Deerless

Better luck this weekend, guys!

Session Start Wed Nov 07 14:52:48 2007

carsonkip: In case you didn't hear Miskowic and I are deerless
terry: I had not
carsonkip: well we will try it again this weekend
terry: How was it - were there any to be seen that you passed on?
carsonkip: I saw 3 Fri
carsonkip: they saw me and went elsewhere
carsonkip: thats it
terry: I saw a dead buck on the side of 610 on Saturday
carsonkip: they are really starting to go now
terry: Sorry I didn't make it up there with you guys before deer hunting
carsonkip: my dad saw a 4 point in his backyard Sat too
carsonkip: well I only made it up twice myself
carsonkip: don't work too hard but make lots of $
terry: OK then
carsonkip: c ya
terry: bye

*** "carsonkip" signed off at Wed Nov 07 15:02:27 2007.

Won't take you far

Here is kind of a postscript for the trip, three bulleted lists I made in my notebook while watching the autumn sunset light up the tamaracks on my last evening in the BWCAW.

WHAT WENT RIGHT:

• Beautiful, rain-free fall days
• Beautiful fall colors:
  -The birches still had about 15% of their leaves, the scrub oaks were hanging on, and the tamaracks look like God plucked each one, dipped it in gold and set it back down again.
• Exercised good judgment:
  - I knew when to swallow my pride and turn around.
  
• Re-learned something about myself I had forgotten:
  -I am quite strong... But without conditioning, strength won't take you far.
  
  

WHAT WENT WRONG:

• Pack overloaded:
  -I brought too much unnecessary crap.
• Body overloaded:
  -I need to lose at least 25# (More like 50) before I try this again.
• Body out of shape:
  -The primary means by which to lose the above-mentioned weight should be via exercise
  
• Equipment failures:
  -Boots fell apart
  -Stove was not running 100% efficiently (Didn't test it out beforehand)
• Wrong/inappropriate equipment:
  -Heavy base camping tent, no water pump
• Underestimated the trail:
  -The trail had the element of surprise - it had been waiting for me for 300,000 years*
  
  *(Not sure what I meant by that!)
  
  

WILDLIFE ENCOUNTERS:
(Updated on Sunday in the Ely coffee shop)

• On Echo Trail:
  -A family of Bald Eagles
• On the trail in:
  -I kicked up a rabbit
  -I passed within the vicinity of a skunk.
• In the campgrounds:
  -Panhandling whiskey jacks and red squirrels
  -2 Ducks of unknown species (Didn't look like mallards)
  -An otter swam up and briefly spied on me through the weeds
  -What appeared to be a beaver towing a log across the lake (What else would do something like that?)
• On the trail out:
  -I kicked up a grouse
  -I met a visibly shaken teenage boy who spent a sleepless night in a nearby campsite after a bear entered the campground, stomped around and snorted around the young man's hanging food pack.

Angleworm 2007 - Day 3

Up With the Sun
Saturday was another cold night, thought much more manageable than the previous. I woke up in the middle of the night and stepped outside the tent for some fresh air; the night had been crisp and clean. The clouds had parted and once again I was bathed under the eerie light of the milky way. I did not have my glasses with me plus my bag was calling me back, so I did not spend as much time stargazing as I had the previous night. I noticed during my brief stay that my tent sleeping habits were different than those of my home. My sleep here was shallower but more fitful, as opposed to home where I become like a corpse for several hours at a time. So this could be considered getting in touch with my primitive side, I thought to myself. That's a good thing. Like the previous night, I got a large block of sleep in after my trip outside and I woke up shortly before sunrise.

Unlike the day before however, I arose as soon as I became conscious and began packing up my gear. It was my intent to be ready to move out by 8:30, which gave me a generous amount of time to eat breakfast and lolly gag. There was a beautiful mist moving across the surface of Angleworm lake, Which I watched and enjoyed as I finished packing my gear and preparing breakfast. There would be no oatmeal today; I had used up the remainder of the fuel yesterday afternoon boiling water. I miscalculation on my part; the worst I suffered for it was to have a cold breakfast rather than a hot on Sunday morning, although I could have made a fire if I had been adamant about it. As it were I tortured the whiskey jacks and the resident red squirrel one last time by eating salami and cheese on Ritz crackers. Something about that food drove them nuts. The colors? Recognition of the meal components? You'd need a bird & small rodent psychologist to know for certain.


