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Promise Shines Through the Gray

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There is a stark contrast in my photographs from this post compared to the last one with all the brilliant Fall colors, though nearly a month has passed since I actually took the colorful photos. Gray November comes to us gradually. It is time to see things in a different light—the literal reality of which we have no other choice. Shades of gray and brown dominate the landscape now. We do have a choice as to how we think about the ‘colorless’ palette of late Autumn and Winter.

It is a time to see the bare basics, the silhouettes of trees and shrubs. I appreciate their form, their shape, their strength and flexibility.

The gray Mississippi reflects the gray sky, surrounded by the gray, bare trees, the gray-green Cedars, and the surprisingly yellowish-brown grass. The day was raw with a northwest wind—eighteen miles per hour of wind chill on the below-freezing day. Enough to make my eyes water as I faced the flowing River.

We had had rain, much-needed rain, in the few days prior to my hike, and the ice crystals crunched ever-so-softly under my boots. Tiny beads of snow fell, hardly perceptible to my eyes and skin.

Along with the rain had been strong winds that had toppled dead trees and limbs, making obstacles on the trail and wreckage in the woods. Beware of the gravity-defying widow-makers who have not made their way to the ground!

A pile of invasive Buckthorn had been toppled on purpose and piled neatly beside the trail. Good riddance to that which takes over the forest, if allowed, in its hungry quest for dominance.

The bare trees allow us to see things that we would not normally notice in the Summer, and though it seems to have an ‘ugly’ look, it really is ‘just different.’ Our judgement clouds the reality.

Blemishes, wrinkles, wounds, spots, holes, marks, weathering, and decline are all exquisitely evident in the unveiling Autumn. It is Nature, and it is us—how can you not love it?

Here in the forested North, we have place-holders for all the others who have lost their leaves—the Evergreens. They are the hope-keepers, the oxygen-makers, the color-bearers. Usually when I hear the wind whisking through the tops of the Pines, it sounds like singing, but on this day, it sounded more muted, less lyrical, more….story telling. The Evergreens, whether the long–needled Pines, the conical Spruces, the wispy Firs, or the sturdy Cedars, tell the Winter story for all the trees and dormant plants. It keeps them all ‘alive.’

And so, the dried Goldenrod flowers become stars of light…

the Artemisia becomes an array of tiny silver bells…

the young Pines embody the everlasting Goodness…

the Red-twigged Dogwoods represent the warm flow of life-sustaining blood…

and the clinging red Oak leaves remind us of our resilience.

Growth is a given in Nature—the eternal hopefulness of that can sustain us through the cold and gray months. Meditate on the miracle of it.

Often with growth comes the shrinking and dying of old branches, childish beliefs, old, outdated coping behaviors, and ignorant information. (To me ‘ignorant’ is uninformed or inexperienced, not a judgement.) Gray November and the cold Winter are perfect times to prune away the old, outdated branches.

Sometimes our old, tightly-held beliefs and ignorances have grown so large that they have wounded those close to us, often with no intention and knowledge on our part. Pruning allows both to heal and grow.

At the end of my hike, I saw a noisy flock of birds scouring the leaf litter under some trees. Robins and Chickadees and a Northern Flicker hopped around looking for food. The Robins and Flickers will go farther south when snow covers the ground. They are some of the last to go, but I see in them their promise to be the first to return, just as the snow uncovers the ground in Spring.

Gray November holds all kinds of Hope. We attended a beautiful wedding last weekend that held the light of young Love and the energy of Happiness and Potential. Do you remember those? At this time of year, we can see more clearly with less obstacles in the way, along with a path around the ones that fall before us. Vision and Breakthroughs. We can look at the reality of our blemishes and human short-comings and call them Authentic. Forgiveness lives on in the cold harshness of Winter. We can identify the invasive species of thoughts, beliefs, and behaviors that need to be toppled, pruned, and removed. Openness and Opportunity. With the un-busy-ness of the dormant time, the stories and glories of Summer and Growth have space and time to be told. And gray November and dark December unfold to Celebration—to giving Thanks, to decorating with stars, silver bells, ever-greenery, and warm red ribbons and bows. We celebrate Goodness and Life Everlasting. Promise shines through the gray.

