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The Unseen River

July 16, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

In the early seventies—yes, back in the nineteen hundreds—I was one of millions of kids who watched the one television set in the house with my siblings. We watched an array of programs—The Brady Bunch, Saturday morning cartoons, American Bandstand, Dark Shadows, the Merv Griffin Show, To Tell the Truth, Hee Haw, Laugh-In, and so many more. One of the shows we watched—The Flip Wilson Show—popularized an idiom “what you see is what you get” when Flip impersonated his drag persona ‘Geraldine.’ And no one, not my Republican parents, not the ‘media,’ not half the members of Congress, or concerned citizens thought this show was ruining, grooming, exploiting, or influencing children. It was a comedy show with a humorous man dressing up like a sassy character, and it was funny! Looking back at any of those programs could indeed bring on some cringe moments in this day and age, but we survived our tv-watching childhood and became who we were meant to be.

“What you see is what you get” is a statement often used by a person who is unapologetic of who they are or how they are behaving, especially if another asks them to do or be something different. It implies there is no hidden or unknown features, traits, or characteristics beyond what is seen or immediately apparent, and it also implies that the person has no interest in changing. This statement can run the gamut from a person who is humbly grounded in who they are in the world to a rude reply of ‘hey, I do what I do, and I don’t care what you or anybody else thinks.’ I’m not so interested in who says it or for what reason, but in the premise that what we see is the whole story.

When we went north to Bemidji, we were on a bee-line to see the bog, and I was thrilled to see the blooming bog plants. After our bog walk, we picnicked beside Lake Bemidji, a medium sized (7,000 acres) lake with clear water, sandy beaches, and abundant fish species. We hiked along the beach and along the northern shore for a ways, noticing boats and float planes traversing the waters.

Other floaters seemed to ignore the few people fishing and swimming. A red-headed Common Merganser swam close to the beach. A large Snapping Turtle floated to the surface near the dock, then lazily swam under the dock as fishermen threw their lines close by. A school of Yellow Perch doubled their numbers with dark shadows of themselves. A Blue-Winged Teal preened on a rock by the fishing dock, then swam close to the hiking path.

Along the rocky shore where Bass Creek flows into Lake Bemidji, Harlequin Blueflag Irises displayed their showy purple flowers, and the ball-shaped buds of Yellow Pond Lilies floated above their lily pad leaves.

June Wild Roses proliferated along the wetlands, their sweet smell and pink faces bringing joy to those who noticed them.

Bass Creek cuts a path from Big Bass Lake to Lake Bemidji, part of the 396,000 acres of land that drains into Lake Bemidji. The rushes, reeds, and cattails create a scenic wetland and provide food and shelter to the animals who live there.

There is much to see at Lake Bemidji State Park, as with so much of northern Minnesota. It hones your observation skills and makes one appreciate the incredible diversity that is contained in a rather homogeneous area. What you see encompasses a large part of the story, but it is not the whole story. We tend to think of water flowing into a lake as becoming the lake—Bass Creek becomes Lake Bemidji. But there is something we don’t see. ‘Bemidji’ means ‘lake with crossing waters’ from the Ojibwa word ‘Bemidjigamaag.’ The Mississippi River, whose source is less than fifty miles away at Lake Itasca, flows into Lake Bemidji from the south and west, crosses the Lake and exits on the east side. A river runs through the lake. This large and impressive River flows through a number of northern lakes before it begins its southward descent to Louisiana.

The things we don’t see are powerful parts of the story of a River and a Lake, just as they are with the stories of our Lives. My premise is the idiom of ‘what you see is what you get’ is how a person wants to be seen, not all that is there. It’s more likely a way to hide a vulnerability or a painful part of oneself. We have amazing, creative, resilient ways to armor ourselves against pain and loss, but the spirit of who we are runs through us whether seen or unseen. I like that we and all of Nature are an amazing combination of both. I think the challenge is to integrate all those parts of ourselves—the swagger, the shadows, the funny parts, the vulnerable parts, the knowledge, the fears, and the weaknesses—into an authentic, happy, beautiful Self while shedding those behaviors that separate us from ourselves and others. What is the unseen river that runs through you?

