Common Loons Archives - NorthStarNature

Legacy of the Rocks

August 6, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Storytellers and Swimmers

July 23, 2023 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hallelujah!

August 14, 2022 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

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.

Portraits of Hope

April 24, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

Challenge

September 12, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The quiet, still mornings in the Boundary Waters are the epitome of peacefulness. We don’t realize how noisy our normal world is until we experience the wilderness. Despite another night of not sleeping well (I found myself rolling downhill off my sleeping pad), the dawn light and smooth water soothed my morning fatigue and rejuvenated my spirit. After our difficult day #2 that had little time for fishing, Aaron rose with the sun and launched the canoe to glide on the glassy water of Dix Lake and entice some fish. The mirror reflection of the shore trees and rocks is a little disorienting—the ‘real’ world doubles in illusion.

Aaron had a couple of bites, and he discovered some other early morning adventurers. He saw a mama otter swimming with her two young ones. Otters are such excellent swimmers—graceful, playful, and skilled. When Aaron got too close to them in the water, they popped up onto shore, and mama hissed at him to stay away from her babies. They then disappeared into the woods but reappeared in the water farther down the shore.

After the previous challenging day of finding a campsite and lacking any desire to stay in the cramped site that saved us the night before, we got an early start. We ate a quick oatmeal breakfast, then packed up and pushed off. I wish I could say my reckoning from the day before had eliminated my morning paddling struggles, but I had my fair share of paddle-down-head-down moments. But it was better than the previous two days, so progress is good in my book. We had a short 30-rod portage into Skoota Lake, then prepared our heads (okay, I did) for our longest-yet portage of 180 rods (a little over half a mile). It was a challenge I was ready to accept! I carried my pack and paddles up and down the rocky terrain—another milestone for me to check off. After our portage, we were rewarded by one of the most beautiful lakes we paddled through—Missionary Lake. The pictures don’t do it justice!

Another short portage brought us to Trader Lake, a smaller lake with no campsites. We paddled around a large peninsula looking for the next portage. All I could see were steep hills, and I commented I didn’t want to portage up those ‘mountains!’ The trail makers had chosen wisely though, in a place that went between the steepest elevation with only a rocky descent into Vera Lake. Our smooth portages continued with us getting all our gear in one trip and with the kids carrying packs and canoes.

It was a hot, hazy day, but with our early start we progressed through five lakes and four portages and found the last campsite on Vera was open! And it was only mid-morning! We were going to have a much more relaxing day than the day before! Our campsite was large; our tents were scattered out so that no snoring, talking in our sleep (a-hmm, like the previous night), or zzzipping the tents open and closed would disturb the others. The animals of our campsite were lots of chipmunks who bravely skittered around in the hopes of food crumbs (and climbed over Emily’s shoulders), Ruffed Grouse who made funny little ‘talking’ sounds, and of course, the Loon of the Lake who crooned us to sleep at night.

Paddling, portaging, and sleeping were not my only challenges of the week. I like to have things…clean. While I absolutely love being outside and embrace being ‘in the dirt’ in the garden and flower beds, food preparation is another story. The first time we stopped for lunch (and every meal since) when I saw all the bags of food being put down in the dirt around the bear barrels, I had a physical reaction. I wanted to pick them up and put them on….something. By the second night I was heralding the presence of a large, flat rock beside the fire grate—“We have a table!” But once again, the kids were the pros at this, despite working in the dirt. I never bit into a ‘gritty’ piece of food, I never had to brush dirt off anything I was eating, and really, I just had to ‘get over it’ a bit, because ‘when in the Boundary Waters…!’ Washing the dishes was another area where I needed to ‘loosen up.’ We didn’t have the time (at times) or the energy (at times) to heat water and wash them in hot water with camp suds. So I turned a blind eye towards that after a while (and survived.)

Another aspect of BWCA wilderness life is the latrine. From the campsite, there is a path that wanders into the woods until you reach the latrine. It is an open-air bathroom, the most primitive of outhouses. So the system of the latrine is a ‘toilet’ bag with rolls of paper to get everyone through the week and some hand sanitizer that is placed at the beginning of the latrine trail. If the bag is there, nobody is at the latrine, so pick up the bag and take it with you. If no bag, wait until the person comes back. Simple.