A Humming Song of Hallelujah

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I’m a couple weeks behind the amazing Autumn leaf color-fest here in Minnesota—by now, most have fallen to the ground. But social displays of wonder are preempted by occurrences of life, death, and life. The possibility of losing a loved one (and I want to add the word ‘again’) grabs one’s attention from the mundane day-to-day as well as the seasonal wonder. It focuses our attention on the past, on the relationship, and on the absolute and pure preciousness of a person. When death is on deck, it changes things.

I was emotionally exhausted when we came back from Missouri. Everything tends to grind to a halt for me as I try to process everything that has happened. The first day back I was rather catatonic—I didn’t move much, and my thinking about anything was blurry and scattered. I sat outside and let the sunlight sink into my skin. The following weekend, Chris and I journeyed to the golden cathedral of a Maple forest. A forest of mostly Sugar Maples turns the most brilliant yellow-gold in those fleeting days of Autumn color. Being a prairie girl, it was an extraordinary delight when I first went to the Maples of Lake Maria State Park in the fall of 2014 and wrote ” The Trees Were Glowing.” Every year since then, we find a Maple forest in which to bathe in the ethereal glow of the gilded leaves.

The day was cloudy, which made for a different kind of glow. No rays of sunlight danced on the leaves and slipped to the leaf-covered forest floor. The cloudy light was reflected back and forth from leaf to leaf like a humming song filling the air.

A relatively ‘young’ part of the forest had tall, straight-trunked trees, like a colossal choir dressed in robes of gold, swaying to the humming song.

Two large rocks at the base of two older-barked trees, along with a flexible, bent-over young Maple, created an alter of sorts. We pray for the souls of our loved ones.

With awe, we stood by the Grandmother and Grandfather Maples whose branches reached out wide and tall, proclaiming their time-honored wisdom. Like all elders, they deserve respect for all they have seen, all they have lived through, and all the hardships they have survived.

Pines shed a certain number of needles each fall, usually from the interior of the branches. Their winged pairs often get caught on other foliage, as do the bright-colored leaves.

We came to a clearing in the forest where Sumacs grew along the edges, happy in the more abundant sunshine. The deep red leaves are a sharp contrast to the golden Sugar Maple leaves. Sumacs are one of the first to change color, so by this time, many had already lost their leaves. But in contrast to most other shrubs and trees, they retain their striking brick-red seedheads throughout the winter.

The younger stems are fuzzy and pink, and after the leaves drop, look like arms raised in hallelujah!

Tucked into a little valley that protected the Sumac from leaf-dropping wind, was a spectacular display of a community of trees of all colors, sizes, and shapes! In the center of the fall color was an Eastern Red Cedar with a shine of gray-blue ‘berries’ (actually small cones) dusted on its branches.

We walked back into the forest where even an uprooted tree looked like a woodland sculpture with the background of golden leaves.

One part of the trail had beautiful red-leaved Maples that added to the color palette of our rustling footsteps.

Then before we left, the clouds broke away, and the sun flooded the golden cathedral with shimmering light!

Death was a swing and a miss this time around, thank the Good Lord, but all the feelings and sensations of uncertainty, compassion, love, loss, and grief took us on a roller-coaster ride. It’s funny how we are never quite prepared for it, even when we’ve been in similar circumstances before. It’s like the forest coming alive with golden light as the leaves are dying—life, death, and life again. We tend to take for granted the long Summer of green when all is well, then panic and wail a bit when leaves change and fall. Mother Nature has shown us time and time again that that is not the end of the story. As people of faith and mercy, we believe that, but as people of doubt and confusion, we constantly need reassurance that it will be so. So in the aftermath of such a roller-coaster of emotions, it is a healing balm to walk into the golden cathedral forest, to be surrounded and blessed by gilded light, and to raise our arms and hearts, along with the trees, in a humming song of Hallelujah.

