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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.

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?

Addition and Subtraction

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Have you seen that commercial where the man is stoically and rather cheerfully walking around with a enormous bear trap on his foot? It will be alright, he says. No big deal. He can handle it… Well, I can relate. Stoicism has its merits, including self-discipline and perseverance, but it can also become ridiculous. There seems to be a fine line between stoicism and self-inflicted suffering, and I have walked that line. I have also voluntarily veered into the suffering field and set up camp there. In fact, I was pretty comfortable in my suffering. But not anymore. I see the bear trap I’ve been dragging along on my foot—it’s heavy, and it hurts, and there’s no reason for it anymore.

So I have made a decision to subtract some things from my life, starting with that bear trap. I am taking away a few things I dearly love and fervently believe in, but I have realized that I can get so wrapped up in them that I neglect other things I should be paying attention to. My decision-making took long swaths of time and lots of angsty jumping back and forth across the line—should I or shouldn’t I? The process became as long suffering as my stoic self. But I finally feel like I’ve shaken some things off, and I’ve got to say, it feels….strange and rather exhilarating (in a stoic kind of way.)

Saturday was a day right on the line of freezing, give or take a degree or two. The air was heavy with humidity—at times it sputtered as snow, other times a misty sprinkle. Would we add snow or subtract it with rain? We hiked at the Little Elk area—it was a pretty spot where the Little Elk River opened up and flowed into the Mississippi River. But now both Rivers were iced over—the shallow parts had strong–enough ice for sleds and tent houses used for ice fishing. Each cold day and night adds ice. Each day above freezing deteriorates it.

Large White Pines and Oaks lined the River trail, along with little patches of prairie grasses in open areas.

For a pretty picture: just add mushrooms and a cap of snow!

We soon saw evidence that a beaver had been busy subtracting the number of standing trees along the River, and I wondered if the slushy footprints belonged to him.

I think beavers must be stoics considering their impossibly hard job of gnawing trees down in order to build their homes and make their dams. Try, try again and again and again. Perseverance and self-discipline.

As we followed the River, I began to wonder how many beavers were actually working in the area, especially when we got to this (de)construction site. Many of the trees were young Oaks—very hard wood to chew through, but what a sturdy structure they will make!

As in any forest, time, weather, insects, and diseases can subtract the number of large trees that make up the forest. Their loss is impactful. Their death and downing makes a cracking, crashing wail of letting go of what was a beautiful, productive life.

And yet, as those old beauties die, the young ones are sprouting up to take their place. Subtraction and addition.

At a point by a curve in the River was a fenced-in area that had been excavated by an archeologist in the 1980’s and 90’s. He found three dwellings of a French fort from the mid 1700’s. The area is listed with the National Register of Historic Places as the oldest European outpost in the Mississippi River headwaters region.

Logs were floated down this section of the River back in the logging days of late 1800’s/early 1900’s to local saw mills. Log jams were common and would take weeks or even months to clear. Interestingly, some of the logs sunk, caused a jam that didn’t get cleared, and created an island over the years! Addition of islands!

We left the River trail and circled into the Pine forest that followed a ridge. Red Pines joined the old White Pines, both towering above our heads. It was such a good feeling to be walking among them!

Nature is all about addition and subtraction. Birth and death. New things and old, failing things. Mother Nature also shows us how old things can be transformed into new things—downed trees into a new island! Humans seem to resist these natural transitions and transformations. At least I do. But when one is closer to the cracking, crashing wail of the end of life than to the sprouting vigor of a newborn, it is easier to let go of the things that feel like subtractions to our lives. Why carry around the heavy things just because we can? I know that I am strong enough, persistent enough, and disciplined enough—all good qualities of stoicism. But I also want to add loving enough (to myself), empowered enough, and peaceful enough. Subtraction and addition—it’s simple math.

