Maplewood State Park Archives

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.

What happens to your body when someone says, “Hang on tight!”? Usually your hands latch on to something and grip it tightly. Your muscles contract, often throughout your whole body. You ‘brace’ yourself for what’s to come, whether that’s for a physical wild ride or an emotional rollercoaster. There is an element of survival that takes over—your sympathetic nervous system is activated. Adrenaline is released, your pupils dilate, your heart beats faster, and you become hypervigilant. There are plenty of times in life when this response is the prudent thing to do—it can literally save your life.

Chris is back to short hikes—yay!—so we hiked up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park in the western lakes region of Minnesota. The trail zig-zagged through mostly prairie in this part of the 9,200-acre park. Mid-summer wildflowers bloomed among the still-growing green grasses that had begun their blooming, too. Lavender-colored Wild Bergamot or Bee Balm was in all its glory, attracting bees and butterflies with its minty fragrance and tubular flowers.

It was not long before we noticed dragonflies darting around above the plants. It was a breezy day, and I noticed a colorful dragonfly holding on to a dried flower stalk. I thought to myself he must be hanging on for dear life in this wind with his three pairs of legs! Halloween Pennant Dragonflies (isn’t that a great name?!) alight and fly in a different way from most other dragonflies—they have a fluttery flight like a butterfly.

The wooly purple coats of Purple Prairie Clover are wrapped around the gray thimble head of the spikey flowers, belying the typical flower of the Pea family. But like most members of the Pea family, Prairie Clover can increase soil fertility by capturing nitrogen from the air and transferring it to the soil.

Purple Prairie Clover—host plant for the Dog Face butterfly

More and more of the Halloween Pennant Dragonflies were hanging on to grasses and dried flower stalks, some right by the trail. As I looked more closely at them, it seemed like they were very comfortable on their precarious-looking perches.

Black-eyed Susans brighten the prairie with their cheery ray flowers, and their seeds are favored food for Goldfinches and House Finches.

Black-eyed Susan—host plant for the Silvery Checkerspot butterflies

A larger, more traditional dragonfly with its black and silvery transparent wings is named Widow Skimmer. The male has a long powder blue abdomen and is thus named because he leaves (or widows) the female by herself when she lays her eggs just under the surface of the water. Other male dragonflies will fly with the female while she lays her eggs.

A large, crater-like mushroom captured rainwater and became a ‘watering hole’ for insects and small animals.

The coloring and veins of the dragonfly’s wings create intricate patterns, and their large compound eyes see 200 images per second with nearly 80% of their brain being dedicated to sight! They have specialized spines on their legs used as an ‘eyebrush’ to clean the surface of their compound eyes.

In our northern climate, the growing season is condensed into a relatively short amount of time, so fruit and seed development happens quickly. Signs of decline are already noticeable in the later part of July.

Again, like I noted in my last post, the Monarchs are few and far between anymore. In all the prairie we walked through, we only saw one Monarch. It was perched on its host plant—where eggs are laid and where the caterpillars eat and grow—the Common Milkweed.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil (Beggar’s Lice) is a woodland plant with pretty pink flowers on long stalks that produce sticky seed pods that hang on to fur or clothing of passers-by.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil—host plant for Silver-spotted Skipper butterflies

The silvery-gray color of Artemisia complements all the other prairie wildflowers and grasses.

I was surprised to see a whole Artemisia plant covered in bugs! The black creatures (Black Vine Weevils?) look like the ones who have invaded our house in the last month, and the big, black ants must be getting some sort of nutrition from them.

We ascended to the top of Hallaway Hill, once a popular ski hill in the 1950’s and ’60’s, even after the State Park was established in 1963. 196 vertical feet above Lida Lake gave us a view of the many lakes, the rolling Maple-Leaf hills, and of the storm clouds that were gathering to the west.

Dragonflies spend most of their life in the aquatic nymph stage—the larger ones from three to five years—but only live as an adult dragonfly for five weeks or less, some only for a few days. Their ‘flying’ days are limited.

Hanging on tightly is a way for us to survive—physically and emotionally. In fact, in our young years, it is a reflexive act to connect us with our caregivers for all of our dependent needs. When resources are scarce—food, shelter, safety, and love—we tend to hold on more tightly, even when doing so doesn’t get us those things we need and desire. But as a child and young adult, we don’t know any other way to do it. But what of the fleeting adult life of the dragonfly? The Halloween Pennants were hanging on lightly—not clenched but attached, not contracted but relaxed, not grasping but flowing. They embodied freedom—like an eagle soaring in the wind, like a feather floating through the air, like a leaf drifting on the water. Is it the culmination of their reproductive life that allows them to live out whatever days are left with such freedom? Or is it just a ‘mammalian’ thing to hold on so tightly? We can learn from the dragonflies. We can mature into hanging on lightly. We can brush the cobwebs from our eyes. We can be attached and relaxed. We can live day by each wonderous day, confident in our ability to rest when we need to and fly when we can.

The Land of Oz

Hanging on Lightly

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