Angleworm Lake Creature Sighting
As I munched on my Ritz crackers and ignored the nonstop harassment from the foul-mouthed little red squirrel who was picketing my campsite, I continued to enjoy the majesty of all that mist moving slowly over the lake. It was during this time that I was surprised to see a group of apparently disembodied leaves, moving in a linear and deliberate fashion across the lake. As they moved into a clearer area, I could see a clear wake pattern and could tell that there was some sort of creature in the water, towing a log to which these leaves were attached by a small branch. I had the presence of mind to use the zoom on my camera as a sighting instrument and snapped this photo. I think that the educated world would agree that the creature is in fact Castor canadensis. But the truth of the matter is that the creature was never actually identified and it's identity remains an unsolved mystery to this day.


Exit - Stage Left
I made good on my plan to break camp by 8:30. The situation with my boots could only be described as "Fragile." I mentally prepared myself for the possibility of having to hop back to the truck on one foot. In my travels I was overtaken by a faster-moving, very serious looking teenager. I heard him coming so I stopped and took a rest on a large boulder so that he could pass me - he stopped to say hello. As it turned out, he had stayed at the southernmost campsite on the Eastern shore the previous night and had had his sleep interrupted by a creature intruding on his campsite. The teen did not actually see anything, however, from the direction of where he had hung his food pack he heard some stomping and snorting. The intruder was scared off by shouting and noise making. The startled teenager and I agreed that his campsite intruder was most likely an Ursus americanus. But just as with my lake creature, this one was never actually identified and it's identity remains an unsolved mystery. As the youth took off down the path I admired the lightness of his step and considered how I would have reacted. I had hung my pack well both nights, unsure if the practice was still needed this late in the season. As it turns out, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.


Back to Civilization
I made it out to the trail head on two feet, as it turns out. My boots were trashed, but they held together. My truck was one of seven in the parking lot. If you are going to try to hike the 'Worm I would suggest trying a mid-week trip to get away from the crowd. As I made my way back to Ely the Echo trail no longer held the same magic as it had on Friday. The eagles were gone and some yahoo in a blaze orange hat tailgated me most of the way into town. In Ely I stopped for a warmup at the Front Porch Cafe, followed by a visit to Piragi's to window shop. I left Ely right around noon and even though I am not much of a football fan anymore, I did enjoy listening to the vikings squeak past the bears. I rolled into my driveway shortly after three, all in one piece. Mission accomplished.

Even now as I write this a week and a half later I can still close my eyes and project myself back onto that trail. Even though I can no longer feel the weight of the pack I can still remember the feel of the air going in and out of my lungs and the roar of the blood in my temples as I would get to the top of an ascent. The smell of pine needles is like a taste of Heaven, and the wind through the trees keeps calling me back.

Thanks for reading!

Day 1     Day 2     Day 3

Angleworm 2007 - Day 2

Frosty Awakenings
It was a cold night, friends. It dipped below freezing; I know this because of the ice I found in my nalgene bottles. It had been a rough night, with me experimenting throughout the night with different layerings. My head suffered the most; the only covering I brought was a North Face ear gear. I was seriously jonesing for the headsock I had forgotten in the cab of the truck.

I woke with the sun but I did not stir right away. I lay in my tent, dreamily considering the day ahead of me. It was going to be the day that I hike all the way up the west side of Angleworm, do an end-around on home lake, pass by Whiskey Jack lake and blow in to camp on the coveted northernmost campsite on the eastern shore of Angleworm.I traced my finger over the map lazily and dozed, listening to the warmongering red squirrels as they quarreled over pine cones. Without warning the peace was shattered by a shotgun blast.