Blessings and Crack-ups

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I know a blessing when it presents itself to my life, and I can even spot a few that are in disguise. I know how to count them, accept them, savor them, and be grateful for them. I’ve had a few plaques hanging on my walls over the years proclaiming the goodness of blessings and offering that sentiment to anyone who sees it. I am equally familiar with the crack-ups, the break-downs, the pile-ups, and the mishaps. No Thanksgiving or any other day, for that matter, has one without the other.

Last Sunday’s hike at Mississippi River County Park was chilly and windy. The temps had dropped into the teens the previous few nights, and ice had formed on the River in record time. (We had hiked at the park across the River two days before, and the River was open.) A layer of snow had fallen after the ice formed, and then the wind blew! The wind and current sent the River ice into a crack-up! There is a dam a couple of miles down river from the park where the water becomes still and full. When the water slows down, the ice forms more smoothly. At this stretch, the north winds stirred up the current and the chaos, breaking up the ice that formed overnight. The River was a mash-up of smooth ice, piles of chards, open, flowing water, ice floes, and ‘warm’ spots that had melted and re-froze. Does any of that feel familiar?

We left the River bank and followed the trail ‘inland.’ The trail had already been groomed for skiing, and ski tracks intermingled with the footprints of humans, dogs, and deer.

The bright sunlight filtered through the trees, lighting up the ‘snow arches’ of the bent trees that live incognito during the summer.

The backwater pond, even and shallow, had smooth ice with a layer of snow that revealed the tracks of some brave animals that had already ‘tested’ the ice. I wondered how they knew they could make it across.

The beaver has been busy felling trees. I have yet to see where his lodge is, and I wonder if he is new to the neighborhood. His industriousness is impressive! Chewing down the tree isn’t even the hardest part—‘cutting up’ and dragging the chunks of wood to his building spot is the most labor-intensive.

Living in this world has given me an appreciation for the blessings in my life. It also makes me realize that blessings befall us all—they are not just doled out to a favored few. The hardest part is being grateful, humble, helpful, and beneficial to others with the gifts that come our way. The more difficult learning curve of the decades is appreciating the crack-ups, downfalls, pile-ups, and break-downs. They also befall us all. We cannot eschew them if we want to abide in a more peaceful place. The hard part is not getting tangled up in the chaos and the destruction, though that is easier said than done. But slowing down smooths things out and soothes the pain of the inevitable crack-ups and break-downs. So take it all in and be thankful. Be still. Be full of love—for our beautiful Earth, for ourselves, and for others.

Beavers and Burls

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It didn’t take long into our hike before the title of my post popped into my head—beavers and burls. We were at Fort Snelling State Park in the Twin Cities for an outdoor meet-up with Aaron, Zoe, and our niece Stacey. Before we had even crossed the bridge to Pike Island, a beaver tree let us know the permanent residents of the island were busy and hard-working. Lt. Zebulon Pike chose this island for his camp site on his 1805 expedition to explore the upper Mississippi River. He met with Dakota Indian leaders whose people had lived, hunted, fished, and made maple syrup on this island for eons.

Huge Cottonwood trees, with their roots embedded close to the nourishing river shores, were like giants lining the island. And on the huge trees were huge burls. Burls are growths caused by some sort of stress—an injury, insect infestation, virus, or fungus. The abnormal growth contains a plethora of twisted, interlocking knots from dormant buds. The wood is prized for woodworking because of the unusual grain.

Hard work, hardship, building, and healing. The trees were telling us stories.

The beavers worked along a tributary of the Minnesota River that cut across and joined the outlet from Snelling Lake to flow into the Mississippi. While we saw many beaver-cut trees, we didn’t see any lodges or dams or beavers, though we knew they were there. Soon we were following the Mississippi River; the River was low from Winter’s scarce snowfall, exposing sandy beaches on both sides.

The water was clear and cold, inviting Stacey’s dog to wade and drink at various points along our four-mile trail.