Spirit of the Moment

August 21, 2022 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We dubbed this rock the Green Face….

and this one, the Leaf Rock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Land of Oz

August 7, 2022 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

It’s hard to see a storm coming when you’re in the forest, nestled in the trees, no horizon in sight. In fact, hardly any sky in sight. It’s a different story when the flatland prairie stretches in all directions, and the sky is big, open, and expressive. I lived on the prairie when I was hit by a metaphoric storm—it turned out to be a tornado, in fact. It picked me up out of my ordinary life, spun me around and around until I didn’t know which side was up or if I would even survive it. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see it coming because I was surrounded by ‘tall trees’ of ordinary life—three children in three different schools and their activities; graduate school with classes, research, animal caretaking and data-gathering, tests, and writing; church goings-on; family fun and responsibilities. Those details of life kept my eyes directly on what was in front of me—no time for sky-gazing or soul-searching. Looking back now, it was that swirl of activity that helped perpetuate the storm, not just my blindness towards some outside force moving in from the horizon to bowl me over, though there was that, too.

Elevation helps a person see the storm coming when you’ve been in the trees. It lifts you above the interesting, compelling details right in front of you. It helps you see a little farther, a little further.

I can definitely get bogged down in the details—I love them. They are so darned interesting. Look at these papery seedpods of the Ironwood tree. They look like hops, which is why the other name for the tree is American Hop Hornbeam! The highly serrated leaves are similar to Birches, but they do not turn brilliant yellow in the fall like the Birches do. They grow extremely slow, thus making the wood very hard—ironwood.

And look at these Wild Rose hips or fruits forming after the pink petals fall from the flowers. They will turn a bright red color and develop sweetness as Autumn comes, especially after a frost. They are one of the highest plant sources of Vitamin C and contain antioxidants that make them a desirable food for humans, birds, and other animals. Wait…what? There’s a storm coming?!

Perhaps the greatest skill is being able to examine and interact with what is happening close to you—whoa, look at that Mullein flower—and being able to check in with the bigger picture—the prairie meadow is beautiful at this time of year, and the Maple Leaf hills must be spectacular in the Fall! Near and far. Present and future.

It also matters which direction you are looking…. During our hike up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park, we were facing west, so we noticed the storm clouds building.

Did you know you can make a lemonade-like drink from the red berries of Staghorn Sumacs? Did you know you can eat the leaves and seeds of Broadleaf Plantains, either raw or cooked?

We finished our Hill hike, sensing that it would be our last hike of the day given the storm clouds, then we drove the five-mile Park Drive. It was a gravel/packed dirt road past a small campground and boat launch, then continued on a narrower, one-way trail. We stopped at a wildlife observation hut on Beaver Lake—no wildlife to be seen at that moment.

Farther down the road we saw a mama deer with her two spotted fawns who leapt away when they saw us.

On a hill overlooking Field Lake, we saw the sky getting darker and the clouds beginning to envelop the park. They were no longer on the horizon—the storm was imminent. A restored prairie on the banks of Field Lake had Leadplants in full bloom and Purple and White Prairie Clovers, their colors rich and vibrant with the darkening sky.

As we wound through the Maple forest on the rutted road, we were hoping to beat the rain. I knew by the map we were close to the end of the one-way road when we passed Cataract Lake. It looked like late evening instead of three in the afternoon—time through a cloudy lens or perhaps in a different realm.

We drove to see the other big lake of the Park—Beers Lake—and the campground by it. Rumbles of thunder and sprinkles of rain began to reach our ears and the windshield. A small pond by the road had a family of ducks swimming happily in the ripples and bubbles of the rainy water.