So much of the ‘land’ in northern Minnesota is actually just rock, and many of the campsites are positioned on large outcroppings that jut into the lakes. This huge boulder was unusual with its lines of white quartz, like ancient artwork preserved for our modern eyes.

In the heat of the day, I waded into the cool, refreshing water to where I could still stand and ungracefully dog-paddled to and fro (unlike the otters)—it was my first ‘swimming’ adventure in nearly three decades. The fishermen fished, some napped, some read, and we watched canoers pass by looking for an open campsite. We knew their frustration, even as we breathed a sigh of relief that on this day, we were settled for the afternoon and night. We had a delicious supper of chicken tacos. With our limited, measured food, we anticipated our meals with excitement, enjoyed them with gusto, and appreciated them for fueling our bodies. At dusk, Emily went swimming again while Aaron and Zoe fished. The peacefulness of our early morning settled over us again with the smokey sunset. And with that, it was time to get ready for bed.

Life is simplified in the wilderness. The sun and stars are the clocks (though I don’t know how to ‘read’ the stars yet, I was aware of their movement through the night), food is life-giving and limited, water is abundant, the ‘work’ of paddling and portaging literally gets us to a new place, and art and beauty surround us. Challenges are simplified also. As Emily said the day before as we sat in the middle of a lake with no campsite in sight—what other choice do we have but to keep paddling? In the modern world, with copious choices for nearly everything, challenges and even day-to-day events can be confusing—too many choices do not give a person clarity. Being in the wilderness allows your mind and soul to rest and rejuvenate, and even challenges can bring peace.

This is the third 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.

Connection Under an Azure Blue Sky

June 16, 2019 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It all began with my prejudice against red pepper flakes. We were eating our breakfast at KoWaKan, sitting at picnic tables under the tarp-covered kitchen. One of the board members we met the night before sat beside me and sprinkled red pepper flakes on his scrambled eggs. My Scandinavian sensibilities instantly went into danger mode—ie. ‘how to ruin a perfectly good, calm, comforting morning meal.’ When I cautiously mentioned his usage, he assured me that it made everything taste better. In my righteous and myopic defense of Northern European culinary practices, I quipped something like “and you’re from Minnesota?!” He was not from Minnesota. He said he grew up in Kansas City. Well, that explains it, I thought, as I told him that that was where my husband Chris grew up, too, (who also flavors his eggs with red pepper). We continued to eat our eggs and chat. When Chris walked over from the fire where he had been warmly eating his breakfast, I told him that John was from Kansas City! Chris asked him what part of KC he was from, then asked if he had gone to Southwest. John said no, that he had gone to Rockhurst High School. Things kind of went slow motion in my head as I looked from one to the other, and then he added, ‘Class of ’76.’ Chris and John were classmates! What the heck?! They used to play basketball together every day in the ‘short-guy-lunch-hour basketball league!’ We were in the northern wilderness of Minnesota at a Methodist camp and two Kansas City Catholic boys meet again after 40-some years! It blew my mind—I could hardly stand the deliciousness of it!

We were all on the same work team that morning, and the conversation between them flowed from past memories to present day to how they got here. During the shoveling, bucketing, trimming, and digging, in the midst of the smudge smoke that kept the black flies from our eyes, there was a re-connection from a distant time and place. From all the stories that Chris had told me about Rockhurst, I knew that it, too, had a ‘Spirit of the Place‘ about it.

Later in the day, I walked the trail from the Meadows to Hilltop, capturing the details of a late Spring day in the forest. Spruce, Pine, Fir, Birch, and Aspen are the largest trees in the forest, including those on the three islands of Section 12. Star-white flowers of small Serviceberry trees will produce dark, edible berries later in the summer.

Moss and lichens grow on nearly everything. The moss-covered rocks and soil are interspersed with tiny Violets, Wood Anemones, and other plants for later blooming.

Wild Blueberries grow on a sunny, rocky hill facing the lake. The low-to-the-ground shrubs with their small, pale, bell-shaped blossoms can easily be overlooked.

Wild Blueberries are the larval food for the Spring Azure Butterfly, who is almost camouflaged when its wings are folded, but who is a tiny piece of blue sky when flying.

I saw a swimmer out in the lake, gracefully going under and up in a measured, undulating cadence. From a distance, I knew it wasn’t a Loon, and Aaron confirmed that he had seen River Otters here during his work summers.