The ice-clear River invited an Eagle to peer from his lofty vantage point into the transparent water for a fresh meal. A bevy of boats and fishermen were also looking for fish along this stretch.

Too late for this one.

Zoe’s work for the Conservation Corps on this island is removing Ash trees infected by Emerald Ash Borer like this heavily infested tree. The insect ‘trails’ are called galleries—destructive but artful.

At the point of Pike Island, the Minnesota River meets the Mississippi River. The Minnesota was markedly cloudier and discolored compared to the Mississippi. The two big rivers converged to continue their southward flow.

The Minnesota River side of the island was a typical flood plain of large trees and not much underbrush, but like most floodplains, I’m sure the summer vegetation is lush. The fallen trees were in various stages of wear and decay—covered in moss or stripped bare.

As we circled the island, we returned to the beaver and burl side where ambition and tenacity of the beavers were on full display along with hardship and healing of the Cottonwood trees.

This cut was so recent that the sap was flowing from it.

The trees were telling us stories—of ambition and hard work, of hardship and stress. The old huge ones cannot live as long as they have without the wear and tear of life showing in their boughs and in their core. And so it is with us. Accelerated growth and learning of childhood. Vigor and zeal of young adulthood. Hard work and hardship of our middle ages. Abnormal growth and artful beauty in confronting pain and grief in our lives. Occasional destruction we cannot recover from, but mostly we heal—somehow, some way. The River of Love nourishes us and sees us through another season, another year.

Seven years ago today I published my first blog post with this quote from Rachel Carson. “Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.  There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature–the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” I have more faith and belief in this quote now than I ever have. Thank you to all the readers who have been with me these seven years and to those who have found me since. Nature holds up a mirror to show where we have strayed and gives us a path to healing. Please join me in appreciating, preserving, and protecting the global gallery of Nature’s abundant art.

Stepping Into the Clear Water

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It was like stepping back into time, stepping into a life of early and mid-century wealth and privilege. The Glendalough Lodge is modest by today’s standards, built in the early 1900’s by Ezra Valentine as a summer retreat for family and friends. In 1928, F.E. Murphy, owner of the Minneapolis Tribune, bought the place, expanded the acreage, developed a game farm, and used it as a family and corporate retreat. Glendalough was transferred to the Cowles Family in 1941 with the sale of the Tribune. Dwight Eisenhower and Richard Nixon were guests at Glendalough during the 50’s. On Earth Day, 1990, the property was donated to The Nature Conservancy, and in 1992, the Department of Natural Resources obtained the land for a state park.

We stepped into the Autumn prairie with rich golden Indian grass and brick red Sumac.

Three of the five of us donned running clothes for the virtual Red Friday Run for the World Champion Kansas City Chiefs in support for the Ronald McDonald House Charities of Kansas City. They ran through woods and prairie along the bike trail in the park.

The other two of us hiked the Beaver Pond Interpretive Trail along Blanche Lake, a beautiful, crystal-clear lake lined with water-purifying bulrushes.

We stepped onto a hill of sand along the shore of the lake called an ice ridge. These form when ice on the lake expands and pushes sand up into an embankment. An older ridge south of the lake indicates that at one time, perhaps thousands of years ago, the lake was much larger and had a higher water level.

Orange Sulphur butterflies flitted from Aster to Aster in the prairie meadow surrounded by Birch trees, and we found a rare Blue Lobelia wildflower.

Large Oak Trees grew along parts of the trail. The fallen acorns were so abundant in areas that it felt like I was stepping on a mat of roly-poly marbles.

The beaver pond was full of cattails, but we did see open-water trails that beavers, muskrats, and otters had traveled through. We saw trees that had been gnawed on by sharp beaver teeth. The large Pine was a bit too big for dam-building success.

There were signs along the trail that told us of the glory of the park’s previous life—where a tea house was located beside Blanche Lake, where a horse race track once stood, and here at this open space where a golf course used to be. A dog cemetery honored the beloved hunting dogs that had lived and died at Glendalough.

