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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.

On the Rocks

February 27, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It seems like the world is on the rocks right now. Experiencing difficulties. Deteriorating. Eroding. Spoiled. Likely to fail? Where opinions are confused with facts. Where experts are told they don’t know what they’re talking about. There’s deep division and distrust of ‘the other.’ Where a pandemic has killed millions of people. Where climate change is impacting so many in devastating ways. Where a warmonger can invade a neighboring country and wreak havoc and death. The phrase ‘on the rocks’ used in this way came from the idea of a ship running aground on rocks and breaking apart. The idiom is often used to describe failing businesses and marriages. Torn apart. Angry. On a sinking ship. What happens when we’re on the rocks?

One sunny day in the beginning days of the new year, we traveled west of Austin into the heart of the Hill Country to Pedernales Falls State Park. We spent hours on the rocks—literally. It was my most favorite place to visit on this Texas trip—an amazing landscape of exposed bedrock, pools and streams of water, fossils, and Nature’s architecture.

The exposed rock is called Marble Falls limestone created over 300 million years ago when most of Texas was covered by a sea. Other rock formed above it, and over the eons the granite layer below pushed up the limestone into these tilted formations. When the Pedernales River formed from a spring and gained power with flash flooding, it cut the canyon where the Falls now lie. Since that time, the water has eroded and shaped the ancient rock beds into amazing formations.

Flash flooding moves rocks and sand, so the Falls landscape is always changing. A beach of sand has fallen from the moving water as it churned over the last ridge of rocks. It does not have to be raining in the Park for the Falls to flood—if the rain is intense ‘upstream,’ flooding can occur under clear skies.

A reminder to get to higher ground if water starts to rise and/or get cloudy.

Potholes of all sizes appeared in the rock. They are formed when rushing water churns small and large rocks in a swirling motion, thus eroding the bedrock to form holes.

We and other hikers scrambled on the rocks, sometimes climbing up, sometimes sliding down, picking our way through the maze of streams, pools, and crevices.

This ‘beach’ was a deposit of mostly same-sized rocks that we slowly ‘hounded’ our way through. I think we could have spent hours just in this spot!

Every pool was different—some at the bottom of the Falls had green algae growing in them; others were as clear and mirror-like as an infinity pool. Some were shallow and stone-lined; others were deep and dark.

Pothole with the large ‘churning’ rocks at the bottom.

The sides of the River Falls were scattered with boulders of all sizes that had been ‘deposited’ there by rushing water over the millennia. The present day jewel tones of the water were so beautiful and calming and combined with the sandy tans of the rocks brought me an uplifting joy.

As we climbed up the Falls, the rock we walked on changed. It literally looked like mud—hard, fossilized mud—which of course was exactly what it was. And this is where we began to see tracks! Some of the track fossils were indented into the mud rock; others were raised up from the rock. I would love to have seen the animals that made these tracks!

Along the ‘mud’ rock section, striated layers of rocks created a wall by the River. Ashe Juniper trees, Sotol plants, and cactus clung to the barely-there soil. Caves had been carved out of the walls and rounded ‘pillow’ rocks softened by the water.

A large cave high on the rock wall held a house-sized boulder. Blue, yellow, and white rock colors wept down the face of the gray wall. It was one of the most intriguing spots in the Park.

We saw more fossils—one that looked like a curved spine and others called Crinoid fossils—ancient sea animals that looked like plants and sometimes called ‘sea lilies.’

The death of a loved one can make a person feel like they are on the rocks. Failed dreams, faltering relationships, and illness can do the same. It is not a good feeling when the ideological ship one is sailing on comes crashing and thrashing on the rocks of reality. The ‘worldly’ problems seem even more daunting and out of our control. How does one fight an evil power and an existential global threat when they both feel like a flash flood that could sweep us all away? But it’s not really the rocks that are to blame for the destruction—it is the storm. The storm can be the weather or greed or narcissism or fear or hatred or ignorance. While our time on the rocks in Texas held some risk and danger—flash flooding and deep crevices—it was more about how we navigated them. The rocks themselves were grounding. They held the long history of our earth in all its changes—we could see the evidence. Storms can change us, erode us, wear us down, but we can put our faith and our feet on the grounding rock of Goodness. The opposite of ‘on the rocks’ is thriving or flourishing. With hope, engagement, positive relationships, and tenacity, the people of Goodness can overcome the storms of destruction.

