between water and land—they were much more noticeable, more usable, and more artistic.

Some of the shallow parts of the River were a horizontal painting of aquatic plants and algaes that dragged the bottom of the canoe and slowed the competent paddling of Emily and Chris.

Other shallow parts were clear and glowing with golden sunlight that revealed millions of fragments of mollusk shells and often a complete bivalve pearlized shell. A whole new world of underwater life not seen from the land-side.

Beautiful blossoms of Purple Loosestrife populated the islands. It is not a desirable plant for wetlands, lakes, and rivers and is categorized as invasive and noxious. They have thick, woody roots that form a dense web that can block natural drainage areas and outcompete native plants.

Native Willows thrive with their feet in the water and provide shelter for many of the inhabitants that live along the River.

A young Belted Kingfisher flew among the branches along the bank. Her crested head and distinct breast feathers identified the small fish-eater.

Another well-camouflaged water bird, a Green Heron, posed on a fallen log like a museum display. No movement, anonymity, and hopes of not being detected—all natural behaviors to enhance their food-finding fishing.

Joe-Pye Weed grew along the banks, their rosy clusters of flowers an important source of nectar for butterflies and bees at this time of year.

Another late summer flower to adorn the banks is Sneezeweed, a member of the Aster family. Its bright yellow petals and yellow-green ball-like centers make a cheery sight along with sunflowers in the green expanse of riverbank.

We paddled for three and a half to four miles; our goal was the dock of friends of ours who live down the road from us. The downstream current was negligible since rain had been so scarce the whole summer and the southeast wind blew the waves against us. Seeing the landscape from the River’s viewpoint in our relatively slow-moving craft was a peaceful gift in the late-summer morning.

We circled around the north side of an island away from the channel where boats and jet-skis were beginning to make waves. I saw a Great Blue Heron standing in the shallow water, and we stopped paddling to watch the Great Bird on this Great River. We watched a slow-motion dance, beginning with a bow. Its long neck and long legs curved and bobbed, lifted and stretched, pranced and turned until it finished with a flair, standing tall and elegant on its home stage.

We left the island performance and concentrated on reaching our goal as the sun shone hotter, the River became busier with boats, and my legs grew stiff and tingly from inaction.

Goose down feathers floating on the algae and water

Our River trek took two and a half hours. Emily expertly landed us beside our friends’ dock. I awkwardly unfolded my legs from the bottom of the canoe and tried to move my uncooperating hips over the canoe seat while ‘staying low,’ in order to get to the ladder. Let’s just say I was not as graceful as a Great Blue Heron. But our canoe trek was the highlight of my weekend. It was wonderful to see this familiar River from ‘the other side,’ from the River’s point of view. There are so many things we miss or even dismiss when we look at some thing or some body or some issue only from the safe, familiar bank we are used to. Even the fast-boat river riders see and experience the River differently than the canoers and kayakers. It is an issue as old as time. Walk a mile in my shoes; paddle a mile (or three) in my canoe; work a day in my job; live a day in my skin. All impel us to live in empathy and understanding of people who are different from us and who experience life from a very different island of reference. I hope the River Dance reminds us all to live in empathy, peace, and grace.

The Story of Life in One Leaf

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I found the story of a life all in one leaf on our hike last weekend. It comes fairly close to my life at the age I find myself—certainly not the age I feel myself to be. If one is younger, the leaf would be much more green; if older, perhaps more black, and yet, within us all are all the colors. My young green has faded, but it is still there. Childhood memories are green, as is my curiosity and those times when I laugh at something unexpected and childishly delightful.

On the narrow trail of our hike was a lush stand of ferns near a life-giving wetland. The drought continues in central Minnesota, yet the wetland provided the mother’s milk for the surrounding plants. The vegetation was green, vibrant, and in some cases, flowering.

Swamp Aster

Green is suppleness and flexibility like the Leatherwood shrub. Those parts of youth may have stiffened with age, but body practices like yoga and qigong can help reverse, or at least keep at bay, that stiffening.

Young adulthood is green and yellow, a complex intermingling of growth and stability, of space and closeness, of venturing out on one’s own and clinging tightly to loved ones. It is a time for flowering. I still have yellow in my life.

Big Leaf Aster

Yellow morphs into red, into maturity, into production, into fruit bearing. Life in the red zone is busy, noisy, urgent, and full of life. I find that again when in the presence of the fruit that I bore.

Acorns
Virginia Creeper
Jack-in-the-Pulpit fruit

Brown creeps in to the red zone, slowing the busy, quieting the noisy, easing the urgent. It is a rich time. I’m glad my second favorite color is brown.

Black inches into our lives, sometimes with a crash, sometimes from our center even as our growing edge is still pure and white. Black is unexpected, usually unwanted, but confoundingly inevitable.

How do we befriend it? As I roam in the red-brown zone, it becomes more clear to me that the journey through the Black Spruce forest is a time of mystery and wonder. We can turn old age into new age—not our mortal bodies but our immortal souls. So I plan to walk down that boggy path with awareness, through shadows and light, breathing in the mind-enlightening smell of evergreen boughs, into Goodness and Light.

Black Spruce forest