When the runners returned, we had a picnic on the shore of Annie Battle Lake, a fully natural, non-developed ‘Heritage Fishery’ lake restricted to non-motorized watercraft. It was just amazing how clear the water was in all the lakes and creeks we saw! We stepped into the sand and into the clear, cool water.

Glendalough, meaning ‘the glen between two lakes’ was named by F.E. Murphy and his wife, both of Irish descent. They created a beautiful, enchanting place that the public is privileged to access. Stepping back into the history highlighted their love of conservation, recreation, work, and friendship. When we step back into our own histories, what do we find? Where do our words come from? Where did our ancestors live, and how do their spirits live on through us? How do we step up for charity? It is endemic in the Christian religion to love God and love our neighbors with unselfish love, even when they don’t look like us. What happens when we step on something that trips us up or makes us lose our footing? It messes with our heads and our bodies. It is our responsibility to deal with the mess and the fallout of our own lives. What happens when we step on shifting sand, when we pledge our lives to false prophets? We misstep into deception, lies, division, ravenous wolves in sheep’s clothing who promise the greatest things while stealing us blind. We need to step into faith, hope, love, and action. We need to step into the clear water.

A Snapshot of Our Lives

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What would a snapshot of your day look like?  How about snapshots of your life?  There were many times when the kids were growing up that we took them to outdoor events celebrating a variety of holidays, animals, and seasons—a butterfly festival, May Day celebration, harvest festival, etc.  We have a few candid snapshots of some of those events—when cameras were extra things to carry around with all the paraphernalia needed for three kids of various ages.

Last weekend we attended the Wildlife Festival at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge.  It was a chilly, raw day—as we walked from the car, most of us wished we had more and warmer clothes.  Babies were wrapped in snowsuits and cute fleece hats.  An outdoor fire and an indoor gift shop were popular places to warm up.  Tents and tables with snakes, birds, furs, and photographs engaged the kids and adults alike.  We had two of our adult kids with us, plus one, reminiscent of the events in years past.  Following are snapshots of our day with captions from some of the five of us:

  1.  Morning surprise   2.  A Walking Stick before our walk in the sticks   3.  Stickin’ around

  1.  Eagle eye   2.  Injured glory   3.  Head and shoulders above the rest

  1.  Feathered friend   2.  Small but mighty   3.  Bundled up

  1.  Who?!   2.  Feeling owley   3.  Here’s lookin’ at you, kid

  1.  Busy beavers   2.  Construction zone   3.  I could sure use a toothpick

  1.  Not mush room   2.  Unstoppable   3.  Mushrooms are having a moment

  1.  Hipsters in red   2.  Roses for next year   3.  Hips don’t lie

  1.  Feel the burn   2.  Tree-mains   3.  Vertical coal

  1.  All the sad prairie   2.  Cactus of Minnesota   3.  Prairie sentries

  1.  Mess ‘o Milkweed   2.  Fluff in the wind   3.  It’s time to sail

  1.  Hanging on   2.  Feathered and tethered   3.  Clinging

  1.  Missouri memories   2.  The circle of life   3.  Bittersweet goodbye

 

A snapshot is a quick record of something or someone; a brief appraisal or summary.  My photos and our captions are snapshots of our day together.  They can stir memories of past times and connect us with a quiet part of ourselves that we may not be aware of.  How do we walk through life?  What do we see or not want to see?  How do we carry ourselves?  Who are we really?  What is the work of our lives?  What’s stopping us?  How do we want our future to look?  How do we look at things from a different point of view?  Who do we surround ourselves with?  How do we realize our mission?  What do we do when we get stuck?  How do we gather the sweet fruit from our memories?  We are all entwined in this circle of life—each of us only a snapshot in the huge panorama of our Earth and its history.  But each snapshot is important, and this time is our time.  The mushrooms and all of us are having a moment.