Off with a bang
My first thought was that maybe someone was slaughtering the campers at the southernmost campsite. I was fully awake and on red alert now. After determining that no holes had been blown in my tent, I quickly dressed and cautiously crawled out of my tent. Nobody there, no sound. The woods had already settled back down. Not certain how far off the shot had come from or even what direction the shooters were moving in, I decided to multitask and begin making both my breakfast and as much noise as possible so that I would not be mistaken for Grousezilla.

As I heated the water for my oatmeal I discovered a curious crack on the toe area of my right boot. "Oh no," I thought. "Gonna have to be careful around water for the rest of the trip now." I didn't know the half of it. Not too long later the great hunter and his companion came down the trail. They said that they were sorry if they had scared me and then chatted with me for a few minutes. The guy was a local, who said that the temp when he left his house that morning had been 28 degrees. He was carrying some sort of pistol that you can swith barrels on, his choice du jour was a .410. Not a bad choice for grouse & rabbit. Leaves you enough animal to eat. I gave that fellow a good head start before I set out.


Back on Track
That pack still felt darned heavy. I trudged along slowly, but really I was too spellbound by the beauty of the Angleworm to care. The first couple of photos I shot were a little hazy, due to condensation on the lens. But there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the air smelled like pine needles and fallen leaves, and I couldn't have cared less about heavy packs, cracked boots, or foggy pictures. I was just darned happy to be there. Even with the tougher ascents like the one near the site of the old fire tower, my spirits stayed high. I took a lot of pictures and kept my eyes and ears open. It is insufficient to say that I enjoyed these woods; I was drinking them in. I considered the 23rd psalm and knew then that if I had been the author it would not have been green pastures that the Lord would make me lay down in but rather rocky outcroppings, overlooking glacial lakes, surrounded by boreal forests.

"Too wordy!" I thought to myself as I moved along. I had to make frequent stops but it worked out for the best as it allowed me to check the map frequently and monitor my progress. Anybody who tells you that the 'Worm can or should be done as just a day hike is definitely not someone who stops to look at the view.

Lunchtime Decision
I approached the northernmost campsite on the western shore of Angleworm just before noon. It was occupied and I did not want to disturb the guys camped there. I found a spot on the lake shore about several yards south of the campsite and unloaded my pack for a breather. I had been on the trail for just under two hours and had not covered a very impressive distance. I drank the last of my city water from the second Nalgene bottle and evaluated my situation. The campsite that I wanted was directly across the lake from me and currently unoccupied. By my best guess it would take me almost six hours to get there, if I continued at the same rate of travel and encountered similar terrain.

I set up the stove and boiled some lakewater, as I was going to need more water regardless of what I decided to do. I munched on my apple and stared long and hard at my boot. The crack had expanded to a full-blown tear and was not looking good. It looked to me like a very real scenario that I would hump all afternoon through the woods just to make it to my target camp right at sundown, most likely to find it claimed by that point, only to have to go find either an alternate campsite or else to just set up somewhere off the trail in the dark. And that was if I was LUCKY and my boot didn't completely disintegrate somewhere along the way.

I really did anguish over this, even though with the benefit of hindsight it was such an obvious no-brainer. I considered the consequences that come from making stupid choices in the wilderness and with a heavy heart decided to scrub the mission. I took this photo a few minutes after having made the decision, which explains the long face. It was better this way, I thought, as even if everything went according to plan I would have zero goof-off time in camp and I would be cooking my dinner in the dark. I loaded up my pack and turned back the way I had came.

From whence I came
The hike back was light-hearted; once I had turned back I really made my peace with the whole deal.



While resting at the top of a climb, a pair of hikers overtook me. We chatted briefly and as it turned out they wanted the campsite that I had spent the previous night in. I told them that was cool, I would go for the southernmost (Which had been occupied the day before).





I hiked the rest of the way a little nervous, that my new target campsite would be occupied. I resigned myself that if that were the case I would simply keep going right on to the trailhead. As it turned out the southernmost site was available and was quite nice, although not quite as scenic as the previous day's.


Although available, there were many natives around; the usual suspects: Conniving red squirrels and panhandling whiskey jacks. In the southernmost reaches of Angleworm lake there is a muddy, weedy bay, and it was patrolled by a pair of ducks who kept just far enough away to keep me from identifying them. They looked too small to be mallards, but then again I am accustomed to big fat city ducks, which is a vulgar way of saying 'waterfowl with sedentary lifestyles.'


