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...]
Living on the Water–Part I
Standing on the high rocky cliff overlooking the Lake, it was easy to imagine how a huge November storm in 1905 sank or damaged twenty-nine ships and killed thirty-six seamen on Lake Superior.
That disastrous storm was the impetus for the building of Split Rock Light Station by the federal government on the North Shore. It went into service in 1910 and served the freighters carrying iron ore mined from northern Minnesota and shipped from the ports of Two Harbors and Duluth/Superior. Three identical lighthouse keeper homes were constructed at the same time, along with barns, oil house, and fog signal building that contained a gas engine-powered fog horn that was used when visibility was poor due to fog, smoke, or snow. During the first twenty years, the station could only be reached by boat, so the keepers and their families would stay during the shipping season and leave for the winter months. After the construction of the North Shore Highway, the keepers and their families could live there year-round, and the Split Rock Light Station became a popular tourist attraction. The Lighthouse remained in operation until 1969 when navigational equipment made it obsolete. It is now a National Historic Landmark.
Lake Superior is the largest of the Great Lakes and the largest freshwater lake in the world by surface area. It was an ocean to my midwestern eyes. The horizon of unending water was unforgiving in its flatness, and with my amateur photography skills, I realized too late that I tilted every water horizon. But tilt or no tilt, the Lake was magnificent in its immenseness. A rain squall that had detained us in our car when we arrived, had moved out over the Lake. The sky and water danced with light and wind.
Living on the water in this remote location was tough for the three keepers and their families. Supplies that came by boat were carried up the cliff with a hoist and derrick system until a storm destroyed the hoist engine six years after it was built. A tramway rail and stairway were then constructed from a dock and boathouse on the Lake to the top of the hill and was used until 1934 when supplies could be trucked in by roadways. Storms destroyed the dock and boathouse in 1939 and 1959, respectively. (The tramway ran just left of the stairs.)
The Lighthouse was lit from sunset to sunrise every night during the nine month shipping season for nearly sixty years. The keepers would rotate four-hour shifts in the night in addition to working during the day. They had to be skilled at repairing and operating the equipment along with bookkeeping and administrative duties.
Living on the water in this treacherous rocky shoreline and lighting the dark waters of Superior for a range of twenty-two miles provided a lifeline for the many freighters who moved the ore. Who knows how many lives were saved thanks to the Lighthouse keepers?
There are times in our lives when Storms sink our dreams and destroy our resolve. We feel powerless and small in the face of the hugeness of a task or an obstacle that looms as large as an ocean in our mind. We wonder if anyone even notices us…
But then we remember that the Lighthouse is lit every night–every single night–storm or no storm. It is the Light that chases away the darkness, reflects off the water, gives us resilience, allows us to be seen, and keeps us moving in the right direction. And as the days and nights of many years pass through us, we realize that we–each one of us–are the Keepers of the Light and beacons for one another.
Bobber or No Bobber
I’m not a fisherman. But the handful of times that I have tried fishing, I liked having a bobber on my line. It is a good Indicator of Success for one who does not have a ‘feel’ for having a fish biting on the bait. Bobber going under the water equals a fish on the line. Set the hook and you have a fish. It makes fishing so much easier! But with the exception of one long ago fishing experience at a Varner Brothers farm pond in the great state of Missouri, when the fish were literally jumping on the hooks, I don’t even remember catching a fish–bobber or no bobber. But I still like the idea of an indicator, a marker, a helper when it comes to fishing–or anything else, for that matter.
We stopped at Warner Lake County Park this past weekend on our way back from Lake Maria State Park. It was our first time there, and we wanted to explore a bit. We parked at the boat dock, and the first thing I saw when I walked down to the lake was this:
Bobbers floating in the cattails–an indicator of hooks stuck not in a fish, but in the sticks and weeds! How many foiled fishing experiences had happened here?! I left the two true fisherman in my family at the boat dock to catch a fish or lose a lure as I walked along a path in the woods to another part of the park. An interesting mix of large cedars and oaks grew between the trail and the lake shore.
At the other side of the park, there was a fishing dock, picnic pavilion, playground, and swimming beach. The clearing had room for volleyball and running games. Tracks in the dirt and paths in the grass indicated it was a popular place for bike riding. Hiking paths disappeared into the woods. It was a charming place. Two boys and their dad fished off the dock, and the younger, bespectacled boy had a fish story of catching a large northern pike that fought like crazy. Such was the tiring fight that the young fellow had given up on the fishing and was happy to tell his fish story to passersby.