Badlands

June 27, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

It’s a fine line we walk. At least that’s what I thought growing up. On one side was the bad-lands; on the other, the good-lands. I always tried to stay in the goodlands—the consequences of the badlands, which were mostly made up in my head at a very young age, were catastrophic. I mean like banishment and death. That’s enough to make anyone fly right. That fine line is variable—set by our parents, our cultures, our experiences, and our own personalities and story-making minds. I was so invested in staying away from the consequences of the badlands that I tried to make sure that all my siblings and friends were never close to the badland banishment and you know, that other thing that could possibly happen. I didn’t want that to happen to me, and I didn’t want it to happen to anybody I loved.

It’s hard enough to keep oneself out of trouble, let alone all these other people…was that the beginning of my neurosis? Of course it was anxiety-producing—other people do their own thing, whether they are conscious of it or not. Which leads me to the badlands…and trauma. Traumatic events are always in the realm of the badlands. They threaten and often damage our feelings of safety and connection. Then we spend a lifetime trying to get those two things back. Ironically, the pursuit often lands us back in the badlands, because the anxiety and fear that trauma perpetuates can temporarily be calmed or concealed by addictive substances and activities—food, alcohol, tobacco, drugs, sex, gambling, and gaming. But the ‘high’ calm ends, and we want to, feel compelled to, do it again and again in order to soothe our activated nervous systems. None of those things are long-term solutions to what we need and want—in fact, they ‘give’ us all sorts of other problems.

The goodlands are not immune to problems when we are there in response to trauma. My trying to live in the goodlands was so fear-based that I rarely really enjoyed being there—it was more of a relief. Unprocessed trauma builds walls within our psyches and hearts as a protection mechanism—a necessary strategy for survival, except that walls also keep out love, joy, and goodness. Being in the goodlands with trauma also brings about a feeling of self-righteousness that is often cloaked with religion. I can blame/ discard/ disregard ‘those other’ people because I’m standing over here and ‘they’ are over there, in the badlands. I think I was in high school when I became aware of my dual feelings of self-righteousness and utter, shame-based self-consciousness. But I had no idea why I felt that way or what to do about it.

When we were west-river in South Dakota at our friends’ ranch, we hiked at a place they call their badlands—a mini version of Badlands National Park. It is as if the badlands fall from the grace of the prairie into a giant, barren hole of gumbo and tumbling boulders. It is other-worldly—intriguing, harsh, and compelling with its unique beauty. Come walk with me in the badlands…

Scarlet Globemallow (another common name–Cowboy’s Delight)

I walked the fine line for many decades of my life, embracing the goodlands and eschewing the badlands. I finally feel like I have ‘grown up.’ It’s not that I don’t think there is evil and bad things in the world, but the path we walk in life is wide. Most of us travel in and out of both lands at various times in our lives. If we look through a trauma lens, we understand that something happened to us or to another person that changed who we/they were as a person and affected our/their thinking and behaviors. We are them. We are all broken in some way. Our hearts have been split open at one time or another. Our feelings are many layered—some barren and raw, others tender and beautiful. We all wonder if the rocks are going to fall on our heads (again.) Our lives are a gumbo mosaic and a singing prairie. I have released my white-knuckled grip on the goodlands. I see the pearlescent shells and the delicate lilies of the badlands. We cannot outrun our traumas; we need to process and integrate them, all in due time. It takes a walk through the badlands to find our way back to safety and connection within ourselves.

Come Hike With Me

October 18, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Leave behind your worries. Don’t think about the Corona virus. Put politics and the ugliness that is election season out of your mind. Take your time. Look closely. Let’s get present. Let’s get real. Come hike with me.

Superior National Forest encompasses nearly four million acres in the ‘arrowhead’ of Minnesota. On our trip up north, we hiked the Secret/Blackstone Hiking Trail. The nighttime rain had cleared away to blue skies. The air was crisp, the sun was warm, and breakfast of fire-toasted bagels was in our bellies. We were ready to go!

The young ones waiting for the older ones to catch up

Claw marks. I’m not the only one who slid down this steep part.

Marsh and creek from Blackstone Lake to Flash Lake

Aspens–one of the first to grow after a burn

How do you feel? Three hours, more than four miles. Lots of lakes. Challenging rocky trails. Exquisite Nature! Breathe deeply. All is right with the world in this moment.

Lichens & Leaves, Rocks & Trees

October 4, 2020 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

I don’t spend a lot of time in front of a screen on a daily basis—some tv, some computer, no ipad or phone. I’m not required to spend eight hours or more on a computer for work like so many other people, especially in this covid time. That is not a choice for most people—but what about the time we do have for choosing? It’s a touchy subject to say the least, just like questioning any way we choose to spend our time. I’m sure you know what I mean. Screen time is rather addictive, and we think it is serving us well—it informs us, connects us, records our activities, entertains us, relaxes us, makes us feel in control…doesn’t it? But what happens when we don’t engage with screens and social media? When was the last time you spent a whole evening without any of that, let alone a full day? It’s a study in self-awareness. Were you anxious, bored, uncertain, or crazy without it? Is ‘screen life’ your ‘real’ life?

Last weekend I spent three days with family members in the Northwoods—no screens, no phone, no news, no social media. It used to be that cell phones wouldn’t work up there at all, but that has changed with the installation of cell towers, which are an intrusion on the wilderness.

We had a beautiful drive to Ely—the Birch and Aspen trees were brilliant yellow, and Maples were all shades of yellow, orange, and red. After a few stops at our favorite places—The Front Porch for my favorite tea and Piragis Northwoods Company—we began our time in the woods and by the water. Shagawa Lake is on the north side of Ely and has a park and beach area. A hiking trail along a peninsula took us across a bridge to an island of lichens and leaves, rocks and trees.

A small grove of Northern White Cedars dropped their flat, ferny leaves among the Pine needles and Birch leaves. A beautiful look of Fall.

A broken Pine tree shows how a tree grows, layer upon layer, scrolling around the ‘knot’ of a branch and protected by the thick bark.

Lichens growing on rocks and trees were like works of art. Lichens are interesting creations—most are composed of a fungal filament or structure that houses green algae or a cyanobacterium. It is a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship! They require moisture, minerals, and sunlight for photosynthesis.

The island and much of the land in the Boundary Waters Wilderness is rocky. The soil is shallow, and yet the trees grow. But the roots are often exposed as they curl upon the rock.

Lichens show up with different colors that are dependent on exposure to light and on availability of certain pigments.

This is an example of a shrubby or Fruticose lichen. Snails, voles, squirrels, and reindeer eat lichens, though some are toxic to poisonous for humans.

Many of the rocks had both lichens and moss growing on them. Mosses are primitive plants with a simple root-stem-and-leaf structure.

The ecosystem of the island, as in all forests, contained dead and dying trees of all forms—broken and twisted, woodpecker drilled, and water-smoothed driftwood.

On the rocky outcropping at the end of the island, we found Butter and Egg flowers blooming. They are an invasive species that the DNR recommends eradicating, pretty as they are.

Beyond the flowers we found these tiny Snapping Turtles! They looked like rocks and were not moving until Aaron warmed them up in his hands. We figured they must have hatched recently—maybe from the hole one crawled back into once he was warm. Eggs take around 72 days to hatch, and the sex of the hatchlings is determined by the temperature of the nest!

It was a good start to our Northwoods weekend. Even though the skies were cloudy and we were expecting some rain each of the days, the temperature was fairly mild. We could not have planned a better weekend for the Autumn colors. We hiked back through the trees, over the lichen-covered rocks, through the fallen leaves and pine needles, and over the bridge in order to get to our destination and set up camp before nightfall.

We are living in extraordinary times when computers, phones, and screens of all kinds seem to be our lifeline to work, meetings, church, friends, family, sports, and our own sanity. It is all stress-inducing but necessary nonetheless. How do you know when you’ve had too much screen time? Do you feel it in your body? Wired and tired? Can’t fall asleep? Irritable or anxious? My daughter Emily says she knows it’s too much when her brain won’t relax. It’s hard to distinguish between the stress of actually being connected to our devices and all the stress of living right now. Don’t underestimate the negative effects of electronic devices on your physiology. But this I know—an antidote for stress of any kind is Nature. Our bodies ‘know’ the natural world—it is a relief for our wired bodies to be walking on the earth, feeling the bark of trees, breathing in the natural oils produced by trees, evergreens in particular, seeing the colorful lichens, and hearing the water lapping against the shore. It reduces our stress hormones, decreases our heart rate and blood pressure, and boosts our immune systems. Nature is a powerful healer and the backbone of real life.

The Enchanted Rock

February 24, 2019 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

And so we climbed the Rock—the Enchanted, intriguing Rock. As we climbed, we left behind the sandy soil and evergreen Live Oak trees; the trail was a solid rock beneath our feet. We could pick our own path, like scampering mountain goats, exploring the rugged terrain. Island ecosystems of Prickly Pear and grasses defied the reality of growing on solid rock.

When we turned around, we could see how far we had already come, and the way to the top looked deceptively close in the bare expanse of rock.

The wind became so strong it took our breath away. It was hard to hear anyone talking, and we used our heavy adult-sized bodies to anchor us to the rock with each footstep. We wondered how a child would even be able to walk without being blown away. The steep upward climb was made harder with the incessant push of the wind, and sometimes we sat or lay on the rock just to get a bit of relief from the gale.

It was like a moonscape on the huge dome—craters and cracks and crevices, and there was a sense of just how ancient this rock-of-a-planet Earth is that we live on. Humbling.

As we neared the top, weathering pits filled with the previous night’s rainfall glimmered in the sunlight. The footprint-like craters have spawned myths about eternally wandering ghosts, but in reality, they are the probable reason for the ethereal glow on a moonlit night, which induced someone to name it ‘Enchanted Rock.’

The larger weathering pits that retain water for weeks are called vernal pools. These delicate ecosystems are pioneer communities that contain minute plants and animals that will develop over time into an oasis of life. Tiny fairy shrimp are found and studied here, and a moss-like plant named rock quillwort is unique to this environment.

As bits of soil, seeds, and small creatures build up in the vernal pools, over time it transforms into a little island of life—willows, grasses, yucca, and prickly pear cactus—shelter and food for wildlife who live on the Rock.

The view from the top of the Rock was stunning in all directions!

The geographical high point was marked by an official survey seal, and we marked our climb with an official high point selfie!

We walked toward a pile of huge boulders on the northeast side where there was a cave. We were below the summit enough to be out of the strongest wind. Two lizards were warming themselves on the south-facing rock—a Texas Spiny Lizard and a camouflaged Crevice Spiny Lizard. What cool creatures!

Some of us climbed into the cave—not to the crawl-on-your-hands-and-knees part—but through to a secret garden area where a couple of wind-swept, twisted-trunk trees grew.

After climbing out of the secret garden—and a few moments when I thought I may be stuck on Enchanted Rock for eternity—we began our descent.

We chose a different side of the rock to hike down—an area with huge cracks and large boulders scattered in random spots.

The dome of Little Rock shows the exfoliation caused by expansion and contraction of the rocks and how broken chunks of rocks slide down the side of the dome.

A rift of amber bluegrass and one of green, grew in the nearly vertical cracks as we climbed down Enchanted Rock.

Down from the dome, down to foliage, down to Earth.

Even though we didn’t see the vernal pools of water glowing in the moonlight, I understand why this place is called Enchanted Rock. It was unlike any place I had ever been before; it had a grounded, solid feel of ancient wisdom at the same time as an other-worldly, ethereal feel of life-affirming Spirit. The wind with all its power was mesmerizing. The sunshine sublime. The patches of plants growing on rock, enthralling. It is a place to base our lives on—the quest for body-regulating grounding wisdom and for exquisite, joy-filled Spirit. The challenging trek to the top of the Rock was individually fulfilling and profoundly enhanced by our experiencing it together. The very real yin and yang of our lives—these opposite forces that are complementary and interdependent. Our interconnected earthly-divine lives living on an enchanted rock.

For the first part of our Enchanted Rock adventure, go to At the Foot of the Rock.

The Hard Way

September 23, 2018 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness. –Lucius Annaeus Seneca

After our easy way of exploring the Saint Croix River on a paddlewheel boat, we picnicked beside the River to renew our energy for the afternoon. The paddleboat company, the town of Taylors Falls, and Interstate State Park seem to be intertwined. In fact, we started our hike by walking up one of the hilly side streets after crossing the one, busy main street through town. We passed an old railroad depot that I thought had been moved up there, but then I realized that we were hiking along the abandoned railroad way.

It soon became evident what a marvelous engineering feat it was to build a railroad through these bluffs!

We came to a place in the woods where the old railway had continued over a steep ravine on a bridge long gone except for some concrete pillars that now had colonies of wild ginger strewn at their feet.

We descended the wooded ravine, and at the bottom, the trail diverged—and we chose the hard way, the scenic way according to our guide Aaron Brake who had hiked here before. And so we followed another ravine and began the winding ascent to the very top of the bluff.

In the creek bed at the bottom of the ravine were shiny, glistening rocks of basalt.

Fallen trees created bridges of varying size and structure.

We climbed and climbed and though we were in the shady woods, the warm, humid day and exertion caused me to sweat like crazy. “I never sweat this much,” I exclaimed a number of times, and the only response I got from Emily was, “You need to up your workouts, Mom.” Finally we got to the top of the bluff and saw the River way down below.