While eating my dinner I was startled to have an otter swim up and poke his suspicious face out of the weeds at me. He was long gone before I even had a chance to reach for my camera.



I spent time sketching, reading my bible, and taking this panoramic shot:

As evening closed in the sky grew cloudy; no chance for stargazing. I lay down in my tent as it grew dark, exhausted. I lay in my tent and listened to request night on End of the Road Radio on a small transistor radio (Told you I packed in a lot of crap) as I drifted off to sleep.

Continue to day 3!

Day 1     Day 2      Day 3

Fall Blowout on the 'Worm

This past weekend I solo-hiked the Angleworm Lake trail.

Unfortunately due to a 'wardrobe malfunction' with my boots, I had to turn back just before getting half way around. They barely held together long enough to make it out. The boots are (were) Columbia Bugabootoos and had served me reliably for several years. But the 'Worm ate them up like they were white bread dipped in gravy. Needless to say I learned an important lesson about using the proper tool for the job. I won't make the same mistake twice.

My trip report is still pending. Click on any of the photos above to get to my Flickr page with the rest of the photos.

Freewrite: Here and now

Disclaimer: This was written in one "take" over lunch.

The smell of dead leaves beneath my feet, the bite of the wind against my face as winter, still far off, begins to grow it's teeth. High spirits glide between the trees and my mind throbs in the silence of the forest, voices music and the sound of machinery still echoing in my skull. In their absence I am aware that my ears are ringing.

The wind thrashes the treetops high above, but on the forest floor it is like a conversation overheard in an adjacent room or a crowd as heard from outside a stadium. 100 feet between peace and torment. Somewhere nearby the same wind rips across the open waters of a lake and churns the bottom of a shallow bay, covering and uncovering the rocks in an endless cycle. Elsewhere it flattens the tall grass of a clearcut meadow and scatters the voles and rabbits into hiding. In the middle of a tamarak swamp deer take refuge, and the wind is hardly more than a suggestion that something is going on outside the walls of the compound.

All of these things I picture in my mind's eye as I stand on the path in the forest. There are more places than I can imagine, each alive and vibrant in this moment.
We break down where we are going and where we have been with units of measurement to indicate our movement. A mile down a path, a hundred feet up a tree, 12 feet deep in a lake, etc. But isn't each step of a journey from "Here" to "There" a new "Here?" With each footstep and branch the "Here" changes and is a little different than the previous or the next. Or would you entertain the thought that the entire planet is one giant "Here?" The Superior National Forest contains Three million acres of land, water, rock, and trees. That's more "Here's" than you could hope to visit in your lifetime. And it's just a speck on the map compared to the rest of the planet. Also consider this: Each "Here" has a history and a future. While it is important to study these, I wonder if we spend enough time studying the "Now."

As I listen to the wind I wonder what is happenening below the leaves in a thicket a half mile up the trail at this very moment. I wonder what is happening six inches under the muck in the eastern edge of a duck slough near what used to be my family's farm in western Minnesota. I wonder if anyone is freezing to death on the side of Mt. Everest right now. I wonder how many scorpions per square mile live in the Sahara desert.

I wonder.
I wonder.
I wonder.

I wonder about this world that God has given us, and how we march through it in such straight lines without ever taking the time to enjoy all three dimensions. I wonder about the time that each of us are given, and how we waste so much of our lives worrying over the future and dredging up our pasts. I wonder if any of us ever really learn to use history as a learning tool to prevent mistakes in the future, leaving us free to focus on the here and now.

Early Winter Deer Kill

The November 2005 Sawbill Newsletter describes the aftermath of a deer that fell to a wolf on Alton lake this weekend. A very cool piece of nature reporting. The writer took some early-ice risks that I would not have taken in order to get some choice photos of the kill:

"....the ice was so black and clear as to be nearly invisible, giving me the illusion that I was skiing on open water. My heart was in my throat a few times as I could feel the ice sag beneath me and watched cracks shoot out from under my feet."

