The Deep Peace of the Wild

"As to when I shall visit civilization, it will not be soon I think. I have not tired of the wilderness; rather I enjoy its beauty and the vagrant life I lead, more keenly all the time. I prefer the saddle to the streetcar and the star-sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities."

- Everett Ruess

Lost in the Wild (Review)

The "It won't ever happen to me" attitude is a prevelant concern with modern 'Outdoorsmen.' Too many people go into the woods with a false sense of security, dependant on gizmos and overconfident regarding their own skills. A majority of the time these people come out fine, and the dependency and the overconfidence grows. You can't help but ask yourself what would happen to these people if they were dumped in the middle of the woods, deprived of both.

Lost in the Wild: Danger and Survival in the North Woods by Cary J Griffith addresses both scenarios.
A moderately skilled hiker takes a series of wrong turns and is not only lost but seperated from his gear as an early autumn snowstorm and freezing temperatures pummel the area. An experienced Boundary waters guide bushwacks in search of a portage with no gear and inadequate clothing, bumps his head, becomes disoriented and wanders for hours before regaining his senses.

Each story is revealed a chapter at a time in alternating chapters. Many online reviews that I have read criticized the book format for this, but personally I enjoyed the alternating breaks from one story to resume the other, as at times each was like watching a slow motion train crash. You say that you can't watch and put your hands over your face and end up peeking through your fingers. Because you know that there but for the grace of God go you.

The book largely is just telling the story of what happened to each person, as well as providing the perspective of the respective families and S&R teams involved in each incident. What each individual did wrong to get into their predicaments is revealed and what they could have done to avoid them is alluded to. But don't read this book thinking that you are going to improve on your woodsmanship skills. No, this book reads as the 'black box' of two failed wilderness excursions and reminds us that even the best laid plans can go sideways in a hurry when you're out in the woods.

For those of us who like to travel in the woods on foot, instead of saying that emergencies like these could never happen to us, we should be asking ourselves, given our equipment and skills, how could it happen to us anyway and what would we do then? The misfortune of these two people serves as a reminder to the woodsman to continuously prioritize the three unspoken primary objectives of any wilderness experience: Stay Found, Stay Dry and Stay Warm.

Lost in the Wild may not teach you how to do that, but it will get you in the mood to want to.

You Got That Right

I am a Barnes & Noble freeloader.

I have not purchased a book in quite some time; between my wife and I one of our ideas of a date is to go to a Borders or a Barnes & Noble, grab some reading material, buy a coffee and kill some time. Technically I am not a freeloader as I do purchase a beverage and periodically purchase magazines such as the Boundary Waters Journal (Horrible web site, great magazine). I also buy my notebooks there.

This hit and run approach to reading means that I get books in short concentrated doses. My latest is "Paradise Below Zero" by Calvin Rutstrum. Although he is not quite as engaging as Sigurd Olson his writing is nevertheless food for the souls of people like me and a wonderful discovery. I hope to get a review of this book written eventually, and to continue on to some of his other titles.

Anyway in my reading last night I encountered a quote that really struck a chord in me, that Rutstrum attributed to Henry David Thoreau:

"No one but a fool ever sold more of his time than he had to."

Right on, man.

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.

In the cold distance

"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late."

On Saturday 08/11/2007 I went on a road trip to Northern MN to flyfish for trout.
This is what I saw.