When we reached the end of the road at Beers Lake, there was one family still fishing on the pier and a lone Loon swimming and diving nearby. It wasn’t so dark anymore, and the roiling storm clouds had morphed into a consistent palette of gray from which the rain fell in a steady cadence. The ‘big storm’ part must have passed to the south of us. We drove back to the Trail Center, a small building with tables and chairs, maps and safety equipment. We ate our picnic dinner there as the rain fell.

With elevation and open prairie, we could easily see the storm clouds coming towards us. When we were driving through the Maple forest, all we could see was the darkness falling on the afternoon light. It’s shocking when we don’t see the storm clouds of life coming towards us. Sometimes there is no warning, even if we are scanning the horizon. All of a sudden we’re in the dark, not knowing, not prepared, not able to get our bearings. Other times, we see the billowing signs of an impending storm but ignore them. And still we get hit hard. When we notice the storm coming and believe it, we can make different choices, we can plan for the future, and we can ready ourselves, both physically and mentally. Like Dorothy, I landed in Oz after being swept up in the tornado—in this surreal place of bad and good, fantasy and reality, past and present. The land of Oz was my own brain and heart and being that I explored with the help of my guide and lots of courage. It took a while—for time is often warped in the midst of a storm—but I finally found the home of my-Self. It’s a place where I can do sky gazing and soul searching and immerse myself in the sweet details of life. There’s no place like it, you know.

Refresh Your Soul

February 13, 2022 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

How did you welcome in the New Year last month? It was another pandemic year that the collective community of the world was glad to let go of to pursue high hopes for a better 2022. Austin, Texas held its 42nd annual Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day…and we were there! Calling it a Polar Bear Plunge is a misnomer to me, coming from a state where they actually cut holes in the thick ice for people to plunge into truly frigid water! But that’s okay—it’s all relative. Austin’s Polar Bear Plunge is held at Barton Springs Municipal Pool, a natural, spring-fed pool with limestone walls, green grassy banks, and clear, turquoise water. The spring-fed water stays at a very respectable 68 to 70 degrees year round. On this New Year’s Day, the air temperature was in the 70’s (a common summer’s day temp in Minnesota) and hundreds, if not thousands of people were out jumping into the New Year and washing off the old.

After my family swam and played in the tepid waters, we walked along the well-used trail that follows Barton Creek from the pool to Lady Bird Lake. There were people running, walking, strolling, biking, etc. on one side of us, and on the other side, creatures of all sorts were swimming, sunning, resting, and plunging into their new year also. Turtles were everywhere! A group of turtles is called a ‘bale’—we saw many bales of turtles!

All along the Creek and Lady Bird Lake were huge Bald Cypress trees who love to have their feet in the water. The slow-growing, long-lived trees help prevent erosion along the banks during flash floods. The knobby protrusions at the base of the tree are called cypress ‘knees.’ They grow from horizontal roots and are theorized to transport air to the water-laden roots, along with anchoring the tree in its often precarious waterside position.

Aaron, our ever-vigilant snake guy, was the one to notice the big reptile lounging on a fallen tree branch. The Diamondback Watersnake is the largest nonvenomous water snake in North America. They like to lazily dine on fish and amphibians by dipping their heads into the water from their tree branch perches.

On another tree branch overhanging the water was a white Muscovy duck, a unique waterfowl originating in South America. They prefer to spend time in trees and less time swimming, compared to other ducks. They are more sensitive to cold than Mallard-related ducks, and they hiss instead of quack!

As Barton Creek merged into Lady Bird Lake, we saw many kayakers, paddleboarders, and rowers, along with a commotion of American Coots.

Blooming water plants floated on the Lake along with the humans in watercrafts and all sorts of waterfowl. A gorgeous, exquisitely-feathered Wood Duck greeted the New Year in his winter home.