Maybe not as bone-headed as the nitwit I saw on Animal Planet this weekend, trying to get close-ups of a Spitting Cobra, but the consequences of a slip-up could have been just as deadly. Nature doesn't care who you are. It'll eat you up just the same, as surely as a wolf will eat a deer.

Deer = Rats?

Strib Article: Deer and people clash in Minnesota

Suburban dwellers of the Twin Cities metro area have similar complaints about Canadian Geese. Who is encroaching upon who's living space seems to be the question. Unless a day comes where people are corralled into the cities, stories like this will continue to get play. America has a Love/Hate relationship with itself - So gleeful about the housing boom, so sad that some mean people want to kill the deer that wander into these new neighborhoods.

Hunkering Down

It sounds like we have a little winter weather headed our way. I took the precaution tonight to get the sandbags into the back of the truck and move it away from the garage wall so that we can all get in easy tomorrow. Space is such a premium in the garage that I usually park it up against the wall, so that we have more room to get in & out of the small car. But tomorrow we will take the truck, just to be safe. It's not that I think that there will be enough snow that we will be at risk of being stuck. Nope, I pretty much just want to surround my family with as much metal as possible when the weather is crappy and we need to drive somewhere. All my other winter stuff is at the ready, too. Coat & gloves, snow shovel, extra boots in the truck, etc. Inside our shelves are full and the fridge is stocked. This isn't preparation due to predicted weather but rather because Sundays are grocery day and we just stocked up for the week. My assessment of my family is that we are hunkered down and ready for whatever nature decides to throw at us.

While I was cooking dinner tonight I monitored a documentary on PBS about WW2 Conscientius Objectors. While I don't have a specific opinion to weigh in on that topic it did get me to thinking about the peculiar window in US history that my life has passed through. Both my Father and my Grandfather were drafted to fight in the world wars. My two older brothers served in the military but were young enough that they just missed Viet Nam. Had I chosen to enlist I would have ended up in the first Gulf war. But I didn't. Our country has not faced a serious threat since the second world war and I never saw the need to volunteer unless the country was threatened.

But as I get older I am finding that the perils that our country faces in modern times are not like those of 60 years ago. We seem to be imploding from within - We're drunk on the oil and other goods that we import. We are gobbling up our resources and outsourcing our jobs. We have restructured our families into dual income entities, yet are mystified as to why the traditional family structure is failing. As a country (Not me personally) we silently endorse the genocide of unborn children as a means to keep the population in check. Yet at the same time we wonder why there are children out there who have so little regard for human life that they are killing themselves and each other.

Before I go to bed at night I like to watch my son sleep. I take a few minutes out of my night and stand over his bed and I study his face, listen to his breathing, and tuck his blanket. I think about what kind of a world I am leaving him and I have to honestly say that I am not comfortable with the thought. There is still a lot of beauty and majesty in it but there is also a lot of ugliness and danger in it as well. I think about how I have never had to go to war, but someday he might, because somehow I failed to act in the here and now. Most nights I pray silently over him, not just for him and what type of man he might become, but also for me and his mother. I pray for what type of parents we will be and for the foundation we will give him to build his life on.

It's like getting ready for a storm that you don't know when it will hit or how bad it will be.

Treestand Confession

Chris weighs in:

Date: Wed, 9 Nov 2005 07:39
Subject: what I got

"OK, so I'm sitting in my stand opening morning and I hear some crashing in the brush behind me, and I know this is a deer. I stand and ready myself. Good news - I saw the deer before she saw me and she will cross my shooting lane. I calmly raise my rifle, aiming down the part in the trees. Then there was another crash Through the brush - I thought to myself, "This must be a buck." Indeed it was, not huge but the largest one I've seen hunting, complete with a well-developed 6 point rack. Well my composure faded as quickly as the doe did into the brush. I followed the buck with my weapon across the shooting lane without taking a shot. If I see the above-mentioned animal again I have a plan - One that doesn't include me choking due to a sudden case of buck fever."

Antler Envy

Miskowic & Cashman each got a buck this year:

Miskowic's deer



Cashman's Deer

These were taken from Miskowic's camera phone.
Not only does Cashman always get a bigger deer than Miskowic, he even gets bigger pictures of deer than Miskowic.

