Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Grow With It
I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.
It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.
The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.
Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.
The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.
I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.
A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.
I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.
One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.
The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.
Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.
Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.
Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.
Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.
Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.
The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.
Flying Solo
I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.
I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.
Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.
I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!
The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.
The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!
Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.
But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.
The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.
One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)
A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.
Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.
Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)
As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!
On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.
Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.
Nature’s GPS
Have you ever been lost? Have you been convinced that you are going in the right direction and then something doesn’t look right or feel quite right? When Chris and I headed north to the Brainerd Lakes area to see Michaela’s camp, she had texted us directions. After 32 years of marriage, Chris and I make a pretty good team when it comes to getting somewhere–he’s a great driver, and I’m a good navigator. No GPS for us. Directions, a map, and a sense of adventure. We were headed north on 3 Highway looking for a right-hand turn onto 118. We passed a left-hand turn-off for 118, so anticipated seeing it continue to the right farther up the road–not unusual when skirting around lakes. We kept driving. I double-checked the directions. Yep, we were going the right way. More driving. There was another intersection. I checked the map again–whoops, we were too far north. We turned around, took 118 to the west, and easily found the camp.
Imagine navigating across the vast prairie as the early settlers did. One native North American plant helped the travelers know they were heading in the right direction. Compass plant is a tall sunflower-looking perennial that towers above the prairie grasses in July and August.
The prairie of St. John’s Arboretum has a number of compass plants rising six to nine feet into the sky. This towering plant has a deep taproot that helps maintain its tall structure. The stems contain a bitter, resinous sap the Native Americans used as chewing gum to cleanse the mouth. The leaves are deeply cut, rigid, and leathery with a rough surface. They orient themselves in a vertical position in a north-south direction. With the blades of the leaves facing the east-west direction, it reduces the amount of sun hitting the leaves, which conserves water.
Compass plants take up to three or four years to mature and flower. The first year of growth from a seed is a single leaf, allowing the energy to produce extensive roots. The flowers bloom to the east like sunflowers.
We have all been lost at times–both physically and spiritually–even when we believe we are on the right path. Being aware of our surroundings, listening and looking for the signs around us, and having an inner sense of where we should be, help us on our journeys. We use different means to find our way–directions and maps, GPS, guidance from others and from God, a phone call, reading and writing, and even Nature’s plants.