It is a legitimate human tendency to want to wash away an old year, especially ones that were as confounding as the previous two. We want to be done with the virus, the death, the masks, the rules, and the uncertainty. We want life to be ‘normal’ again. Yet, there is something to be said by having a hardship be the experience of everyone. It helps to level the playing field, because truth be told, large numbers of people experience disease, death, unfair rules, and ongoing uncertainty even in their ‘normal’ lives. There are always ideas, habits, and behaviors we need to let go of in our lives, and the New Year is a favored time to do so. We can pursue our high hopes with renewed vigor. Matt Curtis of the Friends of Barton Springs Pool Polar Bear Plunge said, “This is an exciting opportunity to refresh your soul in the waters of Austin.” Refresh your soul. Perhaps that is the anchor we need in our lives in order to navigate the difficult times and to reach for our dreams.

Land, Water, and Sky

May 23, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

If you were to distill your life down to three main elements, what would they be? My mind is searching for how I would answer that! Our lives and our world are so complex and full of so many things vying for our attention, time, and energy. During our trip to South Dakota to see my Mom, I was reminded how simple things can be—it was so evident! Looking out the window or going for a walk, the three main elements of our Earth presented themselves over and over again—land, water, and sky!

The prairie keeps things simple—on the surface anyway. A Spring prairie pasture meets a puffed-cloud blue sky! It makes me take a deep, soul-enlivening breath of gratitude. We look up to the sky at clouds, turn our faces towards the sun, marvel at the Milky Way, are mesmerized by threatening thunderheads, and contemplate how the moon belongs to all of us the world over. What does the sky offer us? Hope, awe, possibilities, rhythm, aspirations, and life-sustaining energy.

Water has taken up a larger space in this place than it did four decades ago. We used to be able to drive between the two ‘ponds’ of the slough; now the slough is a lake.

Along with the water comes more inhabitants of the water. Actually these amazing birds are inhabitants of all three elements—nesting and feeding on the land, feeding and swimming in the water, and flying through the sky. A Great Egret stands regally in the water, overshadowing the two ducks swimming nearby.

Last year’s cattails provide cover for the Egrets and Canadian Geese for nesting and hiding, though my Mom saw a sneaky Coyote disappear into the rushes, probably for a nest raid.

Look at the wingspan of the Egret! Makes the Red-winged Blackbird seem small in comparison. What an elegant bird!

Songs of the Red-winged Blackbirds fill the air as they perch precariously on the dried stems of cattails. The distinctive ‘chit’ and trill are an iconic sound of wetlands, where land meets water.

Pelicans, despite their large, bulky size, are at home in the sky or water. When flying, they soar through the air in groups, often spiraling with slow, methodical wingbeats.

A group of pelicans can corral fish together for easy food gathering, then either dip their big, pouched bills into the water or go bottoms-up like a dabbling duck.

Breeding adults grow a vertical ‘plate’ on the upper mandible, giving them a prehistoric look.

Where land meets water meets land. We are drawn to bodies of water. Native peoples made their homes by rivers, lakes, and oceans, settlers chose land that offered life-sustaining water, and today, people aspire to ‘live on the water.’ What does water offer us? Basic nourishment of life, cleansing, fluidity, a mirroring of sky and self, fun, and even escape.

A small group of male Mallards with their shiny green heads and white-banded necks swam and ate, while a pair of Blue-winged Teals glided effortlessly together.

Rocks are part of the land—the bane of a tilled field, a pedestal, a stumbling block, or a sacred marker.

One of the ‘land’ birds I have missed hearing and seeing since moving to Minnesota is the Western Meadowlark. It’s not that Minnesota doesn’t have them; they just aren’t as readily seen, as they prefer open prairie and fields. I heard the flute-like warble before seeing him, and I was happy to catch a glimpse of the yellow-breasted songster.

The slough-turned-lake has carved out the land to a steep bank where lives an apartment full of Bank Swallows. The morning was chilly and windy when we walked the pasture, but the sun was warming for the little Swallows perched on a tree branch.