	Friday night to Saturday morning it stormed. I drove north through the aftermath with lightning crackling through the clouds above me as I drove. The river was going to be muddy and I knew it. But there was nothing else to be done. My fishing day was my fishing day, and I had to take it come rain or shine. I had several potential entry points circled on my map, and as I prowled the back country roads I happened across a whitetail family set up near the road. They gave me all the time in the world but by the time I had the presence of mind to dig out the camera and snap a photo, they were all but gone.
	After exploring several of the tributaries to the Nemadji River, I finally settled on an entrance point on the river proper, where Highway 23 passes over it. There was a nice parking area that was empty, except for a fellow who was scouting for grouse hunting spots. I wasn't much in the mood for company. It is hard enough to find a free day to depressurize once a quarter. Added to that I recently lost a cousin from complications involving a gall bladder removal. She was 43, died three days after my 39th birthday. She still is 43, and always going to be 43 from here on. I had been been easing into the mindset where I realistically know I could go at anytime, but now the 'easing' phase is officially over.
	The river was muddy as I suspected. I spent a long time along the banks, watching for activity. It looked pretty dead. Given the lack of surface activity I started out nymphing, using a black wooly bugger with a strike indicator. After only a few casts I had two separate hits on my strike indicator. I quickly switched over to a #12 wolf adams and promptly hooked this little baby through the nose.
	I worked the river for a few hours and that chubby little shiner was the only luck I had. I practiced my casting. I listened to the world around me, paying no mind to the occasional bridge noise in the distance. There was no sense to be made from my cousin's death. I hadn't seen her since my mother's funeral, had scarcely even spoken to her then as there were just too many people to talk to. I had no idea that she was even having the surgery. I was not a factor in her life, nor she in mine really. And that is what the sadness is about, the guilt. The feeling that yes, we played together as kids and that somehow that childhood friendship should have carried over into adulthood. Up to now I had been able to live with the idea that there was time to make that connection, that it was ok to put it off for now. Except that now there isn't any more time. I finally crawled up a muddy bank and set back to my truck for some lunch. There was no real trail to speak of so I bushwhacked through the forest, keeping the the river in earshot. I have humped through some tough brush in my day, and this was some of it. It was definitely not a friendly environment for a chubby guy lugging a flyrod. After I ate I broke out the camera and explored for some good shots. Several attempts netted me some local insect life. Insects live hard and die fast. They don't have complex emotions like guilt and angst. They just get on about their business and make way for the next generation. The local plant life echoed that sentiment, as the air hung thick and sweet with the smell of pollen and nectar. Every plant and tree was in the midst of a giant bender, drunk to the gills on the rainwater from the previous night. The cicadas trilled from the treetops, like an alarm to let us know that September is coming. And when it does the nights will turn cold, and no insect plant or tree will wonder why nobody told them that it was coming. I didn't have much heart to try the river again in the afternoon. I packed up the truck and made my way a few more miles up 23 to a scenic overlook. I have passed it a few times and never taken a picture there. Since I had the tripod with me I did a panoramic. After that I turned to the south and made my way back to my family like a homesick puppy.

Our American selves

I doodled this on 04/07/07 and wrote the following: "Planning my outdoor excursions feels not unlike a bank robber, meditating on his next heist. I am putting together the gear and the expertise and anticipating the right moment to pull off my next caper. Truth be told, aside from a canoe I really have all the gear that I need. My planned purchases are primarily creature comforts. To make life more convenient in some cases, and more fun in others. On this spring day the nip of winter is still in the air, to serve as a reminder that into our lives a little snow must fall. But the trees are biding their time like petulant teenagers, waiting for their drivers licenses. Their buds are like a billion little pimples, all of which will erupt in one giant pubescent explosion in about two more weeks. That's when every living thing under the sun (& under the waves) will become obsessed with reproduction, not unlike our American selves. When it comes to birds, fish, wolves and deer, I confess to being a romantic. I want to see the guy get the girl."

It was inspired by the artwork found in my copy of Reflections from the North Country.

Never get out of the boat

"Never get out of the boat. Absolutely right. Unless you were goin' all the way.
Kurtz got off the boat. He split from the whole program. "
- Willard, Apocalypse Now

Another story about roaming the woods as a kid
(Briefer version originally entered as a comment in the previous post)

Near a place where we fished there was an abandoned resort, hosting a large cache of wild asparagus. In the heat of the day (When walleye fishing can get slow) my brother in law would beach our boat in the old harbor and we would go ashore. I was allowed to wander around while he harvested.

The entire place was blanketed under huge maples - even in broad daylight the place had a shady and sinister feel to it. As we entered the harbor I felt as though I could feel eyes upon me. The moment that I swung my leg over the side of the boat and set foot on that ground I had the uneasy feeling that comes with knowingly trespassing, the sensation that any second some pissed off landowner's hell hound was going to come charging out from the trees and maul me before I could retreat.