Another resident of the lake that Aaron retrieved for closer inspection was a dragonfly nymph. After the adult lays eggs on a plant in the water, the nymph grows and develops for up to four years before emerging from its shell and the water to become a flying dragonfly!

After my cold and restless second night in the tent, I was rewarded for getting up before the sunrise to see the mist rising from the still water.

Even the island was obscured in the morning mist…

…but the Loons who had sung our evening lullabies were seen swimming in early morning reverie.

We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep. –William James

Our weekend of service and connection with Aaron and our friend Luke and in this special place would have been wonderful in and of itself, despite the chilly nights. But the meeting of the classmates after more than forty years?! That chance? meeting just gave me so much delight! Later in the weekend, we also found out that two other fellow KoWaKan helpers had lived and camped at a Lutheran church camp that I had worked at in South Dakota when I was in college!! Ah, the graceful cadence of our lives! That Grace, that Cadence, is often overlooked in our busy lives or obscured by the mist of work, children, responsibilities, or ‘more important’ things. How do we connect with those other islands around us? I think first is the acknowledgement that we are already connected ‘in the deep.’ Secondly, it takes communication—talking, listening, asking questions, telling stories, and being open and brave. And finally, it takes caring, dedication, belief, faith, service, and the all-encompassing sea of Love. All of those converged that weekend under that tiny piece of azure sky of KoWaKan.

Snapshots of July Stories

July 29, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Here we are in the middle of the year, in the middle of summer—this month of July. I tend to wish away July when the temperatures rise, when the humidity causes so much discomfort, and when bugs are bugging humans animals, and plants. Oh, and also when the deer jump our garden fence and eat the beans, beets, and peppers. The first half of the month was hot and sticky—and I realize that relative to the rest of the country, we have it easy. Just as I was wondering how to navigate the humid days of summer, we got a blast of welcome relief from cooler Canadian air. The last two weeks have been glorious summer days—days I am not wishing away! Looking over my photographs of July, I realized that our month could be told in a series of little stories. There is the two-sided story of the deer—the nemesis of Chris and his ‘fight’ to save our hostas, trees, and other plants from being devoured by our cloven-hoofed friends as opposed to the beauty of spotted fawns with their mamas.

I saw one small fawn by itself one evening, just standing in the driveway, looking back and forth between the barking dog in the house and the sound of people walking down the street. No mama was in sight. Another day, a fawn hid behind the grass by the blueberries—again without its mama. It’s unusual to see such a young one without its mother close by, and I wondered if she had been killed somehow. Poor, cute baby.

July holds the story of blooming things. The garden vegetables—peppers, tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—are flowering and beginning to grow their fruit. Hosta flowers are in wild abundance, much to the happiness and satiety of the hummingbirds.

Carpets of thyme are covered with purple blooms, and annual zinnias are bright and inviting to the butterflies.

There is the story of time on the lake with friends—delicious in-the-moment time when the look and feel of the water and wind make every cell in your body feel alive. It is the story of Minnesota where pines and loons represent our state.

The story of the Lake is not complete without Cattails, Yellow Pond Lilies, and spiders who take advantage of a corner of a dock to capture a plethora of insects that hover around the water.

There are the summer stories of friends and relatives around a fire on the patio.

The stories of Sunlight and Moonlight fall on the moss of trees, the burbling creek water, and the tall oaks of the forest.

July stories told in snapshots are added to the album of Summer and then to the bigger albums of our year and life. I like how the photographs open those albums, how they illustrate a part of the story, and how they reveal elements that may not have been noticed before. So often—like the deer story—there is a little story within the bigger one. It also illustrates how there can be different feelings and thoughts about a situation, not only from different people, but even within one person. Our personal stories, seen through the snapshot of a photo or memory, are limited, however; we don’t see what’s happening off camera or have all the pertinent information. But a photo and story are also gifts to every one of us—they remind us of the beauty and goodness of life. They make us remember not to take people or things for granted. They instill in us the preciousness of time. What are your July stories? What delicious moments in time have you had this summer? And are you ready for a new story to unfold in each new day?