Mesmerizing Middle

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I’m going to begin in the middle. In the middle of our hike, that is. And only for one photograph, one minute of time, one funny little revelation. It inspires all of my hikes, and with reflection, it really is the basis of why I take photos, write this blog, and share it with you all. We walked across a ‘floating’ wooden bridge over an inlet to a shallow pond halfway through our hike at Mississippi River County Park. Duckweed has been covering the slow-moving inlet water and much of the pond for months now. On this day and all those going forward into Autumn, leaves had fallen onto the thick duckweed, creating a collage. I peered over the edge of the bridge, staring into the pea-soup green water. Since the bridge ‘floats’ on top of the water, every movement we made radiated out into the water and duckweed, producing movement and patterns through the bright green medium. “This is kind of mesmerizing,” I told my patiently waiting husband. With his usual dry humor, Chris broke my nature-spell by proclaiming his take on it all, “Makes me want to jump in and go for a swim!” I laughed at the absurdity of it, imagining his rising from the water as the incredible green hulk!

Nature is mesmerizing for me. I see things and wonder…who lives here? How did the tree die? How many young ones have fledged from this high-rise home?

Look at this pearly shell! Scooped up by the water from the sandy shore and placed on this rock for a moment in the long trend of time until a bigger wave sweeps it back to the Mississippi waters.

Seaweed and floating Willow leaves have their own kind of enchantment as the waves move through them.

In the full green of Summer, vines are often overlooked, but at this time of year, they show themselves with changing colors, as with red Virginia Creeper, orange-berried Bittersweet, or yellowing Wild Cucumber. Wild Grape vines and Wild or Bur Cucumber vines can absolutely enshroud all other vegetation or structures with their robust twining and climbing. As some of the other leaves fall, Canada Moonseed vine comes into its own with hanging purple fruit that looks a bit like edible Wild Grapes, but in actuality, is poisonous.

Another common vine is Virgin’s Bower. It is a type of wild Clematis with indistinct, small white flowers. Its fruit and seedheads are the fascinating part of this vine—the wispy tails of the fruit dry into puffs that inspire its common name of Old Man’s Beard.

In the middle of summer, Mississippi River County Park becomes very monochromatic and homogeneous after its enthralling Spring of woodland/floodplain flowers. Few plants are blooming, trails can be wet with rain and heavy with mosquitoes, and the cons often outweigh the pros for hiking there. But Autumn comes, and the park once again embraces its color and beauty.

The shallow pond in the middle of the park reflects the golden trees, provides a home for Painted Turtles, and grows Monet-worthy Lily Pads.

Colors of all shades and hues begin to pop out of the greenery. The process of the energy-producing shutdown that happens to most plants in the Northland is fascinating!

And then there’s the Sunlight. It shines on the color, over the brown seedheads of Monarda and Indian Grass, and through the green leaves of Stiff Goldenrod and others. It is the fire that fuels Spring growth, Summer production, and Fall decline. It entrances us because the Sun is just as important to us as to the plants.

Poet extraordinaire Mary Oliver wrote: “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” It is the way I live my life. It is the reason I started North Star Nature. It is my fascination with all the mesmerizing aspects of Nature that impel me to write my blog week after week for over eight and a half years now. To my readers, I thank you and hope you have been astonished along with me. Nature deserves your attention. It deserves your love. It deserves your caregiving. I hope you have an enchanting Autumn!

Work Well Done

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

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

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

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

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

Poison Ivy is coordinating its Fall colors below the Sumac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reckoning Our Storytelling

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

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

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

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

Orange Sulphur butterfly on Rough Blazing Star
Goldenrod gall

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

Canada Rye grass

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

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

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

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

Butterfly Weed going to seed
Tall Boneset and Goldenrod

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

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

Goldenrod Soldier Beetles mating

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

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

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

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

Reclamation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warning Signs

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

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

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

Warning: Poison ivy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warning: Prescribed burns not only rejuvenate prairie grasses and wildflowers but can damage even mature trees if things don’t go quite right.