Evening announced its arrival with a chill in the air. The lake was calming down. We saw a lone kayaker out on the water practicing Eskimo rolls. Again and again he would roll over, going under the clear water and righting himself. Practicing. Being prepared.
The setting sun then lit up the far shoreline, igniting the autumn leaves in a blaze of color.
This small park just off the interstate highway was a jewel of Nature–a perfect spot for the interaction of people and the elements of Nature.
When we are surrounded by Nature and our senses are on high alert–in a good way–we are changed. Our eyes can scarcely take in all the beauty of the autumn trees, the smell of cedar trees and fallen leaves pheromonally entices us to stay and explore, the soft lapping of the water on the sand and the quaking leaves on the trees hone our hearing, and the touch of wind, water, or scaly fish makes us happy to be alive. It takes practice to let the rest of our busy worlds go for a while, but the practice is relatively simple–just go to Nature. And Nature takes it from there. Being in Nature gives us an opportunity to ponder what the Indicators are in our lives. It changes our very physiology–in a good way–just by merely coexisting. It gifts us with a fish, a good fish story, or patience. So whether your bobber indicates a great catch or a snag in the sticks and weeds, practice being in Nature–it will prepare your soul for the work of your life.
The Trees Were Glowing
The trees were glowing on our recent hike through Lake Maria State Park, a 1500 acre park of rolling terrain, old-growth forests, small lakes, and woodland marshes. Chris gathered a beautiful array of Bigtooth aspen leaves that carpeted the trail near the sunlit edges of the forest. The huge, old maple trees that elevated this woods to forest status had turned a brilliant golden color and shimmered in the autumn sunlight, causing an ethereal glow of the shaded trail.
The immenseness of the trees was brought to ground and sight with those that had fallen. They must have made earthquake rumbles and sharp cracks of breaking wood as they fell to the forest floor, crushing the young trees that grew along the axis of their path. Some fallen giants still had leaves from this year’s growth; others were decayed and covered with moss.
We spotted a little acorn bandit, cheeks full of plunder, backed into an awkward frozen position of potential fight or flight.
Bjorkland Lake reflected the blue of the sky and bore a circular wreath of cattails and common reed grass. It was quiet and empty of birds–perhaps they were hiding in the reed grass, but it seemed they were missing out on a glorious swimming day!
The quivering golden aspen leaves were singing the last refrains of their seasonal song, dropping note by note to the ground below.
Their audience of sumac, goldenrod, and gone-to-seed asters swayed with the song of the breeze, and for some reason, it reminded me of Christmas.
Neatly packed milkweed seeds lay exposed to the wind in a dried pod that had cracked open, while the fluffy stragglers from another pod clung to the rough casing.
A living arch invited us into the chapel of gilded maples, and we hushed as we walked the hallowed ground beneath their glory.
We drove to another area of the park, passing through a low wetland area where a yellow sign warned of ‘Rare Turtle Crossing.’ The Park is home to Blanding’s turtles, a threatened species in Minnesota. I spotted a turtle on a log in the tree-reflected lake, but this sunbather was a common painted turtle.
A common painted turtle living in an extraordinary autumn-painted world.
So often we take our world for granted, and yet, every single day we walk on holy ground. We want the hugeness and history of what came before us to stretch out in front of us for our children’s children. We are small, common creatures living in an extraordinary domain. In your tree of life, what song are you singing to the world?
Life-giving Water
As I look out at our green lawn and all the lush plant life, I am reminded of the places in our country that are suffering from drought and even those that are just naturally dry environments. Two of our kids–one who lives in Austin, Texas and one who spent the summer there–were both amazed at the greenness when they returned to Minnesota. Central Minnesota has had its share of drought years–we’ve seen the brown grass, the dying trees, and the withered crops. But life-giving water is an abundant feature in the Land of 10,000 Lakes.
This is Mille Lacs Lake. It is the second largest lake entirely within the borders of the state, taking up 132,516 acres! According to Minnesota Fun Facts, Minnesota actually has 11,842 lakes that are larger than 10 acres. And of course the largest body of water, that we share with Wisconsin, Michigan, and Canada, is Lake Superior with a staggering 20,364,800 acres total with 962,700 acres in Minnesota.