A Work of Love and Duty

July 8, 2018 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

“I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love and duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting and challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best that I could bring to it.” –Rose Kennedy

I don’t think I’ve ever run across a quote that so closely aligns with the way I felt about raising our three children. I had worked in the profession of child care for four years before having our first child, and it was a joy to provide care, structure, learning activities, and fun to the children at the YWCA. However, deep dissatisfaction crept into my soul when I was leaving my baby with another woman while caring for many other’s children—not because of the work I was doing, but because of the time of not being with my own. It was only another year or so before we made the decision for me to stay home. We had another baby on the way by then, and I was happy to provide care to another little girl full-time and to a few others on a part-time basis. How I loved our days together! I set up learning stations in our old house where messy art projects trumped new floor coverings and reading books and playing outside were more important than how things looked or how much money we had. It was a time of joy for me!

We were fortunate to spend time on Goodners Lake this weekend with our good friends Rick and Lynda. The lake is always beautiful but seemed particularly so after a week with nourishing rains and abundant sunshine.

The resident Loon pair had returned to Goodners Lake in late April, made a nest among the cattails, and hatched out one baby Loon. Even swimming among the boaters, it was evident that the Lake belonged to the Loons.

What was also evident to me is how dedicated and attentive the Loon parents are to their offspring. When the chicks are very young, they can swim but will climb onto their parent’s back to ride and rest. This chick still has its downy feathers but will have its adult voice and be fully feathered by two months old.

The chick mirrors the parents’ actions of peering under the water with their excellent underwater vision to find fish to eat, to preen and clean their feathers, and to rear up out of the water and flap their wings in a territorial display.

The parents will continue to protect and teach their young one until he can capture all his own food and become a strong flyer. In Autumn, the parents leave the lake to migrate south. The young ones will gather and migrate together a few weeks later. The following April, the parents will return to the Lake to begin another season of raising young ones.

Loons, Eagles, Bluebirds, and others are dedicated, hard-working parents. One only needs to watch how they work to build a nest, how they protect their young, how long and hard they work to provide food for them, and how they teach them to do what’s necessary to become full-fledged adults. Parenting in the animal and the human world is hard work, and as John Steinbeck understated, “Perhaps it takes courage to raise children.” Courage indeed, along with a whole host of other noble and life-affirming traits. Parenting is a work of love and duty, a full-time, honorable position whether you are home with your kids all day or you return after working elsewhere to build the nest and give them the wings to fly. Regardless, I hope you bring your best and make it a time of joy!

Gleanings from June—How the Time has Flewn

July 2, 2017 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon? –Dr. Seuss

This is how I feel about the month of June. It’s one of my favorite months, made all the better this year by the fact that we spent the beginning of the month in Kansas City with our daughter Anna and the other Brake relatives, had our daughter Emily home for vacation and work days, and had SD relatives, Aaron, friends, Emily and Shawn together for celebration days. How the time has flewn, as Dr. Seuss said!

June is the most precious month of the summer—here in Minnesota the temperature is summer perfect–warm days and still-cool nights, few bugs and mosquitoes impede outdoor work and fun, and there is plenty of sunshine with abundant rain to keep things growing, blooming, and thriving. Sooo good! June is when my favorite Perennial Blue Flax blooms—so very lovely. Do we take the time to appreciate the incredible beauty of a single flower?

Fuzzy, thick-leaved Mullein unfolds like a rosebud—how do we unfold the many layers of our gifts and talents so we can stand tall with our brilliant display of color?

Prairie grasses bloom in June and wave in the wind, while prairie wildflowers begin their complementary display. How do we stand out in the crowd and love and accept the very things that make us unique?

Talk about fleeting time! The exquisite poppy, so delicate yet strong, blooms for such a short time before the crinkly petals fall off, leaving the bulbous seed head. How do we cultivate strength of body, character, mind, and soul?

The blooming Mock Orange shrub with its sweet fragrance was a magnet for Swallowtail Butterflies, both yellow and black. How do we gather the sweetness of life and share it with others?

A June evening on the lake with good friends is made even better when we see or hear the resident loons. I believe the ‘bumpy’ feathers towards the tail are hiding a young chick, enabling travel and protection for the offspring. Do we protect and nourish our offspring and all the ‘children of the Lord?’

Some ingenious spider built its web on the dock, basically over the water—a construction feat for food and shelter. How do we work to build a safe home and provide food while also maintaining creativity and inventiveness?