The land is where we return to, no matter to what species we belong. We’re not sure of the story behind this cow’s demise, but the circle of life goes on. Critters of various kinds were nourished by the carcass in its decay.

We feel a kinship to the land, especially those whose livelihoods are dependent upon it. Land is the fertile mother where everything grows in mind-blowing abundance. We feel a sense of place with the land, of grounding, and of habitat. What does the land offer us? Steadiness, protection, constancy, food, beauty, and bounty.

I think we tend to make life more complicated than it really is, even though simple things, as with the prairie and sky, are intrinsically very complex. So there may be value in distilling one’s life down to three essential elements. My mind has been contemplating that since I posed the question in the opening paragraph—before sleep and upon waking are good times to examine your own conscious for answers. The first to come to my mind was ‘home.’ It is my grounding place, the place where I have generally felt safe and at ease. Home is my ‘land,’ and land is my home. It is impossible for me to ‘feel at home’ without some land to walk on, to care for, and to grow things on. It is also the place where most of my nourishment comes from, as eating at home has always been my norm. My second essential element is ‘learning.’ Curiosity and learning have been an integral part of my life since before I can remember. It is the realm of a child’s mind when developmentally, every encounter is an opportunity to learn. Why do some people lose that, I wonder? Learning is my ‘sky.’ It is what makes me a scientist and a seeker of spirit. It is a place of endless questions, of potential and possibilities, of awe and hope. My third element is ‘love.’ It is what we are drawn to, where we want to settle, and is life-sustaining. Love is my ‘water.’ It is a mirroring of self, a place where we can cleanse away past trauma and hurt, a place where we can have fun. Home, learning, and love are all intertwined for me, just as Earth’s three essential elements are a part of and fundamental for the birds, and in essence, for all of life. What are your life’s three essential elements?

Another Time, Another Season

April 11, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I remember those times in my life when change was abrupt, when my life on one side of an event was completely different from the other side and when there was a glimmer of knowing that life as I knew it would never be the same. Some of those events were life-changingly wonderful—the day I met Chris and those three December days I gave birth to our children. Joy was the gift of those days. Others changed my life with gut-wrenching sorrow and disbelief when even the thought of getting through it was untenable, let alone any possibility of healing. How slow the hours drag by when one is in pain.

It is at this time of the year when pictures from a week ago can seem like they are from a different season. A week ago the temperature was abnormally high, the ground was dry, and winds were strong enough to warrant red-flag warnings in multiple states, including Minnesota. This week we have had rain every day—steady, consistent showers with perpetual cloud cover and cooler temperatures. The Spring world has soaked it up and responded—grass is turning green, Forsythia are blooming in sunshine yellow, and leaves are emerging from the dormancy of Winter. Change comes swiftly, eagerly, and joyfully.

Our Easter hike with Aaron and Zoe was at Crane Meadows National Wildlife Refuge, southeast of Little Falls. Wherever I hike at this time of year makes me feel like I have come at the ‘wrong’ time. The snow is gone, and Spring has yet to show up except for the earliest, subtle signs. The Refuge seemed stark and empty, despite the beautiful blue sky. We followed the Platte River trail through an Oak savanna, the sunlight streaming through the bare branches to the brown grass below.

The Platte River was surprisingly wide as we continued through the restored tallgrass prairie. I wondered what the prairie and the beautiful big Oaks looked like in summer and noted to Chris that we needed to return to this place at another time, another season.

And then we saw the fire-ravaged trees—the benign mediocrity of the prairie morphed into signs of sorrow. Fire is one of those events that can change life forever, whether for humans or trees.

Crane Meadows is part of the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge complex where we saw the same fire damage to trees in an Oak Savanna that had been burned. A controlled, prescribed burn for the prairie should not impact the mature trees in such a way, and I wondered what had gone wrong. The loss was immense.