I remember rummaging through the junk that was strewn around, and peering in through the dirty windows of the cabins. The place had not been used for some time, maybe 20 years. I imagined the people who had stayed there, wondered where the former owners were now and why the resort had closed. Had there been a tragedy, or a terrible crime? My 10-year old mind had a flair for the dramatic and did not process concepts such as economic viability or bankruptcy. Death and or dismemberment seemed quite likely to me. In my mind's eye I could see the bleached bones of fishermen and 10 year old boys beneath the floorboards of those cabins.

It was the height of dog days and there was no relief from the heat, even in the shade. It only served to encourage the mosquitos, who bit fiercely, even in the middle of the day. I don't know if it was all the bloodletting or just the creepy feeling I got from trespassing in that place, but I was relieved when we retreated to the boat and departed for the evening bite.

We made three incursions that summer. Each time afterward our dinner consisted of fresh Walleye, baked potatoes and asparagus from that haunted place. At night I would go out into the dark woods near our cabin to relieve myself under the stars. Like Juvenal Urbino in the book Love in the Time of Cholera, I enjoyed the immediate pleasure of smelling a secret garden in my urine that had been purified by lukewarm asparagus. To this day the smell associated with asparagus will take me back to those woods where I felt my hair biting into my sunburned neck as I stood with my face pointed to heaven, gazing at the milky way and wondering where we all end up when we dump our junk and shutter up our cabins for good.

Stings of Vengeance

The dharma bum's dog had a run-in with some ground hornets recently and it reminded me of a childhood experience of my own where I learned first hand the woes of provoking those vicious little critters.

When I was a kid my family had a cabin on Leech lake in northern MN and I spent many family vacations there. I spent countless hours exploring the woods in the vacant lots nearby - Back in a time when there were still vacant lots on the shorelines of lakes. One particular year I discovered an abandoned cedar strip boat near the shore. I made this discovery in the spring in mid-may. After a brief period of jubilation, thinking that I could possibly resurrect this craft for my own use, a more thorough investigation revealed that years of unprotected weathering and rot had consumed through portions of the hull. So my dreams of being the youngest boat owner on the lake were dashed, leaving me just a young boy in the woods once more. But I did find solace in hitting and poking around the deteriorated portions of the hull with a stick, knocking out the rotten portions with the relish of an overzealous dentist, working like a madman to save a 12-foot long tooth.

Fast forward to our family vacation in July of that same year. Somewhere toward the middle of the week I found myself again wandering the woods. Once more I happened across the abandoned boat. I resumed my game, discovering that a majority of the truly rotten material had been knocked loose in my previous game that spring. To continue the game would require a more aggressive use of force. I found a stick about the size and weight of a hockey stick; Swinging it back over my shoulders in an extreme lumberjack cut, I brought it down soundly on the keel.

The resulting sound was not unlike a stock car going around the far corner of a racetrack. Hornets began pouring out of every nook, cranny and crevice of the boat. I cried out and bolted through the woods. In retrospect the smarter move would have been to dive into the lake and follow the shoreline back to our property. I think I read in the Art of War that an army thrown into chaos will almost always choose to retreat in the same direction that it came from. I was in much chaos. I flew through the woods, a few stings landing here and there on my back and arms as I ran. The inevitable came when I tripped over the tongue of a boat trailer concealed in the underbrush, allowing the main pursuit group to catch up with me. They attacked me as mercilessly as I had attacked their home.

Fortunately for me my reaction was mild, considering the number of stings to my scalp, face, neck, back and arms (Either my jeans kept them from getting to my legs or they didn't bother with them, as they had unrestricted access to my head). I do not recall how many times in all I was stung. I did learn from the experience though, and I am now cautious around rotten wood or infrequently used structures encountered in the forest.

Oh yeah, and I also learned to have an escape route planned a priori to ever hitting anything with a stick.

Down the Drain?

I woke up this morning to a mostly empty nest:

There's still a couple of eggs in the nest which could be either late bloomers or duds. When I looked down the street I saw the mother marching down the sidewalk with a bunch of little fuzzballs in pursuit. I did not get a picture of that but did take my camera along when we left the house to go to work. We circled around the block and discoverd the mother wandering around in the street. When I got out of the car with my camera she started quacking at me and tried to lead me away from some tall grass.