No word yet on how Chris did.

Thunderstick

My shotgun is a Remington Model 11 Autoloading shotgun.
It's serial number tells me that it was manufactured in 1921. It has the old-style safety (In front of the trigger) that they used from 1905 until 1928 when they switched to a more modern cross bolt safety incorporated into the trigger guard behind the trigger.

My father bought it second hand from the hardware store in Underwood for $10 back in 1939. As the story goes it was originally marked $20 and he walked away from it twice. Each time he walked away the price came down $5. The price was right at $10 (Keep in mind that $10 was the equivelent of $133 back in 1939), but my dad still wasn't going to buy the gun because he wouldn't have any money left to buy shells. The shopkeeper threw in a $.75 box of shells and the deal was struck.

66 years later the days of $.75 boxes of shells are long gone,
but the old girl is still knocking down birds.

Where Heaven & Earth Meet

Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


Words mean little in the north country. When hunting grouse, an unnecessary word can cost you a shot. It was Sunday, almost noon, almost the end of our weekend excursion. We advanced up a little road with caution, careful to make as little noise as possible. For a brief moment in time we had been able to tune out the outside world. We had replaced the mundane daily tasks of our lives with the excitement of keeping a canoe upright and the serenity of gazing at a distant shoreline. We had challenged our senses to identify shapes in the underbrush and to feel a tap on the line. We had experienced the adrenal rush of flushed birds and the tranquil peace of laying on our backs and gazing at the night sky. We had slept on the frosty ground, drank hot black coffee from tin cups, cooked meat over an open fire, used our compasses in real life situations and howled at the moon. None of these things necessarily in that order, of course. But now it was Sunday, and each man was starting to feel the outside world tugging him back. Each of us had lives that awaited our return: Household chores, Monday morning blues and joyful reunions with wives and children.

Q: So what of this fatal moment in a trip, when our inner mountain men must relinquish their hold on us?

A: We faced the moment as neither a mountain man nor a civilized man but rather as some sort of hybrid.

Such were my thoughts as I made my way up that twisting, claustrophobic little road with my two best friends flanking me. We encountered a set of gateposts and stopped to consult our maps. We advanced into unposted private land. Ahead was a clearing and some blue. The road emptied out onto a undeveloped lot that according to our map was the only access point to a small lake. Respectfully we lowered our guns and made our way to the shoreline. We did this not as hunters but rather as pilgrims, for in front of us was a vision, of Heaven meeting the earth.

A sheltered little bay reflected the sky and the fall colors. The campsite behind me had probably been there for a thousand years, with different men calling it home. And they would have been crazy not to. The blustery wind that had harassed us on Fourmile lake was reduced to a shocked gasp, as though we had stumbled across one of the wood's secrets. The wind weaved through the pines and the stubborn Birches like a busybody at a party, shushing us to secrecy. I closed my eyes and felt the clean air on my face and inhaled the scent of the woods. They smelled sweeter here than anyplace else I had been all weekend. As I entranced myself with the tranquilizing colors of the lake I felt my worries and troubes slide off to one side like butter in a hot skillet. Unencumbered, I reveled in the moment. My inner mountain man had been turned loose for a little longer.

We had stumbled across a site that was the quintessential wilderness to us, a place where earth and sky meet water, where a man and a campfire make a welcome part of an elemental foursome. I turned away with a certain degree of melancholy, because allthough I had felt the exhiliration of discovering this beautiful and unique listening point I also felt a certain amount of guilt, knowing that I had trespassed in order to make that discovery. Our only judge and jury that day were the trees, and they were not returning a verdict to us. Left to interpret my own case I would like to think that the end justified the means, as long as I don't repeat the crime. But I let myself off with a warning. Even though I know that this place exists I do not feel as though I can go back, and that is perhaps the most bitter punishment of all.

As we made our way back to the truck we maintained our silence. We weren't hunting now and could have spoken at any moment. But each step away from that stunning vista was another step closer to our exile from paradise - back to civilization and our 'normal' lives. In an hour we would be eating our last lunch as we broke camp. In two we would be creeping along the edge of Superior, returning to our normal lives like a slumbering child returns from his dreams.