Like at Sherburne, there was a burned tree graveyard, even more stark in the post-Winter, pre-Spring landscape.

The River and cool water gave visual relief from the burned area of trees. A small dam crossed the Platte, widening it into Rice Lake. I wondered if this was a nest of some sort or just debris that had gathered on the rock with high water.

As the River widened into the shallow lake and wetlands, there seemed to be more ‘life’—Pines, Aspens, Willows, and wetland grasses breathed ‘potential’ into the landscape. Soon a green blush will envelop the Aspens, and the Willows will leaf out from the catkins that had emerged.

Rice Lake had a few ducks—a couple showy, black and white Buffleheads and some rafts of Common Mergansers. I was surprised there weren’t more migrating birds, however, and I wondered if we were too early or too late to see them.

Across the lake we noticed an eagle sitting on a point of land that extended into the water. Through a spotting scope at the observation deck, it looked like he was raiding a nest and eating eggs.

On the return trail, we passed by an eagle’s aerie and saw mother eagle sitting on her expertly engineered nest, panting in the afternoon heat.

I think it’s common for us to believe that something happens at the ‘wrong time.’ We even use it as an apology and ‘out’ for doing something—usually by saying “It’s not the right time for me to do this.” Valid truth-telling in the choices we make. But what about the events that are beyond our control? I have waxed and waned about the ‘wrong timing’ of some events in my life—job searching and recessions, health issues and the fall-out, moves and their impact. Valid truth-telling deemed an excuse? Are the ‘wrong timings’ in our lives a nest full of potential or is it debris? Even if it’s a nest full of potential, a predator at the top of the food chain can destroy those possibilities with a swift stroke of power. And when we try to do the right thing to preserve and maintain the ‘prairie,’ things can go wrong and more harm is done—collateral damage is real and abruptly life-changing. Stark, empty sorrow. But there is a difference between burning it down inadvertently and burning it down on purpose. The arsonists of society are too often at the top of the food chain and slip through the cracks of accountability. Was it the ‘wrong’ time for us to go to Crane Meadows? We didn’t see migrating birds or fluttering sweeps of golden Aspen leaves or blooming prairie wildflowers, but we did see the very real and authentic reality of the transition time between seasons. It wasn’t ‘pretty’ or ‘exciting,’ but it was real—like every one of our lives. Scorched trees and dreams. Bland landscapes and routines. Empty wetlands and pockets—or hearts. New saplings and plans. Life-giving water and compassion. Building nests and resilience. A refuge for them and for us. We will return to this place at another time, another season.

To Fly Above the Black Swamp

July 14, 2019 by Denise Brake 7 Comments

Experience, which destroys innocence, also leads one back to it. –James Arthur Baldwin

I called bogus on myself when I re-read last week’s post before publishing—the last line was bothering me. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it wasn’t complete. Time and maturity do contribute to our becoming sparklers of light, but when I asked a question in a Facebook meme of what makes you happy during a rough time, one particular answer struck me. My friend Sharon answered with a picture of her young grandchildren—three sparklers of light with little age and no maturity. What they did have was innocence, the perfection of newness, pure emotions, and a drive to experience their world.

Our day of the dragonfly at Mille Lacs Kathio increased exponentially when we drove the short distance from Kathio to Father Hennepin State Park, situated on a large peninsula on the southeastern side of Mille Lacs Lake. I am in awe of this lake. Its size alone—207 square miles—is enough for one to appreciate, but it also contains clear and beautiful water along with a brag-worthy population of walleye and other fish.

The park was named after Father Louis Hennepin, a French priest who explored the area in 1680. He wrote about the landscape around the Lake and the Mdewakanton Dakota people who lived there. Chris and I hiked the lake-hugging Pope’s Point Trail through a hardwood forest of Maples and Basswood that must be spectacular in Autumn.