Aster
Anise Hyssop
Fireweed

Forewarning to the purveyors of fear and fallacy: Truth and Light will shine on and overtake the Darkness.

Grow With It

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I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.

It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.

The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.

Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.

The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.

I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.

A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.

I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.

One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.

The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.

Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.

Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.

Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.

Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.

Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.

Joe Pye Weed
Aster
Monarch butterfly on Rough Blazing Star
Rattlesnake Master
Tiger Swallowtail butterfly on Anise Hyssop

The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.

Spirit of the Moment

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Nobody would describe me as spontaneous. It’s not that I desire my life to be ‘planned out’—I don’t operate that way either. It’s more like a new idea always hits me as a surprise, which in some part of my brain I take as a potential threat, I think. So the idea has to be vetted and examined and evaluated and deemed sound and safe. Then maybe I can proceed….

Chris has been ‘dealing with’ this trait of mine for over forty years. Yes, bless him. And bless him for not giving up on the idea of spontaneity. Last Tuesday he came home from work, walked in the door, and dropped this bomb on me—“Let’s go camping somewhere tonight!” Yes, a Tuesday evening when we were going to eat supper, go for a walk, take a shower, watch something, you know, really important on Netflix, and go to bed. (The Routine.) I was in the kitchen making supper, and he knew enough to drop the bomb and leave it in my lap—he said he would be outside getting some rays. So in my shock and surprise, I kept making supper—it really was a beautiful day today and is supposed to be the same tomorrow—and then I washed all the baking dishes—IF we go, I’d have to have these dishes done and I’d better sweep the floor—and then I scooted over to the computer to see if Father Hennepin State Park had any open campsites—IF we go, that would be a pretty close, pretty place to go—and then I checked the cupboards to see if we even had any food to take with us—IF we go, we would need to have something to eat with minimal effort—and then I ran outside to ask Chris if he could really get the day off tomorrow with such short notice—IF we go, we really shouldn’t be breaking any rules—and then supper was ready—I really didn’t get out to enjoy this beautiful day as much as I wanted to—and then, much to both of our surprises, I said, “This is one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but let’s do it!” Lol! (It is not beyond my understanding that the ‘crazy’ part may not be the part about spontaneously going camping, but ‘C’est la vie’ says this old folk.)

So we ate, reserved a campsite, packed our tent and sleeping bags, put some food in the cooler, packed our toothbrushes and a few other clothes, and left our Tuesday evening Routine and drove north and east to Father Hennepin State Park on the shore of Mille Lacs. (And truth be told, I was a little giddy with our crazy actions as I informed the kids to prove to them I was not entirely a ‘stick in the mud.’)

We pulled into the campground, found our site, set up the tent, and then I grabbed the camera, walked a very short path from the back of our campsite to the fishing pier on the lake and was presented with a gift for my spontaneity. The gentle laps of the water reflected the subtle colors of the sunset—so beautiful and calming. Twenty minutes later when I returned with Chris, the colors had intensified, and together, we watched something really important.

After watching the sunset, we climbed into the tent, into our sleeping bags, but I could not fall into sleep. I marveled at how quiet it was—we were far away from any other campers, so we heard no one. The Aspen trees sang a soft fluttering lullaby, and still I resisted the Sandman. A couple of owls started hooting back and forth, and I thought how it sounded like they were telling one another about their day. I wonder if owls are spontaneous. At some point a couple of hours later, I fell asleep, but it was a sporadic slumber. The wind picked up during the night, and I could hear the waves hitting the rocks on the shore and rocking the squeaky pier. Three (too many) times I crawled out of the tent and saw stars and clouds through the tree tops. When dawn arrived, I was ready to start the day, despite my lack of sleep.

Cold coffee and tea and bowls of granola nourished us for breakfast. Then we hiked along the lake on Pope’s Point trail. The eastern sunlight shone through the trees to the trail, lighting up a mass of mushrooms growing on a large tree.

