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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/

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?

Anticipation

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The pandemic birthed the idea. We were having weekly Zoom meetings with some of our kids in the winter of the Winter. Our extroverted daughter Emily was struggling with the isolation and the unknown, undetermined future. She wondered how I could seem so happy in the midst of it all. (Introvert advantage.) She reminded us again and again, ‘We-all aren’t getting any younger.” Her desire for movement, planning, connection, action, and excitement was palpable. I knew how important it was for her to have something to look forward to, and her ‘not getting any younger’ statement hit home with me…so I said, “Why don’t we plan a summer trip to the Boundary Waters?” And the anticipation began.

Anticipation includes preparation, expectation, eagerness, planning, and excitement about something that is going to happen. For me, anticipating this trip into the Boundary Waters also included apprehension, doubts, and a good dose of the big, boogeyman F-word—Fear. While Emily and Aaron had both been guides for many summers preparing for and taking people into the Boundary Waters, this trip would be my first time…. And I don’t swim. And I’m kind of scared of deep water. And I’m afraid of tipping the canoe…and losing my glasses…and not keeping up…and, well, the list goes on. But plans were made, equipment acquired, plane tickets from Texas reserved, BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area) permit obtained, menu planned, food bought, etc., etc. On August 14th, we headed north.

We stayed two nights at KoWaKan, the camp the kids worked at during their college years. We did our last minute shopping (and eating) in Ely and spent time relaxing in the sun and beauty of the northwoods.

Beaver family

We talked about our goals (fishing was high on the list) and concerns. My concern was waves and how to navigate them, so Aaron hopped into a canoe with me on that very windy day, and we practiced.

By evening, the last minute packing was underway, and the non-essentials were stashed in the vehicles for our return. The anticipation was building.

There’s a fine line between excitement and nervousness. As the packs and canoes were loaded on the cars the next morning, I crossed that line. My stomach began to feel ill. I took a few trips to the outhouse. Tears welled up in my eyes. My steps slowed. Now that we were ready to go, I was not at all sure I could do this.

Chris, Emily, and the others gave reassurance that they would help me and take good care of me. I trusted their experience and their words. Deep breaths. We drove to Moose Lake entry point, unloaded the three canoes, five packs, and fishing poles, and we were off on our BWCA adventure!

photo by Emily

Fishing began right away—for the humans and the eagles that chattered from the trees alongside the lake.

In the months prior to our trip, I had a BWCA map laid out on a bed, and I looked at it every morning. I had no idea at first how far we would go, so I concentrated on Moose Lake where our entry point was and hoped we could get to Horseshoe Island in Newfound Lake, the lake after Moose.

Little did I know at the time that we would be eating our lunch on the first day on Horseshoe Island! It’s strange not knowing the time at any given time of the day. We looked to the sun and our stomachs for clues, but as the days went by, it mattered less and less what the actual time was since it had no bearing on our day. But it was hard to let that time-structure go.

Food preparation was planned and executed by Emily who had done the same process for numerous groups over three summers. She made a menu, we bought the food, she measured it out, bagged it up, and labeled everything. All the food has to be carried in and contained in ‘bear barrels’—plastic barrels with metal closures that protect the food from bears. Since it was a drought year, and wildlife were hungrier than usual, the bear barrels also were required to be hung in trees at night and during the day when mealtime was over.

She had different stuff sacks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to help organize the barrels. As plastic food bags emptied, they were used for trash, as it is required to carry out all trash. (Which has to go back into the barrels, so it doesn’t attract bears.) Lunches were bagels or pitas, summer sausage, cheese, or peanut butter and jelly. We had one apple each for the week so could choose which day we wanted it. Carrots were our ‘fresh’ vegetables. A handful of trail mix or a homemade granola bar were for dessert or a needed snack.

After lunch we paddled through Sucker Lake until we reached…Canada! We turned to Birch Lake where the low-horsepower motor boats were no longer allowed as they were on Moose, Newfound, and Sucker Lakes.

We paddled with Canada on our left and the United States on our right until we found a campsite on a peninsula that was hanging by a five-rod portage to the mainland. The almost-island campsite was our home for the night.

We unloaded the canoes, set up tents and hammocks, and hung the bear barrels. The fishermen got serious about fishing. The nappers got serious about napping.

The hazy sky of afternoon turned smokier—we could smell it, and the smoke seemed to settle on the water. Because of the drought and Canadian wildfires, there has been a fire ban in the BWCA and most of northern Minnesota. So no campfires for us or anyone. We cooked over a small white gas backpacking stove—our first supper was macaroni and cheese with polish sausages. So good! The largest fish of the trip was caught by our son-in-law Shawn just as evening settled around us. The feisty 30-inch Northern was the one who got away before a picture could be taken—but the excitement of the ones who saw him will stay with us.

We traveled for about eight miles this first day with no portages (as we determined by the map and key after we returned from our trip.) I was getting used to the water and waves. The process was intriguing, the landscape incredibly beautiful, and the companionship of our family comforting.

Because of the drought, there were not many wildflowers blooming, but down by the water in a little boggy area beside our tent, the showy Jewelweed brightened up the dry and dusty landscape. It’s a native plant of the Impatiens genus whose sap from the watery stems has been used by Native Americans to relieve pain and itching from hives, poison ivy, and insect bites. A jewel to look at and a jewel for relief.