Water, lily pads, greens and blues—this Monet-like work of art is a reflection of a birch tree in the lake! I love it! How do our actions reflect our true inner self? What work of art are we creating?

I also love this photograph of a Yellow Pond-lily—the floating leaves, the yellow sphere of flower, the reflection of the blossom, and the spill of water on top of the leaf. How do we keep our heads above water with poise, beauty, and peace?

And finally, June in the Land of 10,000 Lakes—a couple of people and their dog, out on a boat, fishing at sundown. How do we relax in this hurried, harried world? How do we embrace silence and our own thoughts and feelings?

June slipped away far too fast—I wanted to hold it steady, keep it close, prevent it from moving on. I wanted to do the same thing with the time I spent with my kids. Instead, in the moments I was with them, I was intentional about looking into their faces, not only to see their beauty and uniqueness, but to notice the outward reflection of their inner state. Are they happy, at peace, using their gifts and talents? I quietly noticed their strengths of body, character, mind, and soul. I fretted silently that they may have learned some of my qualities of being hard on myself, of not loving myself quite enough. I also confirmed my intention and commitment I had from day one as a parent to protect and nourish them in the best way I could, to show them the sweetness of life, to instill in them a love for God, for Nature, for creating and learning. And here they are—two and a half to three decades later! How I love being in their presence! And here I am—throwing out a line in the peaceful silence of my own thoughts and feelings. “My goodness how the time has flewn.”

Spend Time at the Lake

August 16, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Advice from a Loon

Spend time at the lake

Enjoy a good swim

Call your friends

A little color goes a long way

Surround yourself with beauty

Enjoy time alone

Dive into life!

–Ilan Shamir, Your True Nature

We were fortunate to spend time at the lake not long ago. Our friends Rick and Lynda called asking for the favor of a little bit of our time and muscle, and in return we got a delicious supper, wonderful company, and a beautiful evening with the Loons. As we pontooned from the dock, puffy white thunderheads were forming behind the trees.

We cruised along the shore where reeds and Yellow Pond Lilies grew and where the evening sun lit up the skeleton bones of an old fallen tree limb.

The lake and sky were calm, the temperature just right, as we floated along discussing the tornado that had torn a path through the trees by the lake a few weeks prior.

We enjoyed the beauty of the billowing clouds and the rippling reflections in the blue lake.

We saw the resident Loons gliding through the water. Minnesotans love their Loons, naming them the State Bird and emblazoning their image on countless souvenirs. They have distinctive black and white summer feathers and red eyes which help them see underwater. They have four distinct calls that are used to communicate–tremolo, wail, hoot, and yodel. (Listen here.)

Loons, unlike most birds, have solid bones to help them dive deeply into the water to search for food. They are amazing swimmers, torpedo-like when underwater as they chase and capture their favorite sunfish and perch. They can stay underwater for up to five minutes and will emerge far from their diving point.

Nests are built by the male and female in a quiet, protected area of reeds and grasses. Their legs are set far back on their bodies, making them awkward on land, so nests are situated very close to the water. One or two eggs are laid and incubated for 28-30 days. The chicks are ready to swim almost immediately and will ride on their parents’ backs to stay safe from turtles and fish. Loon parents and two chicks can eat about half a ton of fish over a 15-week period!

In September the adults travel to their winter homes along the southern Atlantic coast or Gulf of Mexico. The juveniles will gather together and fly to wintering grounds a month or so later. Loons need 100-600 feet of runway in order to take off from a lake, but once in the air, they can fly 75 miles per hour. The Loons of Goodners Lake were undisturbed by our boating close by them as they floated in the placid water.

As the Loons swam off into the brilliant sunset, we headed for the dock. With the water reflecting and amplifying the sunset sky, a little color does indeed go a long way.

Many of Minnesota’s ten thousand lakes are home to the uncommon beauty of the Common Loon. Their haunting calls, like a wolf’s howl, invoke a peaceful wildness in one’s soul. It is a privilege to spend time at the lake with friends, a privilege to witness so much beauty in such a short time and in one snapshot of space on this abundantly beautiful Earth. Take advice from a Loon–call your friends, spend time at the lake, surround yourself with beauty, and dive into life!

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: