Trumpeter swans Archives - NorthStarNature

Our Unique Arithmetic Assignment

March 26, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Part of our life learning process is embodied in the statements “I’ve seen this before,” or “I’ve heard this before” or most importantly, “I’ve felt this before.” It goes beyond the situational ‘deja vu’ (literally ‘already seen’) when a person feels like they have experienced something before. This is more concrete, a simple arithmetic of sorts. In the early part of our lives, we do it unconsciously; it is how we learn. ‘I’ve seen this round object before and people say the word ball.’ Fast and furious learning takes place in the next decades with things we’ve seen, heard, and felt. As we grow into middle age and older, we begin to notice patterns in our lives that have become rote. ‘I’ve heard those same words before,’ and we may add ‘too many times.’ We are becoming aware and discerning how those words impact us. And this is when the simple math becomes conscious and truthful—‘I don’t want to hear those words again,’ ‘I’ve seen this scenario before, and I don’t want it to happen again,’ or ‘I am going to change so I don’t have to feel this same way anymore.’ Subtraction. We also have greater awareness of what we want more of in our lives, those sparks of desire that may have been muzzled with responsibilities, time constraints, and unawareness. ‘I’m going to take some classes to feel the thrill of learning again,’ or ‘I’m going to learn the words to that song I love so I can sing it anytime.’ Addition. It is a profound lesson in authenticity when we become aware of our unique arithmetic assignment and incorporate it into our lives.

On Thursday I drove to a place I have seen before. The prairie–wetland–woodland trail at Saint John’s Arboretum is familiar to me. I don’t really remember how many times I’ve hiked it, which is of no consequence to any further time I am there, for each and every time there are new things to see along with the familiar friends that bring me joy. This was the first time I had been there with so much snow, the first time I had snowshoed the trail. It was a crisp 23 degrees. We had had rain two nights before, so the deep snow had an icy, pockmarked crust. The metal on the snowshoes s-c-r-i-t-c-h-e-d against the snow with each tread. My noisy steps alerted the waterfowl in the open creek, and I heard them before I saw them. It’s a great, wonderful sound I’ve heard many times before—the heralding honking of Canadian geese, the throaty warning of Trumpeter swans, and the more indistinct chattering of Mallard ducks.

There was another sound I had heard many times before—the rattling trill of a Sandhill Crane. He stood on the frozen embankment of the flowing creek, looking like an unhappy camper, wondering why his return flight to Minnesota had landed him in the frozen tundra. He ruffled his feathers and called out in irritation.

I was the intruder everyone was talking about—the geese voiced their faux alarm, but not one flew away. The Trumpeter swans were more sensitive and took to flight along with their vocal dismay.

Mr. Sandhill Crane kept up his rattley chatter as he surveyed me walking closer and all of his waterfowl friends below him in the creek.

Then he slowly ambled away from the creek into the stalks of cattails, pretending to find a morsel of food to peck at but moving on with disappointment.

I left the wetland and shoed through drifts and a broken, uneven path to the forest. With a deep sigh of contentment, I knew I had felt this way before, and it was good.

The dark-trunked Maple trees threw shadows on the deep snow, but I knew they were warming up for Spring. With daytime temps reaching above the freezing mark, the sap was beginning to stir in their roots. The below–freezing temps at night settle it back down, and that temperature gradient becomes the ‘pump’ that gets the sap flowing, ready for the harvesting for Maple syrup. I also imagined the Spring Ephemeral wildflowers under the soil, under the snow, that would be blooming before the trees could even unfurl their leaves. Old friends that are always a joy to see.

Circling around to the other snow-covered boardwalk that spans the wetland, I heard the waterfowl chatter again, along with some nearby Crane talk.

This time, there were three red-headed cranes in the cattails! It looked like a mated pair and their colt from last year. The offspring may migrate back to their usual spot with the parents, but once the nesting begins, he will be ‘chased away’ to begin his solitary life for two to six more years before he finds his lifetime mate.

Addition and Subtraction. The way of Nature. The way of Winter into Spring. The way we learn and discern. Most everything I saw, heard, and felt on my Thursday snowshoe hike was familiar to me, and I welcomed it into my life once again with a resounding “Yes!” At the same time, new details of deep snow, new birds, and Spring clouds made my experience ‘something more.’ We have to be careful not to fall through the ice of expecting our surroundings to change because of our displeasure. Mr. Sandhill Crane had some unfortunate seasonal timing in his migration and nesting schedule, but he will have to ‘wait it out’ while the sun and tilt of the Earth do their work. We want to be conscious and truthful about our own lives, our own words and actions. It is the responsibility and privilege that Life bestows upon us. Good luck with your assignment!

Warning Signs

September 8, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Every one of us has a threat detector or warning system in our brains. It begins with incoming sensory information—things we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, and notice—often things we may not be aware of consciously. Those incoming signals go to the thalamus—a routing structure that sends the information to the amygdala or fear center of our limbic system and to the frontal cortex part of our brain that ‘analyses’ what the information could mean. The pathways are much more complex than that, but basically we process information through our emotional threat center more quickly than our analytical, thinking brain. Our brains and bodies can be activated into fight, flight, or freeze before we even have a conscious knowing of why.

We have all experienced the warning signal from our amygdala—don’t trust that person, don’t walk down that street, don’t eat that food, don’t participate in that action. It is often labeled as a ‘gut feeling’ or ‘intuition’ type of knowing that is hard to explain. Part of our warning system is an inborn, mammalian, basic safety system and part of it is based on previous experience—if we have been traumatized in any way, we are particularly sensitive to any information that feels anything like what we have previously experienced. Our amygdala immediately activates our body to protect us. This is a very good thing to keep us safe when we are in danger, but it can also cause a lot of ‘false alarms.’ After an unprocessed trauma, the amygdala’s ‘reading’ of a situation causes alarm, even when there is no actual threat there. (By unprocessed, I mean the facts and feelings about and around the traumatic event have not been acknowledged, accepted, talked about, worked on, and put to some kind of rest.) That’s why it’s important to take deep breaths for a few seconds and let your thinking brain catch up. Easier said than done. That’s why it’s so difficult—and personal—to determine what is a legitimate threat, whether that is to our personal safety, the protection of our children, or the security of our country and democracy. Our ‘thinking’ brain needs information and data to come to a conclusion—when we refuse to ‘see’ the reality of facts, figures, and footage, we are allowing our ‘fear center’ to run our lives. (And on a physiological note, that is a damaging way to live.)

Chris and I went hiking at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge on the Blue Hill Trail. We have been there a couple of times in previous years. I suggested we go the opposite direction than our usual path so we could climb the Blue Hill spur trail. We were usually too tired after the five-mile hike to climb the hill, so this time we started with it! At the foot of the hill, at the entrance to the spur trail, was a warning sign: poison ivy could be growing along the trail. The sign also said they leave the poison ivy (don’t kill it) because wildlife eats the berries that are produced. Hmm, I thought. Well, we know how to identify poison ivy. How bad could it be? After a quick, questioning glance to Chris, I headed up the hill. Things were fine for a little while. If I saw some, I would say, “Poison ivy on the left” or “On the right.” Chris was in shorts, and I had short pants on with bare ankles. I definitely get the itchy rash from poison ivy, but I am not allergic to it like Chris is after an overwhelming exposure he had much earlier in his life that demanded medical care. As we climbed the hill, the trail got narrower, and raspberries and other foliage folded over the path. I peered under the waist-high briars to look for the ankle-high poison ivy that was now surrounding most every step. Are we ready to turn around yet? We passed the ‘down’ trail, so I figured the top couldn’t be too much farther, but by then I was seriously questioning their practice of ‘leaving the berries for wildlife.’ We made it to an observation deck, but we still weren’t at the pinnacle. I left Chris there and said I would see what’s farther up—but the path was barely discernable and covered with brush. Forget it, another time. We had a view to the north from the platform. The first thing I noticed in the landscape of trees was how many dying Oak trees with rust-colored leaves were scattered before us. Then I noticed the sparse gray branches of Aspen trees. Warning! Why were so many trees failing and dying? The drought last year could definitely take out some of the old or damaged trees, but this year had not been so bad. Most of the summer, I have seen places where the Aspen trees looked sick, their leaves sparse and spotted where usually they are shiny green and dancing. Even some in our own back yard were dead or failing. I wondered if the herbicide Dicamba was the reason for the tree treason. It is notorious for its drift and damage to trees. Or was it the changing climate that warmed our winters and allowed more insects to invade. Such a large number of dying trees in a protected area flashes a blinking red warning sign to me.

Warning: Poison ivy.

Warning, expected and benign: At Sherburne and all around the northland—the beginnings of Fall. We seem to be closer to the meteorological calendar than to the astronomical one when Autumn comes the first of September instead of the 21st. At any rate, the process has begun!

Warning: Some plants, butterflies, insects, animals, and even people try to look like or be like others in order to protect themselves or make themselves look bigger or more fierce. False Solomon’s Seal has foliage similar to Smooth Solomon’s Seal, but the flower and fruit are at the end of the stem instead of under the arching stem. How many times has your warning signal flashed when you have met a ‘false’ person?

Warning: There are two types of Elderberry–Sambucus canadensis, one that produces purplish-black berries that make tasty jelly and wine and Sambucus racemosa, red-berried Elder, whose fruit tastes bitter and causes digestive upset. It’s a smart decision to know the difference before gathering and eating berries.

Warning: These petal-less flowers form flat brown seeds with two barbed awns at the top. Devil’s Beggarticks or Devil’s Pitchforks catch and stick to fur or fabric in order to spread the seeds. What kind of negative rhetoric sticks to you and spreads to others with no factual basis? Words of fear and fallacy.

Warning: Toads will give you warts if you pick them up. Nah, that’s an old wives’ tale! Toads have warts on their skin and taste bitter to any predator who dares eat them.

Warning: The stream is hardly a stream and the lake (which looks big on the map) is barely a lake. Cattails and other vegetation have taken over almost the entire Buck Lake! Far into the middle of the cattails, I could see a little bit of water and a Trumpeter Swan family. It’s disappointing (and sometimes embarrassing) having been duped by false advertising.

Warning: Prescribed burns not only rejuvenate prairie grasses and wildflowers but can damage even mature trees if things don’t go quite right.

Forewarning to the purveyors of fear and fallacy: Truth and Light will shine on and overtake the Darkness.

Grow With It

August 28, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.

It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.

The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.

Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.

The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.

I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.

A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.

I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.

One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.

The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.

Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.

Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.

Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.

Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.

Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.

Tiger Swallowtail butterfly on Anise Hyssop

The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.

Portraits of Hope

April 24, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Hope is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops at all- —Emily Dickinson

I usually love Earth Day. We all have so much to be thankful for living on this good, green earth. Sharing the beauty and goodness of the flora and fauna that surrounds us and sustains us is a great pleasure of mine. But I’m not feeling much hope this year—when the western half of the United States is in a continuing drought, short on moisture and water, and battling wildfires at all times of the year. Such loss and destruction. When the evil of an unprovoked war is tearing apart a country and killing thousands and thousands of innocent people. Extreme loss and destruction. When ‘mysterious’ illnesses and causes are wreaking havoc on our bee and insect populations, and more recently, on people’s health. Who is benefiting from such harm? It is overwhelming. It makes my small contributions to science, goodness, and beauty seem fruitless.

I gathered words and pictures from magazines at the New Year to make a 2022 vision board, and on it I placed a picture of a pure white feather with Emily Dickinson’s first line from her famous poem: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” I feel like I need it more now than even in January when I was hoping the pandemic would finally abate.

And then, things with feathers kept showing up for me this week—when I was looking out the window while eating breakfast at home and during a short, quiet walk at Saint John’s Arboretum. The corner of the house roof was a ‘cooing perch’ for a male Mourning Dove—his throat would puff out, stretching the ruff of feathers, and the calm, lonely coo escaped from his body without opening his bill, without any words. Most surprising was the patch of pastel iridescent feathers that were displayed when his throat was ballooned with air—a handsome fellow with a peaceful song.

Cardinals are so expressive with their crest of red feathers. Carotenoids from fruit and insects are responsible for the red pigment. Often during Winter or after molting, their back feathers turn a gray color until the richness of Spring when they change to brilliant crimson.

The ice was gone from the lakes at Saint John’s Arboretum, and an immature Loon swam all by himself in the big lake. His head feathers were transitioning to the shiny black of adults, and his eyes were still black instead of red. Pretty feathers of hope.

On one side of the boardwalk through the marsh swam a protective male Canadian Goose. His watchful eye and wary honks let me know that he was not going to go far from his companion.

She was on the other side of the boardwalk, peeking over the rushes. I’m sure their nest was not far away.

A nesting pair of Trumpeter Swans was hiding in the cattail rushes, almost unseen.

Feathers were everywhere. Portraits of hope. My Earth Day sadness is still clinging to me, and I don’t see a pathway to change with all the turmoil, disdain, and division in the world. But if hope is the thing with feathers, my soul has been reminded of that with abundance this week. With each bird I see or feather I find, I will be reminded of hope. With each song or coo I hear, I will remember to have faith. With each pair of loyal companions making a new nest for a new family, I will observe love. Mother Nature’s hope, faith, and love never stops at all.

Flying Solo

April 3, 2022 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I’m flying solo for awhile, and it’s a new experience for me. I acknowledge the many women in the world who do so on a daily basis whether from desire, need, circumstance, or the roll of the dice. And by flying solo, I actually mean hiking solo—I still have my partner around for the rest of my life. But Chris is out-of-hiking-commission for a couple months until he gets a new hip. The wear and tear of decades of physical labor is now calling the shots and winning the pain war.

I am an intrepid partnered hiker—I don’t worry about getting lost or about bothersome insects or about getting too tired or hurt. The natural world is my home, so to speak. It feeds my soul. But something happens to me when I need to do it alone. My irrational fear takes over—that something-bad-is-going-to-happen fear that has plagued me for most of my life. It rises up from my belly and takes control of my breathing and heartrate, and it hijacks my mind. The good news is I have been working on ‘overriding’ that very ingrained behavior for more than a decade now—I see it for what it is, take back control of my breathing, and talk back to the fear voice. So…all of that happened before I even got out the door to hike at Saint John’s Arboretum this week.

Chris is a patient hiking partner—he stops and waits when I see something interesting to photograph, he comes back to look at really unusual things, and he points out artistic perspectives that I miss. The kids tease me, wondering how many hours per mile we’re doing when we hike together! At any rate, literally, it didn’t matter when I was by myself. But I missed having Chris with me to share the sights, signs, and sounds of Spring—and I ended up telling myself that I would be sharing those sights and signs with you readers of North Star Nature—like you were with me. The stirring calls of Canadian geese greeted me at the trailhead—the return of the geese and Trumpeter Swans is a sure sign of Spring, a satisfying sound to hear.

I was thrilled to see the dried remains of last year’s Compass Plants—it takes many years to get these prairie perennials established. Their twelve-foot high stems are matched by tap roots that burrow down to fifteen feet in the ground. It takes a strong foundation for such tall plants!

The distinct, deeply cut basal leaves of the Compass Plant are its namesake—during the growing season the leaves stand up vertically and orient themselves with their flat surfaces towards the east and west to avoid the intense heat of the peak sunlight.

The upper stem of the Compass Plant produces several sunflower-like flowers. The shaving-brush-like seed pod holds the seeds that are favored by many species of birds. In fact, the whole plant is an ecological home to over eighty different species of insects that live on or in the plant!

Old things, Fall and Winter things, still dominate the landscape at this time of year—cattails that have gone to seed, nests that held eggs and young birds, ice-covered lakes, golden Ironwood leaves, and snow-covered trails in shady places.

But the melting snow reveals some encouraging signs that are truly only impressive when compared to the last four months of frozen landscape. Each small sign of green and growing reminds us of what is to come and whets our desire for the new season.

The melting snow also reveals some unusual finds. Bones are an important food and nutrient source for animals during Winter. All the flesh and most of the cartilage had been chewed off this bone, along with the marrow that could be reached from each of the ends.

One of the trunks of a double Maple tree was inexplicably broken about fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. My guess is a sap ‘explosion’ occurred on a freezing night during these warm days/cold nights that are imperative for the flow of sap (and thus for the collection of sap for maple syrup.)

A Crow lost a handful of feathers in some kind of recent scuffle—the feather was too pristine to have made it through a snow-covered Winter.

Bright yellow-orange is a hike-stopping color at this time of year! Perhaps this is Yellow Brain Fungus—it’s growing on decaying wood with plenty of moisture from the melting snow.

Thanks to my friend Gail who sent a post about snow fleas, I noticed these little jumping critters! Snow fleas aren’t really fleas but are able to jump several inches like fleas. They are actually tiny arthropods called springtails. (And they don’t bite.)

As a Winter color-deprived observer, I liked the colors of these rocks on the trail! Celebrating the simple pleasures of the season!

On this first day of April as I wandered alone through the prairie, wetlands, and forest of Saint John’s Arboretum, the seasonal change was palpable. The ice was melting, water was flowing in spots, waterfowl were pairing up, sap was flowing, and green things were growing. No fooling, Spring is here.

Growth—whether greening of the flora, developing of the fauna, or the expansion of our inner knowledge, resources, and strength—has its seasons. Sometimes we willingly and proactively choose to expand our comfort zone, and other times Life’s circumstances do the choosing for us. Flying solo is a choice many make intentionally, and just as often, that ‘choice’ befalls people who had no desire, will, or capacity to go it alone. But death happens, divorce and separation happen, war unfortunately happens, and all sorts of other disruptions. As unfamiliar as it is for me to hike alone without my partner of forty years, it is a small thing compared to what many other people are going through. And yet, it stretches me. It forces me to confront my irrational fears while at the same time acknowledging that solo hiking for a woman has its very relevant dangers (as does walking alone in many urban settings.) It’s at times like these that it’s helpful to burrow down deep into the foundation of our Selves—the taproot of our being—to find the strengths and skills we possess that show us the way. Old things always fade away to new green and growing things—we are no exception. I am celebrating and sharing with you the simple, colorful pleasures of the new season.

Flour and Ice Water (+ Butter = Pie)

November 28, 2021 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

What do the largest flour mill on the banks of the Mississippi River, Grasshopper Chapel in Cold Spring, MN, and a state forest have in common? John Pillsbury. Pillsbury was co-founder, along with his nephew Charles, of the Pillsbury Company, which boasted the largest flour mill in the world in the early 1900’s. John Pillsbury was also the 8th governor of Minnesota (1876-1882). After years of a devastating grasshopper plague that destroyed hundreds of thousands of acres of wheat, oats, barley, and corn, Governor Pillsbury called for a day of prayer on April 26, 1877 to help end the plague. A subsequent sleet and snow storm killed many of the grasshopper eggs, which brought an end to the plague in the coming months. The little chapel in Cold Spring that was close to our previous home, was built in honor of the ‘miracle’ and nicknamed Grasshopper Chapel. Then in 1900, Minnesota’s first state forest was established when Governor Pillsbury donated 1,000 acres to the state. It is known as Pillsbury State Forest, has over 25,000 acres now, was the first state tree nursery, has managed timber harvesting, reforestation, and recreational development. It has 27 miles of trails for horseback riding, hiking, biking, and snowmobiling.

Last weekend Chris and I traveled up the west side of the Mississippi River to Pillsbury State Forest. The snow that we had had at home was mostly melted, but as we got closer to Pillsbury, there was more snow on the ground. We bundled up for a small hike around the Rock Lake campground. The Lake was ‘building’ ice but still had areas of open water.

Trumpeter Swans were lying on the ice, their heads and necks folded into their feathers to protect their sleeping bodies from the chilly wind.

Autumn meets Winter when the beautiful rusty-brown Oak leaves floating on the water get captured by the forming ice.

The campground is small, first come, first served, and has 18 campsites along the shore of Rock Lake under a stand of Pines.

The forest ground is large and interspersed with private land. We drove from the campground to a day-use area for canoeing and horseback riding. We were slowed to a stop by Wild Turkeys crossing the road. They had a gathering place on the sunny south side of some big round bales, and a few were crossing the road to the farm place on the other side. They seemed quite confident of their place in this forest.

We traveled by road to another trail called Section 27 Road and ski trail. The trail was an old logging road that cut into the forest. We wondered if the whole area had been Pines at one time. Now it was mostly Aspen, Birch, and some older Oaks. The ‘ski’ trail continued when the logging road came to an end, and it became apparent that the trail had not been maintained for quite a few years. Fallen logs crossed the trail, making skiing pretty much impossible unless there was feet of snow.

At this time of year, the sun stays low in the southern sky on its dawn-to-dusk trajectory, so there are always shadows that stretch out from the trees and from the smallest weeds. The Oak leaves make a pretty pattern on the snow, and the tracks of all the animals can be ‘read’ by passersby.

John Pillsbury made a huge impact on Minnesota with his businesses, his philanthropy to the state and to the University of Minnesota, and his political career. The state forest that bears his name offers a great place for recreation, especially the many miles of horseback riding trails. This transition time as we slip from late Fall into Winter brings a change that is difficult for some people. The very short days, the often cloudy skies, and the cold temperatures create a ‘hibernating’ quality that is accompanied by low energy and sometimes depression. I combat that with actually getting out into the cold—when one is dressed appropriately, it can be invigorating and calming at the same time—something that Nature is good at! It’s a time to pray for the end of the pandemic, to ‘build’ on our relationships, to be kind to ourselves, and to make plans for next Spring and Summer. It’s also a good time to sit by a southern-facing window, soak up some warm sun, and eat a yummy Pillsbury baked good. Enjoy!

Nature’s Art Museum and the Art of Aging

July 5, 2021 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

It’s a mystery to me how I can be as old as I am. I never think about my face having lines and sun spots; it’s just the opposite. From the inside, I’m pretty sure my face is only forty—a young forty, I’m thinking—so that’s a great set-up for some dismay and disappointment when I look in the mirror! Aging is a humorous mystery that we all endure when we are lucky enough to do so.

In celebration of my turning another year older (almost four weeks ago now), Chris and I hiked at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. It was a beautiful, blue-sky day, warm but not too hot, with a breeze that made shade-dwelling just about perfect. We went to the bog boardwalk first—the Touch the Earth Trail. (I love that name.) I get a thrill seeing the blooming plants that inhabit the bog, and the mystical, long-stemmed Cottongrass was as spectacular as when I first saw it! What an unusual, awesome plant!

I was expecting to see a bed of white-blooming Labrador Tea in the bog (or bog azaleas, as I call them), but only a few were blooming. We had had a freeze those two nights before Memorial Day, so I thought that must be the reason. There were other signs that frost had damaged the mosses and leaves of other plants.

There is nary an insect as mystical as a dragonfly—their gossamer wings, their large, compound eyes, their quick, multi-directional flight, and how they light upon some object in peaceful repose.

Another insect crawling up a dead tree that his relatives likely caused the demise of—a Western Sculptured Pine Borer—had his own air of mystery and flair. With large copper-speckled eyes, artfully segmented legs, and textured, metallic and black body, the Pine Borer shimmered in the sunlight.

Large, vase-shaped Cinnamon Ferns were abundant in the bog. The fertile fronds are the namesake, like cinnamon sticks among the green.

Wild Blueberries were setting fruit, though I imagine the fruit buds were also nipped by the freeze, as fruit was scarce.

We drove to a parking area for a trail we hadn’t been on before that was described as hilly and rough terrain. I was surprised by how damp the trail was in areas, considering how drought-like our Spring had been. Soon we were in thick woods on a little-used trail, the undergrowth brushing our legs and arms as we walked through. I resigned myself to the fact that we were picking up ticks and vowed to enjoy the trail and deal with them later. It’s always a bit of a challenge to ‘watch’ my feet on a rocky or rooty trail and to watch for beautiful things around me, but I have gotten fairly good at it. So I was lucky enough to see this beautiful creature looking at us from behind a tree! His velvet-covered antlers were in the growth stage, when the fuzzy-looking skin supplies blood, oxygen, and nutrients to quickly grow the antlers for another season. When fully grown, depending on genetics, health, and age of the buck, the antlers harden, and the velvet is shed with the help of rubbing action on trees. We stood and looked at one another, both of us curious about the other.

The trail brought us to a wetland area that opened up in the middle of the forest. Crows cawed from the top of a dead tree, the self-appointed sentries for the woodland creatures. A board walk elevated our feet above the Wild Calla water plants and was a table for a crayfish-eating animal who didn’t clean up his leftovers.

Another dragonfly posed in the sunlight amidst the art of logs, sedge grass, duckweed, Wild Callas, and moss. We were in a museum of Nature’s Art.

We circled around the wetland on the trail that kept us guessing whether we were on the trail! Soon our elevated vantage point allowed us to see open water reflecting green vegetation and blue sky. An open waterway through the wetland plants and chewed trees indicated that we were visiting the home of a beaver family.

We passed a stately Pine that had a large, old wound scratched head-high into the bark. Dried amber droplets of sap had oozed from the wound, like healing tears to a wounded soul. They glistened in the sunlight.

Another board ferried us across a black, icky-looking swamp. A closer look revealed decaying leaves, Maple seeds, and a thick mat of green slime algae.

At the farthest point on the loop trail was a backpacking campsite overlooking the White Water Lily-covered pond. A breeze evaporated the heat and sweat we had generated to get there as we took a water and rest break. A pair of rusty-headed Trumpeter Swans flew in and settled into their peaceful, secluded home.

Back on the trail, we walked through Oak, Maple, and Birch trees until we came to a Tamarack bog. The wispy soft needles and craggy branches create an other-worldly effect in the bumpy bog, along with the bunches of four-foot-high ferns.

Deep in the bog, I caught sight of something red-colored. I left the trail and walked closer to get a better look. At one point I stepped from the firm forest floor into the squishy bog. I pulled my foot back from the wetness. The bog maintains its boundaries to protect the highly specialized plants and delicate ecosystem of sphagnum peat moss. From my dry footing, I zoomed in to see dark reddish-purple flowers with long stems and nodding heads. They were all pointed away from me, though I was able to get a slight sideways shot of one that showed a bright yellow center. What were these amazing flowers?! I had never seen anything like them before! I circled around the bog, hoping to see ‘the other side’ of the flower…but I never could. They were so deep into the center of the bog that I could not see more than their dark red backs.

It wasn’t until I was home with access to the computer that I discovered the amazing flower was that of a Purple Pitcher Plant, a carnivorous plant that grows in the acidic bog. The rain-catching ‘pitcher’ of the plant attracts flies, ants, spiders, and moths that drown in the water and are ‘digested’ by a certain species of mosquito and midge along with bacteria. The plant is able to use the digested nutrients to grow.

The edge of the bog was scattered with ferns, club mosses, and an occasional Pink Lady’s Slipper, a hardy orchid pollinated by bumblebees.

Another wetland flower that graced the early June trails was the Northern Blueflag Iris with their long, spear-like leaves and paper-thin lavender flower petals. They begin as dark purple conical buds, open to exquisite light-purple variegated blossoms, then curl and wither in the progression of age—the lifeline of us and all of Nature.

It was a happy birthday for me—I had discovered a ‘new’ flower and an amazing bog. I watched an elegant pair of swans and exchanged curious glances with a deer. I saw a black swamp and pristine white water lilies. I witnessed the progression and mystery of life and admired Nature’s art museum. My June birth flower is the Rose, and I appreciate and embrace the wild version for my flower. After our hike, we had a picnic by the roses alongside the Rum River. And even though I removed dozens of crawling ticks while we sat there, another mystical, magical dragonfly lighted on a stick nearby.

The mystery of aging—how we feel on the inside, how we look on the outside—spares no one lucky enough to struggle with their young-old identity. We grow with expectations—sky-high dreams and naïve aspirations. We are fresh, innocent, deep-colored buds of humans. We open to reality—our whole-hearted beautiful selves, shiny objects that can destroy, wounds that heal with amber tears forever embedded in our hearts, discoveries of muck and beauty. And then we fade, we wrinkle, and we attain a level of understanding that is only possible after staring into the wild eyes of Life. And through it all, we are the curators of Nature’s art museum. We choose how to look at, how to ‘see’ the world around us. If we’re lucky, we discover new things, we respect portraits of pain, we appreciate images of awesome beauty, and we imitate the mystery and magic of dragonflies.

Fire and Refuge

November 15, 2020 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality. –Miles Neale

There was something a bit off when we drove into the parking lot of Blue Hill Trail at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. I saw prairie land, a big hill, and some scattered trees. I couldn’t identify what didn’t seem right. We readied ourselves for the four or five mile loop, then set out on the sandy trail. Almost at once I noticed the standing totem of a burnt tree—not unusual in any place we hike. But the colorful-for-Fall Sumac seedheads were much more delightful.

It was not long before we saw other burnt, dead tree trunks. Had there been a wildfire here? Most of the trees were Oak—White Oaks who had dropped their leaves and Red Oaks who were still adorned in their rust-colored finery.

From that point on, most every tree we saw had been damaged by fire. The big, beautiful Oaks were in various stages of decline—some were dead and fallen, others were dead and standing, and quite a few others were alive, but distorted in their growth. That’s what was off about my first impression—the trees no longer had a normal canopy for the size of the tree. Lower branches were gone, some limbs were dead, and the rest of the foliage was concentrated towards the top of the very tall trees. Survival seemed very uncertain for the standing, living dead.

The undergrowth, or I should say, the new growth since there wasn’t much ‘under’ left, was a combination of Hazelnuts, shrubby, multi-stemmed Red Oaks, Raspberries, and some Willows in marshy areas. The purple-stemmed Raspberries conveyed their color in sharp contrast to the brown landscape.

Hazelnuts—the actual nut—are usually long gone by this time of the year, eaten by deer, wild turkeys, squirrels, and pheasants. But the shrubs were so abundant in this area that many nuts remained, peeking out from their curled husks.

Autumn revealed an ‘unhidden’ nest in the bare branches that had earlier given protection and security to the hard-working bird.

Pocket Gopher mounds were everywhere. I wondered how they could build their burrows in such sandy soil without the walls collapsing all around them. Deer tracks were plentiful also, all along the trail. We joked about the trails being for humans or deer, and Chris noted they were just like us, taking the path of least resistance.

When would this come crashing down?

All 30,000+ acres of Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge is a combination of forest, prairie, lakes, and wetlands. It was established as a refuge in 1965 to protect and restore habitat in the St. Francis River Valley for migratory birds and other wildlife. During the months of March through August, most areas are closed to the public to allow the wildlife to breed and raise their young ones without human disturbance.

Two-thirds of the way through our hike we came to Buck Lake. More than a dozen Muskrat houses poked up from the marshy water and reeds.

On a mud bar in the middle of the lake, a family of Trumpeter Swans was busy with the business of preening and cleaning their feathers. Beyond the Swans was a flock of ducks feeding in the shallow water with ‘bottoms up.’

After the preening, Mother and Father Swan slid into the water and glided through the reeds, the wind messing their just-smoothed feathers.

The young cygnets followed their parents, their dusky gray feathers getting ruffled in the wind. They will migrate and winter as a family, and their parents will most likely return to this lake to nest again. Trumpeter Swans and Muskrats have a synergistic relationship—when Muskrat and Beaver populations increase, Swan populations also increase, as they use the tops of the dens for nesting sites.

Seven young Swans a swimming…

Beyond a Mullein patch was an evergreen forest, which I later learned was referred to as the Enchanted Forest.

It was a forest of Spruces—the first wholly Spruce forest I remember seeing. The trail wound through the towering trees. It was dark and quiet, so unlike the rest of the hike. It did seem enchanted!

We emerged from the forest with Blue Hill in our sights—the highest point in the refuge. Trees still showed their wounds, the lasting legacy of the destruction of fire.

With a little research after I was home, I discovered that Blue Hill had had ‘prescribed’ burns in 2009, 2015, and 2018. Prescribed burns are fires that are carefully planned to take into account temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. They were being used to restore the Oak savanna by thinning non-native grasses and plants while promoting the health of native vegetation. They had protected the Enchanted Spruce Forest by how and where they set the fire. It sounds good in theory, and good practices were used, but something went wrong. They harmed the very trees they were trying to protect—the towering White Oaks. Fire will take the path of least resistance—most destructive forces will, whether of Nature or mankind. So how do we find refuge in the face of destruction? We can bury ourselves in the sand, not seeing, not listening, hoping for the best. (Though I bet there were plenty of roasted Pocket Gophers after the fire that decimated those trees.) We can run away in fear and busyness, not taking the time to ‘read the landscape’ and gather information. We can sit on our island of entitlement refusing to see the flames that are engulfing those around us. “True refuge demands a complete and utter trust fall into the arms of reality,” says Miles Neale, a Buddhist psychotherapist. It is a brilliant statement. Refuge is defined as a condition of being safe or sheltered from pursuit, danger, or trouble. To truly have refuge we need reality, the reality of facts, evidence, expertise, and truth, along with the reality of love and compassion that emanates from our spiritual beliefs. We don’t want to destroy the very things we are trying to protect. Fall into the refuge of reality.

Trumpeter Swan Symphony

January 6, 2015 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

This beautiful, graceful creature is the largest North American waterfowl–the Trumpeter Swan. It stands at a height of four feet with a wingspan of more than seven feet. Downstream from a power plant on the Mississippi River in Central Minnesota, hundreds of Trumpeter swans gather in the open water to spend the winter.

Swans first arrived in this area for wintering in 1986 as the nesting areas of shallow marshes and ponds froze up. Other Minnesota swans migrate to Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Texas for the winter. Most leave their wintering grounds in early March to return to their nesting areas.

Adult Trumpeter swans have pure white plumage that is often stained a rusty color on the head and neck from feeding in iron-rich water. They mate for life and can live longer than twenty-four years.

They make a hollow trumpeting sound.

Young swans or cygnets are gray until they are a year old and stay in family groups through early spring.

Swans were hunted extensively in the 1600s-1800s for their meat, skins, and feathers, leading to their near extinction. Their large flight feathers made the highest quality quill pens. It is estimated that 2900 swans live in the state of Minnesota at this time, after more than fifty years of restoration.

The swans share their space with Canadian geese and Mallard ducks who look small in the presence of the large Trumpeter swans.

And when they are all vocalizing, it creates a sweet Waterfowl Symphony!

The mated pairs live most of the year on their own, guarding the territory where they raise their young. In the winter, they become social birds and can be seen gathering in a circle of four to six, honking, puffing out their chests, and flapping their wings–like a dance! According to Madeleine Linck, Wildlife Technician for Three Rivers Park District, this behavior is for family bonding and showing off. (http://www.startribune.com/sports/outdoors/240621061.html)

The swans, geese, and ducks fly to surrounding fields to feed, and they take advantage of the kindness of a local resident who feeds them buckets and buckets of corn every day. After feeding, the swans and geese can be seen preening their feathers and taking a morning nap.

Wintering is also a time for courtship. When swans are three to four years old, they choose a mate. Courtship displays include head bobbing, trumpeting together, and spreading and raising their wings.

The Trumpeter swans are an impressive sight with their regal carriage, sleek alabaster plumage, and incredible size. The large overwintering population seemed to get along fairly well–we saw a few ‘fights’ between some individuals, but for the most part, they coexist peacefully with one another and with the ducks and geese. This social resting time prepares them for the next breeding season and for the work of raising their next nest of offspring.

We humans spend much of our year taking care of the ‘nest,’ finding food, and keeping our young safe. And like the swans, we get together with our families in the cold months of winter to bond with them, show off a little, make some noise, and rest and restore ourselves for the months ahead.

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