Many backwater channels contained wetland plants and some standing water. Large-leaved Arrowheads bloomed on tall, stiff stalks, their delicate white flowers almost orchid-like. Another name for Arrowheads is Duck Potatoes—the edible tubers are a favorite food for muskrats, geese, ducks, and swans.

We saw a number of interesting rocks that were piled along the lakeshore. This one looked like it had cuts through it—was it an artifact from another time?

The choppy waves were creating foam along the shore, but then we saw a river of foam snaking through the middle of the lake. There must be a change of current or direction that is stirring up the water.

At Pope’s Point, the trail ended, and Mille Lacs stretched out in front of us like an ocean. The water pounded against the rocks and the trees hardy enough to stand it.

Look closely at the water horizon about one-third of the way from the right side of the photograph. The tiny speck of white is Hennepin Island, one of two small boulder islands that make up Mille Lacs National Wildlife Refuge, one of the last nesting places in Minnesota for the Common Tern.

Closer to shore are the ducks who hid out in the Bulrushes that provided some shelter from the wind and waves.

We dubbed this rock the Green Face….

and this one, the Leaf Rock.

After our backtrack of the Pope’s Point trail, we circled around the park, through the forest, past this bed of flowing Sedge grass…

and a Common Saint John’s Wort, whose leaves and petals have tiny sacs of oil that can be used in a herbal remedy for infections and depression.

Once we were in the forest, the mosquitoes started to bother us for the first time since we got to the Park. When we entered the Pine forest, a mosquito spontaneously flew into my ear—all the way into my ear. What a weird, creepy feeling to have a mosquito fluttering its wings inside your ear. Chris couldn’t even see it, but it kept trying to fly while in my ear, and I kept trying to shake it out. The rest of the hike back to the campsite was not quite so peaceful, though finally the fluttering stopped.

We tried to entice it out with the light from a headlamp—fly towards the light, little mosquito, but that didn’t work. I could still feel it in there. So Chris googled ‘How to get a mosquito out of your ear,’ and we weren’t the first to do that. “Pour mineral oil in your ear, let it set for ten minutes, then drain the oil out of your ear.” (Hopefully with the bug.) Well, we didn’t bring any mineral oil on our spontaneous camping trip, but we had passed a little grocery store in the little town outside of the park. We were lucky to find mineral oil there, and with the picnic table as the exam bench, Chris poured the mineral oil in my ear. He never saw the mosquito come out, but when I sat up, there was a flattened mosquito on the picnic table. Was that my ear dive-bomber?!

We ate a picnic lunch, Chris grabbed his fishing pole, and we returned to the pier and to the great Mille Lacs water at midday. It was such a beautiful day!

Spontaneous is defined as ‘impulsive, instinctive, automatic, acting without deliberation or premeditation, not planned, an open, natural and uninhibited manner.’ There are qualities about spontaneity that I eschew—acting impulsively doesn’t seem like a productive way to live life. I also know I can be bogged down in my routine of safety and miss out on some wonderful aspects of life. Surprise is one of our six core emotions—it contains the emotions of startled and shocked, which are very close to another core emotion of Fear. It’s no wonder my hypervigilant brain gets activated by something that surprises me. But on the other side of surprise are the contained emotions of amazed and excited, which are close to the core emotion of Happy! So once we actually acted on the spontaneous trip, I felt a surge of excitement and joy. But I still did a lot of examining and evaluation of the idea in the time when Chris left me alone while I was preparing supper. Another definition I came across for spontaneous was ‘spirit of the moment,’ which felt much different from ‘impulsive’ and ‘automatic.’ ‘Spirit of the moment’ reminds us to live in the moment and in doing so, we are living with Spirit! Once we were on the shores of Mille Lacs, it was easy to do so. The sky, water, plants, rocks, and trees all became something really important to notice and appreciate. Even the mosquito in my ear honed me in on the present moment! Perhaps my current of Fear is changing. Perhaps I can swim out of my bulrushes of safety to experience the larger world. Perhaps Spirit is leading me towards Happiness.