We soon came to a black water swamp/lagoon that stretched along the inward side of the trail. It was a sharp contrast from the clear, blue water of the Lake. It made me think of the Bobby Bare song Marie Laveau—‘Down in Louisiana where the black trees grow, lives a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau…’

‘She lives in a swamp, in a hollow log…’ When I researched the history of the Park, I found that Father Hennepin called this area of Minnesota ‘Louisiana’ in honor of France’s King Louis XIV (and conveniently his own name), and later published a book Description of Louisiana from his extensive writings about the area.

The black swamp was intriguing and messy compared to the simple, open water of the Lake. And while the swamp water itself and the muck surrounding it were so yucky looking, I marveled at the crisp green grasses growing up through it…

…and the many exquisite dragonflies flying and landing on grasses and branches.

As the open swamp water ended, we came to a forest of ferns, five feet tall and glistening in the sunlight.

We reached Pope’s Point Overlook with water stretching before us on three sides. A mother Mallard duck with her ten babies all in a row swam close to shore.

At ease, ducklings.

While we watched the ducklings, hundreds, if not thousands of dragonflies filled the air—dark, darting dots against the blue sky and water. Wow!

What I thought were two white boats far out on the lake were actually one white boat and one white rock island. Hennepin Island, one of two tiny islands that make up the smallest National Wildlife Refuge (less than one acre total), is home and nesting grounds for the Common Tern. Though its name implies otherwise, the Common Tern is listed as a Threatened Species due to loss of habitat. These tiny protected islands are one of the last remaining nesting areas in Minnesota for the terns.

We walked back the forest trail to the sandy beach where dogs fetched sticks from the water, children played, and adults lounged.

It is a beautiful, peaceful place, worthy of exploration, admiration, and reflection.

Many of my friends have experienced the newness and perfection embodied in the tiny being of a grandchild. They can experience again the innocence of childhood, the energy of pure emotions that aren’t labeled good or bad, and the innate drive we all have to learn and truly experience the world around us. Those tiny beings are sparklers of light. Somewhere in Life, we encounter the messy, yet intriguing muck of the black swamp. Where does it come from? Why is it there? How do we get from the perfect innocence of a new being to the messy muck? We can have all of our ducks in a row and try to stay clear of the black water, yet sometimes we find our feet stuck in the muck. That’s when we learn from the dragonfly, and if it takes thousands of them to lift us up, so be it. Any moment in time, any glimpse of someone’s life we see, any given situation we find ourselves in, is not the complete picture. It is true as the sky is blue at that moment, but we don’t see to the depths or know the influences. We no longer know or use the pure emotions to guide our behavior—we take refuge from them on the rocky islands of denial and ‘grown-up-ness.’ So in reality, I shouldn’t call bogus on anything. It’s just a snapshot picture of a bigger, more complete mural of the situation. Maybe our dragonfly message and moment is to use our time and maturity, our experiences in the muck, and the innate drive to learn and develop in order to be at ease, to return to our newness, and to fly above the black swamp.

The Sentry Awaiting Spring

April 7, 2019 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

It seemed like no one lived here over the long frigid months of Winter—the ice and feet of snow covered the moving, living, reflecting body of water. I know for certain there were frogs of various sorts, turtles with their colorful, hard-shelled homes carried on their backs, crayfish, and densely-furred, rat-tailed muskrats buried under mud and stick homes in hibernation mode. Life was here, but like the trees and so many things in Nature, it was dormant. Awaiting Spring.

Anxious to find a temporary home, perhaps a place to build a nest, mate, lay a clutch of eggs, and raise a feathered family, migrating waterfowl found this little lake. It seemed desirable, even with the ice still covering large portions of the water. Small, thin-billed Hooded Mergansers with fan-shaped, collapsible crests courted the few females with their elegant plumage and royal carriage.