Even the drake showed up and got in on the act:

It turned out that it wasn't the tall grass that the hen was trying to draw me away from after all. To my shock I could hear the duckling's voices, coming from this storm drain:

That storm drain leads to an outlet into a nearby lake (Maybe a 30-50 yard run). To my thinking that hen is either a genius or a fool. Whatever happens to those ducklings, I'm pretty sure that a predator won't get them. The thing is that there's no way that the ducklings can get out the way that they went in, and I'm not so sure that the hen can get to them, either. Regardless of whether this is a brilliant environmental adaptation or yet another mallard mishap that I have been in some way involved in, what I am certain of is that this is not how God intended for ducks to come into the world.

Anybody out there ever hear of ducks using a storm drain like this to raise their young, or are these guys pretty much screwed?

Out & About

The Mallard was AWOL for a while last night:

It turns out she was just playing in traffic:

So I went along the side of the house to look at my flowers:

While I was gone the mallard came back:

Here is another video
(Listen for her huffing and puffing toward the end):

Close Encounters

That Mallard is still nesting in our planter. I've been afraid to mow our lawn lest I should upset her or somehow usurp nature's balance with an internal combustion engine. Our house was starting to look like one of those garbage houses that you hear about on the news, where the water has been shut off for the past 6 months and the people inside have been pooping into garbage bags.

I couldn't stand it yesterday so I finally mowed the lawn. Much to my amazement the girl was as cool as a cucumber and allowed me to do my thing. I got about my business as fast as I could and now we are no longer an aesthetic blight on suburbia. Except of course that we still cannot plant anything in our planter, because there's a duck already planted there. Squatters, I tell ya!

Here are some pictures I took this morning.
I'm not bashful anymore.
I just opened the front door and leaned out and took these.

I shot a video too:

Autumn Lunchtime Walk

My longing to escape the ruckus of mankind has brought me closer to it today as I visited a park near my workplace over the lunch hour. It is a semi-wooded setting with a pond, teeming with ducks and squirrels. It is surrounded on three sides by residential homes and bordered by a major freeway exchange. So this place where I would go to ponder on the beauty of God's creation is blanketed by the neverending deluge of a million roaring tires. Egads! The earth itself throbs when the big trucks jackbreak. Even the air, which should be filled with the earthy smell of decomposing leaves, carries the faint aroma of a nearby fast food resteraunt.

Yet here still beauty survives. Corralled by asphault walking trails and concrete retaining walls, nature waits patiently for mankind to kill itself off, so that it may start anew.

How Semi-Sweet it was

A notebook jotting from last saturday, written while sitting on a fallen tree somewhere in the middle of the St. Croix state Forest:

Tolkien was not mad when he wrote about trees conversing with one another. Anyone who has spent time in the forest (and has cared to observe) knows that this is an authentic and completely natural occurence.

In the summer they give themselves raucous standing ovations with their emerald gloves, as they sway like drunkards in the warm, narcotic breeze.

In autumn they drop their leaves, each one like a neighborhood watch flyer, creating a communal burglar alarm for the use of all forest residents.

In winter they speak very little, mostly just groans as they rub against each other for warmth.

But in spring they will crack open their buds and don their gloves once more, with all the enthusiasm of a tent-revival crowd about to be born yet again.

I have no idea why, but chocolate always tastes better in the woods.

Get out of town

155 years ago today Henry David Thoreau wrote in his journal:

"The poet must keep himself unstained and aloof. Let him perambulate the bounds of Imagination's provinces, the realm of faery, and not the insignificant boundaries of towns. The excursions of the imagination are so boundless, the limits of the town so petty."

Years ago in some journal I myself observed that some of the best places in the world that you can go to you can only reach via gravel roads. I would add that greater still are those places yet beyond, that can only be reached on foot.

So it is with journeys of the imagination. The truly remarkable destinations can only be reached by undertaking the journey on your own two feet, "Hoofing it" as I have conditioned my son to refer to it. Mental prostheses such as TV, Movies and Video Games cheapen the value of the excursion and convert the remarkable to mundane as the landscape is paved over for these vehicles of the imagination. The landmarks become familar and are blown past thoughtlessly.