Hallelujah!

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I call this the Hallelujah Tree. Sunlight shone down on its crown and through the canopy to the ground, lighting up the trail before us. Its ‘arms’ were raised in praise of this glorious day, and it was framed by a chapel door of trees. After walking through the heavily shaded forest, the light was notable. Another notable was how dry the forest floor was, not only on the trail but throughout the stand of Maples and Basswood. The undergrowth was stunted and almost barren-looking from too long a lack of moisture. We were less than an hour from home, where grass and growing things were more nourished, and I could hardly get over the stark, unexpected difference.

A hardy resident of the dry forest jumped on the sandy trail. He didn’t seem concerned…about anything. American Toads are the most abundant toads in Minnesota. I liked his orangish-red speckles on his legs and back.

As with any forest, there were many broken trees, but this one caught my attention. It was a relatively new break, still attached to the tree, and the break seemed complex. It looked like there was a burl at the break site, a place where insects or fungi invade and the tree grows ‘scar’ tissue around it.

We hiked by the dry wetland of the park that usually has standing water and squishy trails. We found blooming Goldenrod and Joe Pye Weed, though they were far from robust, so even the wetland was suffering from the drought.

We did, however, see the tallest Jack-in-the-Pulpit I’ve seen in a long time! It had little competition from other plants besides the small Jewel Weeds growing at its feet. The cluster of green berries will turn bright red towards Fall, attracting birds and rodents. But beware, the leaves, berries, and roots can cause painful irritation if humans touch it.

The wetland abruptly ended as the ground cover of ferns stopped, and brown, crunchy leaves took over.

Almost every lake in Minnesota has a resident Loon, and this small lake was no exception. The Loon seemed unpaired so was probably a yearling. But he took great care in preening and cleaning his feathers, having the advantage of living in his own large bird bath! Hallelujah!

Handsome!

The small, shallow lake was also home for an abundant population of White Water Lilies. While they seriously impede the lake activities of humans, they are actually a food and shelter haven for many insects, amphibians, turtles, ducks, muskrats, beaver, and moose!

The fragrant flowers close at night and open in the morning and have a profusion of pollen for insects with their forty or more yellow stamens.

The drought had instigated an early Fall in the forest. Maple seedlings had dried up and would not grow into saplings. Aspen leaves were turning color and dropping to the ground. But in the midst of that, the sun shone on a well-established spider web and created all the colors of the rainbow!

Environmentally (and in many other ways), it feels like we are on shaky ground. Extreme weather is causing unprecedented damage and suffering to people and all God’s creatures around the world. It’s scary. And scared people and animals tend to lash out at others and self-protect in any way possible. The broken trees of society are complex.

I happened to be going to the store this week when I heard an interview on the radio with the Minneapolis author Richard Leider. His latest book is ‘Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Old? The Path of Purposeful Aging.’ He instructed that our daily purpose in life is to grow and to give—a simple mission we can all undertake. How do I grow today? How do I give today? That is the very purpose of Nature! Growing and giving! The ecosystem isn’t working only for the largest, most powerful of the flora and fauna—it benefits all. One plant like the White Water Lily feeds tiny thrips and gigantic moose, and looks and smells beautiful at the same time.

We live in a world that has some very scary things going on, and people are suffering. Fear has us lashing out at others, making them enemies, while history and logic are defied and defiled. We want to defend ourselves, take for ourselves, hold on to our own ideas. We end up hurting others—and ourselves. It is the antithesis of growing and giving, the antithesis of Nature. Think about how much each of us is blessed by Nature’s growing and giving—not just blessed, but sustained. Nature can flourish without us. We cannot live without Nature. I can’t help but have a foreboding feeling that we’re not doing enough to stop the earth wreck. But I will continue to appreciate and share the incredible beauty and intelligence of our natural world in hopes of making a difference. Let us not destroy what we love. I’m going to hold on to the Hallelujahs.