A pair of Mallards, clumsy and large compared to the Mergansers, trooped across the ice and dipped into a frigid pool that opened like a dark streak in the white frozenness. Despite their clumsiness, there are so many things I appreciate about the Mallards—the male’s iridescent green head, the curled tail feathers, and the sturdy, orange legs and webbed feet.

I wonder what it was about this place that enticed these ducks and geese to stop, to rest, and to explore. It is a quiet place beside a dead-end road, surrounded by beautiful Birch and Oak trees. It has vines of Bittersweet and petite shrubs of Wild Roses.

All seemed content in the awakening homeplace except for one Canadian goose. He/she seemed to be the sentry, the one on guard, the eyes and ears of the group. The Sentry squawked in alarm and nervously swam towards the others as I walked closer. The others gave no cares at all as they swam through the reeds and dipped their heads under water to pull up a tasty green shoot.

The Sentry scrambled onto the ice, perhaps for a better vantage point. He paced back and forth, talking, scolding, watching, and worrying.

Is this the place to make a summer home? To raise a family? Are there hidden dangers?

It pays to be watchful, to know the signs of danger, particularly if one is susceptible, like to the potent berries of Poison Ivy that seem benign without the triad of shiny green leaves seen in summer.

Finally the Sentry slipped back into the water and was joined by the other geese, and calm returned to the swimmers. My presence no longer seemed like a threat. Maybe this is a good place. Perhaps Spring is leading us to where we need to go. There is hope in the Willows.

There are parts of most of us in the North that hibernate in the dark, cold, snowy months of Winter. Some whose internal lights shine strong with abundant energy and youthful vigor can move through Winter just as they do the rest of the year. They are beacons to the rest of us. Otherwise, the shift that occurs in Spring ignites a dormant flame, compelling us to move towards an awakening of sorts. Like the ducks and geese, the hibernating creatures under the mud, and the trees and plants all around, energy is quickened. Daylight and warmer temperatures turn on genetic programming and instincts. It’s time to find a summer home, to mate, to raise a family. We need the sentries of the world to be watchful, to keep the others safe, to protect those who do not know or see the dangers that may be lurking around us. And then we move in the living, reflecting, motioning water towards the soft willow flowers of a hopeful Spring.

Ducks on Ice

December 13, 2014 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

When the chill of winter is settling into your bones, think of this pair of Mallard ducks swimming in the icy water. By comparison, we are all cozy warm! This little pond is just off the Sauk River and within the limits of our small town. Here they are safe from hunters and have shelter and food.

On the other side of the snowy, brush-covered bank is the partially iced over river.

Another group of ducks huddles at the edge of the open water, preening their feathers and stretching their legs, necks, and wings.

They stand precariously close to the open water on the blue-colored thin ice.

Mallards are the most abundant and familiar of all ducks. They live in any kind of wetland habitat. The males or drakes have iridescent green heads, white neck rings, brown breasts, gray flanks, two black tail-curl feathers, and a yellow bill. The females or hens are mottled brown with orange and brown bills. Both have white-bordered blue speculum feathers on their wings.

Mallards are considered ‘dabbling ducks.’ They feed by tipping forward into the water to graze on underwater plants, invertebrates, amphibians, and fish. They almost never dive completely under the water. During migration, they also eat grains and plants in fields.

These long-bodied ducks pair up in the fall, long before spring breeding season. After the breeding season, they shed all their feathers, leaving them flightless for three to four weeks. The female incubates the eggs and cares for the ducklings.

Mallards are the ‘poster duck’ for all wild ducks. Most domestic ducks come from this species. They are abundant late fall migrants, wide-ranging in their habitat. They are adaptable strong fliers and swimmers. And they are beautiful!

May we have the grace to swim through rough, cold waters. When we are walking on thin ice for whatever the reason, may we have the ability to swim or fly to save ourselves if we fall through. May we have protection during our vulnerable, flightless times. And with a patch of blue or a black curl, may we show our beauty to the world.

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