We visited Mille Lacs on our way home from our stay at Crow Wing State Park. This famous fishing lake is known as the “Walleye Capital,” but also has Smallmouth and Largemouth Bass, Northern Pike, and Muskie. We didn’t do any fishing but drove around the western side of the huge lake, stopping at Mille Lacs Indian Museum and Trading Post. We did not see many fisherman on the lake that day, but we did see a multitude of seagulls! They lined up on the long docks that stretched into the lake.
And they made quite a mess on the docks and on the rocks of the scenic overlook!
Gulls are clever birds who mate for life and are attentive parents. They have a complex communication system and live in colonies. In Native American symbolism, the seagull represents a carefree attitude, versatility, and freedom.
Water is the life-giving, life-sustaining compound that is easily taken for granted when abundant, but becomes the center of attention, the sought-after, and the fought-over when scarce. Love is like that. We must be the givers and the receivers of love, letting it flow from one source to another. And with that abundance of love, we can live a more lighthearted, resourceful, and liberated life.
Gleanings from July
Rudbeckia or Black-eyed Susan
July is Summer in Minnesota. In June, we were still marveling at the fully leafed out trees and growing perennials as we walked the cool mornings in a fleece pullover. And August will already be showing us hints of fall as the sumac begins to turn scarlet. But July is warm and sunny, and the warm-season grasses, flowers, and vegetables grow wondrously, bloom extravagantly, and produce prodigiously.
Miscanthus sinensis ‘Morning Light’
It is also Hosta month. You realize just how many hostas you have when they all bloom–or I should say, when you have to cut back all the spent bloom stalks! The bumblebees and hummingbirds love them.
Hostas in bloom
Hosta flowers
July is a great month for bike riding and taking in the lake and trail landscapes. We saw tall, woody Meadowsweet–a native Spiraea, bright Purple Prairie Clover, and spiky Culver’s Root. Grasses were top-heavy with seed heads that swayed as we swooshed by. It smelled sweet and earthy-warm.
Meadowsweet
Purple Prairie Clover
Culver’s Root
This interesting spider web was spun in a small, bare-branched tree. I didn’t stop to examine the center to see the catch or the catcher.
Spider web along the bike trail
At the lake we saw a turtle chowing down on something, while carrying extra cargo on his back.
Turtle
This little chipmunk had a sturdy granite home on the lake inlet by a stand of cattails.
Chipmunk
Duckweed on lake inlet
Cattails
Up north at the camp we visited earlier in July, Michaela captured a picture of a young raccoon sitting amidst the poison ivy by a pine tree. Young raccoons stay with their mothers until 13-14 months old, but this little guy has been seen wandering by himself.
Young raccoon–photo by Michaela Demarais
A glittering spider web adorned the creeping phlox by our mailbox, catching the water droplets from the sprinkler.
Water drops on a spider web
July is glorious–a month of growth and beauty. It’s a month of going with the flow, enjoying the warmth, and spinning a web for your life that will catch all the goodness the world has to offer. Take it in!
Treasures of the Lakes
Minnesota is the “Land of 10,000 Lakes,” most of which are in the northern half of the state. Last weekend we visited a camp in the Brainerd Lakes area and explored three of those lakes by boat, bike, and on foot. We boated on Pelican Lake, which encompasses over 8,000 acres with miles of sandy beaches and cabins. As anybody who lives on a lake knows, the water reflects the sky and indicates the weather along with its overhead partner. The sky was cloudy and gray when we boated to Bird Island to entice the seagulls, and the lake water was dark and leaden. But later in the afternoon, the clouds moved out, the sun shone warm, and the lake glimmered blue.
On shore, the lapping waves had pushed up sand, sticks and shells where the sedge grass and dazzling swamp milkweed grew.
A delighted camper had collected a handful of striped shells, then left them in the sand by the dock as he hurried away to the next activity.
We biked to a nearby lake that was small and uninhabited by humans. From a viewing deck we watched a pair of courtly swans as they glided into the weedy cover across the lake. Their fine white feathers glowed in the sunlight and reflected off the smooth parts of the water.
Beaver lodges covered in logs that the master builders had gnawed down seemed to erupt out of the water.
At the third lake we discovered a carpet of lily pads close to the shore in green, yellow, orange and red held up by the steel-blue water.
Partners in Beauty–the sky and the lake, the shells and the sand, the graceful swans, the beavers and their logs, the lily pads and the water. In this tiny piece of creation, the beauty is overflowing.