On the trail down we explored more of the sandstone bluffs. One place was called Curtain Falls that now only flows after heavy rains and snow-melt.

Living on a steep, rocky bluff is a hard way for a tree to survive. I was amazed at the survival strategies we saw from some of the plant life, like this tree root scaling the rocky cliff, clinging to any soil it could find.

The way down was ‘easier’ than climbing to the top but was in no way easy. There were many places where wooden stairs helped us get down the steep rock faces.

We arrived at the campground of Interstate State Park—the parking lot and camping spots were full on this Labor Day weekend. But our hike wasn’t over yet—the trail continued along the River, through trees and over rocks, back to the entrance of the park where we had boarded the boat earlier in the day. Now we could see the River from the top of the rock cliffs adjacent to the water.

Rock climbers are welcome at the park, and we saw many ropes and climbers. That’s a hard way of getting up and down the cliffs!

It was beautiful hiking along the rocky cliffs among stately pines, wild blueberries, and various types of ferns. What a different perspective of the Saint Croix River we had from the edges of the huge rocks compared to floating down the middle of the River.

By the time we returned to the entrance of the park, my feet hurt, my legs were sore, and I wanted to sit down for a while. When I polled the young twenty and thirty-year-olds about the difficulty of the hike, they proclaimed it ‘moderate.’ I had the word ‘challenging’ in my mind, but chalked that up to our 30-year age difference and my need to ‘up my workouts.’ I’m glad we took the hard way, the rough road, the scenic way. It really was so beautiful, and it impelled me to exert and sweat and do ‘the work.’ It led us to the heights of that scenic River and the greatness of Nature. There are times in our lives when the hard way is presented to us, when we don’t have a choice, no matter how badly we want an easy option. Marie Curie said, “I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy.” So what do we do? We anchor our support ropes, take it slow and easy, use the steps and bridges to get us down the steep parts and over the ravines, and we do the work. We make progress, we do what is right, and in our own way, we are led to greatness.

After the easy way and the hard way, we ended our day with the ancient way…to be continued…

Gimme Shelter*

January 17, 2015 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I lived in a barn for three summers of my life while in college. It was a red, wood-sided barn with a hayloft and a lean-to on either side. The half-moon cement stoop had my name etched into it and a willowy caricature of a horse by the awesome Amy Olsen–artist, cook, wrangler, and bunk house mate. It had an upgraded floor of particle board, one wall of wood paneling, a couple of square wood-framed windows, and two rows of bunk beds. My lean-to was not rodent free–though I did check my mattress to make sure there wasn’t a round hole chewed through the fabric–but it was a good place to live, nonetheless. We were safe from the coyotes that howled in the night, above the rattlesnakes that crawled on the ground, dry from the rain that tapped on the tin roof, and close to the South Dakota prairie that we loved.

My children also worked at church camps with ‘rustic’ housing. Two of the them lived for three summers (or more) in a straight-sided canvas wall tent on a wooden platform near the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and the other in a cabin under towering pines and oaks on a hill overlooking Star Lake. Immersed in Nature, sheltered by Nature, inspired by Nature.

Have you ever wondered where all of Nature’s creatures find shelter, especially in winter?

Fallen trees provide shelter to many little critters–thick walls of wood insulation, grubs and insect larvae to eat, moss to munch on and use for nesting, and protection from the wind and snow. A weasel or mink may live in the cavity of a fallen log.

Dead trees that are still standing make excellent homes for woodpeckers and other birds.

This old oak tree has a hobbit-house opening at the base. Who lives here?

Leaves lined the opening of the shelter.

Inside the oak house, there was shredded wood for nesting material, but I’m still not sure who lives here.

Other animals make their dens under rocks. I know the fox who travels through our yard has a den somewhere on the steep hill under a large granite rock.

Rabbits like to take shelter under brush piles. When we have more snow, the brush piles turn into huge igloos, making a cozy place for a rabbit family.

We have a critter who lives under our garden shed. Our attempt to close his entry with chunks of granite didn’t deter him–he now just has a granite entryway!

Trees and rocks–home to so many creatures!

Look around your house–how many trees and rocks went into making your home a comfortable place for you and your family to live? Safe shelter is a basic need for all of us–humans and animals alike. Having a place to live that is warm, dry, and safe is essential in order to live well the rest of one’s life. It’s fairly easy to live in a barn or a tent in the summer, but winter provides additional challenges. I’m grateful for the trees and rocks that make up our home, for the warmth that earth’s natural gas provides, and for the connection to and inspiration from Nature.

*The Rolling Stones

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