Banjo Moon

I am still working on my "official" report of what happened on my recent fall trip with the guys. I have lots of pictures to sort through, resize and post. I attempted a couple of panorama shots, one which worked great (The campsite) and one which I am not happy with (The lake). I also got one tremendous shot of the moon which still makes me grin every time that I look at it. It's my wallpaper right now.

Fourmile Lake -
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


This is the lake that we stayed at.
This photo set was taken in the morning on Sunday, October 16, 2005. It's knit together from 6 different photos that I took from a tripod. I had a really rough time of tring to match up the middle shots to the end shots, which is why the sun looks like it does. I hope that you like it, because I have already put as much work as I am willing to put into it.

Fourmile Lake - Our Campsite -
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


I got really lucky with the campsite. This photo set was taken on Friday, October, 14, 2005 while Mike and Chris were setting up the camp. It consists of 5 different photos (again, taken from the tripod) that went together practically like a set of Lego's™.

Money Shot!
Click to enlarge (Opens in a new window)


OK, So I am not a professional photographer, so when I take a picture like this, it is a big deal to me. I am posting it with no watermarks in case you want to download it, or whatever. There are probably only four people who read this blog anyway so I'm not worried. If you do decide to use this photo for something online, please be sure to give me credit!

More photos and some writing to come soon!

Two more days

The guy's annual fall trip is set. We met this past Sunday and poured over a map of Superior National Forest and picked our spot. Meals were planned, to-do lists were created.

The plan is to be at our campground by early afternoon. We are bringing a canoe and some rods to try to coax some walleye out of the lake. The shotguns are coming with too, for self-defense against any ruffed grouse that we may stumble across. Guitars will be packed for doing the cowboy thing around the fire at night. I am looking forward to seeing the stars without the interference of city lights. I am praying for some good northern lights. I cannot wait to breathe some air that hasn't been breathed before.

We meet at my house early Friday morning and leave from there.
Somehow I don't think waking up will be a problem like it is on a regular work day.

All the difference

A fresh blanket of snow today. Just a smidge; an inch, no more. still, enough to foul up traffic. It hasn't really melted yet so today the world is a silver lining to a sky full of clouds.

I think that the most picturesque snowscapes that I have seen have all been up around the north shore. I remember a grouse hunting trip with my friends on an old logging road a few miles west of Isabella, at the tail end of a lake effect snowstorm. About 6 inches of the stuff had come down. It started wet and as it slowly turned cold the snow began clinging to the trees, powerlines and virtually everything that it touched. It looked as if God had cast the likeness of the world in silver and given my friends and me free run of it. We began walking down a promising trail that quickly forked. According to our maps it rejoined, so we parted ways. My friends and the dog continued to the south and I went alone to the southeast.

The sky was clearing as we did this, and as I walked alone I looked up at the trees that towered above me. It was if I had wandered into the world's largest cathedrel, for in every direction that I looked I saw a more breathtaking stained glass window than the last, filled with the blue of the sky, the dark green of Norway pines and the golden glow of sunshine, framed behind the snow-covered branches. This was no man-made temple yet I worshipped there all the same, silently thanking God for the scene around me. Beauty of this kind is no accident.

As I slowly walked along the sun began to gradually warm the branches above me, starting a secondary snowfall in the woods as the trees began to groggily shake off the sediment. Chickadees and red squirrels were on the move now, quickly getting back to the daily business of winter foraging.

As the two roads slowly rejoined the dog came to greet me. A few more steps around the bend and I was reunited with my comrades. As we plodded back to the truck I wondered to myself what their experience had been like. I had no doubt that they had seen the same sunlight, blue sky, evergreens and snow-covered branches, but I wondered if they had really seen these things as I had.

As we pulled away to find another trail I thanked God again, this time for a safe hunt and for good friends with whom to share the beauty of the woods. We'd shared an experience, even if we had walked down seperate paths. I will always treasure the memory of taking the road less travelled that frosty late autumn morning.