Jewelweed

My anticipation of our Boundary Waters trip was like the Jewelweed—part jewel and part weed. I loved the excitement and planning of it over months of otherwise difficult times of pandemic and political unrest and uncertainty. It is a priceless gemstone to engage with adult children in a common love and endeavor. But there were definitely weedy things about it—even though my decision to suggest the trip in the first place took much thought and can-do self-encouragement, I still struggled with my fears when the time actually came. If only our fears could be plucked out like weeds and tossed into the compost pile. But they reside with us until they are respectfully encountered and challenged. As I stared up at the stars in our unflyed tent, listening to the calming, flute-like calls of Loons and hoping for a breeze on the stuffy, smokey night, I decided that it had been a pretty great first day.

This is the first post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

Home Field Advantage

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In this year of Covid, most of us have become much more familiar with our homes. Home has been maximally multifunctional for many families—school house, fitness center, workplace, church, recreational spot, and social center as well as the usual place for family meals and relaxation and sleep. It has forced us to evaluate our definition of ‘home’—the purpose, the feel, the aesthetics, and the functionality.

Imagine living in a purple palace with many rooms and secret passageways that wind from place to place. Instead of a protective moat, the palace walls have barbs to keep intruders out. Food is plentiful, at least for most times of the year, and the floor of the palace is soft and comfy. That is the home for a rabbit family at William O’Brien State Park, a park on the eastern side of Minnesota. Most of the year the purple palace is covered with green leaves or with piles of snow—we just happened to see it during its most transparent time.

The woods in Winter and late Fall are also transparent, especially during this time with no snow. Tree trunks, fallen leaves, fallen trees, and rocks dominate the brown-gray landscape. A flowing creek or a frozen lake may break up the muted landscape, but even they reflect the grayness of a cloudy day.

After starting our hike beside the rabbits’ purple palace, it soon became apparent that ‘homes’ were the topic of the day. All forest creatures need a warm (relatively speaking) and safe place to live during the Winter, and as we saw nook after cranny of log homes and tree dwellings, I wondered who lived in each one.

How many frogs are hibernating here? Land frogs dig down or find a space called a hibernaculum where they spend the winter. Aquatic frogs hibernate under water. Both protect their vital organs with an ‘antifreeze’ of a high concentration of glucose.

This little home at the foot of a tree had a super highway of a driveway carved out of a root and acorn debris scattered at the entrance.

A Pine seedling found a home in the leaf litter. It needs a cover of snow to stay protected from the hungry winter-grazing deer and rabbits.

Large fallen logs weather and rot making crack-and-crevice-homes for all types of insects and small creatures.

We chose the Riverside Trail Loop to hike so we could see the St. Croix River, but first we came to Lake Alice. It was named after the daughter of timber baron William O’Brien who bought much of the land owned by the lumber companies who cleared the valley of its huge stands of White Pines. In 1945 Alice donated 180 acres of her father’s land to be developed as a state park.

As we walked along, it became very evident who lived in or near Lake Alice.

We wondered how a beaver chooses his or her next tree to chew down. Was this one coming back to finish the job? It looks like it had a previous ‘old wound’—maybe some trees just aren’t the right ones.

And then we came to a tree right beside the trail—it looked like we had literally just interrupted the busy beaver’s work! We wondered if the whole beaver family works together on the same log. Perhaps they were carrying away the logs they had already chewed off!

We walked across an earthen dam that separated Lake Alice from a channel to the St. Croix River. There was ‘beaver activity’ all across the dam, even though we didn’t see any lodges.

Just across the channel is a large island named Greenberg Island. During Spring snowmelt, the island is often covered with water for a short time. But during the summer, it is a sanctuary for many birds and mammals, including beavers, and for unique floodplain plants.

Our homes tour continued as we walked the Riverside Trail. Little hobbit houses were built into living trees and into those that had fallen down. Even though it was a transparent time of the year, the burrows were covered enough or deep enough that the occupant had plenty of shelter, a refuge from the coming Winter weather.

I like these twin curved logs that span the little creek. Old beaver marks may indicate the identity of the bridge builder.

A couple of havens were prize winners for ‘most artistic doorway,’ both of which named Mother Nature as their architect.

From the rabbits’ purple palace to the home-builder beavers to all the other creatures living in their Winter homes, Nature shows us the importance of having a shelter that is a safe harbor from harsh weather and predators. As for us human creatures, home is where we are.* Home is where we have been for months now. How does your home measure up? Is it a sanctuary of safety? Is it a port in a storm? Is it a haven of love and learning? Is it a sanctum of sacred time and practices? Is it a retreat for adventure and renewal? During this transparent time, when the landscape is stark and bare, we can see things in ways we have not been able to see before. And more importantly, we can act, but the question is are we beaver builders of dams that obstruct and impede the natural flow and goodness of our surroundings or are we bridge builders?

*I am very cognizant of the fact that many, many people do not even have a home, let alone the opportunity to shape it into a sanctuary. Much of the reason for that tragedy has been a history of dam-building. It is an example of where and why we need an army of bridge builders to traverse the muck and bring solutions to people who are in need.