There is a lake that I drive past every morning on my way to work. I would not notice it all except that I sit at a red light across the street from it every morning. That same view of the lake every single day has become like the face of a friend to me, one that reflects the mood of the day's weather. Some days the lake gives me nothing but a blank stare, with overcast grey eyes. Other days a Davinci-like smirk, as though the sunfish are swimming in the shallows and their dorsal fins are tickling her cheekbones.

Today is sunny and brisk, the changing of the leaves showing up just in the tops of the trees, like the inevitable grey that appears in the hair. All of this was reflected in the face of the lake, which stares at me every morning from across the street like a lunatic, unable to recollect that we passed each other by in this same fashion yesterday and the day before that.

I quietly post this from behind my monitor at lunchtime and do not discuss it with my colleagues. They would not understand. As the landscape of the imagination is paved over and only universally-recognized landmarks are allowed to remain, the odd little nooks and crannies are shunned by the herd.

An imaginary relationship with a lake is nothing to brag about around the water cooler, unless you would prefer to be left alone. And even though I blend into the crowd, I still harbor my imagination and my private thoughts like contraband. Because after all, even a secret relationship with a lake is better than no relationship at all.

Such is the case with all forbidden loves of the mind; they come streaming through the mire of every day life in technicolor, mottling the forest floor of your thoughts like a rays of sunlight. So delicate that even the slightest cloud in the sky can iterdict them and leave you in the gloom, waiting impatiently for that next sunbeam to break through so that you may bolt down the trail in pursuit.

River Hypnosis

The dharma bum posted a nice fly-fishing piece on his blog today. Just reading it left me with river hypnosis, that mild vertigo-like feeling that you get after you've stared at running water for too long. I first experienced it on the rum river in the 90's, skipping spinnerbaits under overhanging trees for smallies from a jonboat. More recently experienced these past two summers an streams in southern MN doing a lot of what the dharma bum described (Especially the part where he 'Indiana-Jonesed' an overhanging branch on a back cast).

His ending point, where he was at the end of his excursion, at the end of his fly fishing for the summer - that we cannot take it with us - Is a universal experience that I think all lovers of the outdoors can personally relate with. In the end, we are just visitors and eventually we have to go home. But the feeling is not unique to fishing - Everyone goes through the same thing at some level whenever they awaken from a particularly nice dream or a meaningful song comes to an end. Fisherman (& their partners) come and go with the seasons, but the land and the stream remain, and the fish that was released or spooked today will be back at his rock tomorrow and life will go on.

I choose to be encouraged by that thought rather than disappointed by it. Allthough that was not always the case.

In my younger years I foolishly considered any time spent on the water (or out in nature in general) to be my own personal experiences, with a beginning to be anticipated and an end to be dreaded. I never realized that my time was just a brief interval in a much larger experience, one that started eons before I was born and will end long after I am dead.

In the end, an "experience" may be the only way that we can rationally describe our finite interactions with things timeless and vast. It's no easy task to shift one's perspective of thinking of an experience as being anything more a minute unit of measurement, describing something that is still going on even now, minutes, days or years later. It's no easy task but it does make for interesting writing.

Music and dreams - Along with any other inspiration to the human spirit - flow like streams in our minds, just as surely as nature goes on around us with or without our participation. The rocks, the silt, the weeds and the fish are all still there, even when our lives take us elsewhere. That's what staring at moving water for hours at a time has taught me.

Bring on ice hole hypnosis!

I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow

"What'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest..."
-Bob Dylan

I went fishing this past Saturday and this is what I saw.
Click on photos to enlarge (Open in new windows)

My kind of sign.

Storm Clouds looming to the North...

...but balmy skies to the south.

The catch of the day.
I got this rainbow trout with a black Wooly Bugger.
Maybe keeping him wasn't the most sporting thing to do, but he sure tasted good cooked fresh, stuffed with herbs and blanched in butter & lemon juice.

The Big River.
Roadside photo, taken between Winona and Wabasha.

The sun, setting over a Farm.
Taken from a moving vehicle somewhere between
Red Wing and Miesville

A cool cloud formation.
Also taken from a moving vehicle somewhere between
Red Wing and Miesville.

The sun, setting over a corn field.
I pulled over to get this shot. Taken North of Miesville
(Home of the Miesville Mudhens).

The sun's last gasp.
Taken from a moving vehicle North of Cottage Grove.