Archives for 2021

Flow

September 26, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Night slipped away as the dawn quietly and confidently displayed its pastel colors in sky and water. Chris and I crept through camp to the high boulder overlooking the track-filled wetland, hoping to catch a glimpse of a morning moose or bear. But nothing caught our attention beyond the dawn sky.

The kids were beginning to stir when we got back to camp. Breakfast and packing up on the last morning of our trip felt easier because of practice and a bit sad because of the flow I was starting to feel. I felt like I could do this for another five days, now that I had overcome some of the challenges.

With the sun to our backs, we glided away from our campsite. Chris and I were the first ones out, with Emily’s directive to find the short portage at the west end of the lake. We had only paddled a few hundred yards, which by the way, was going extremely smoothly compared to every other morning—hooray!—when I was looking over at a large beaver lodge on the shore. I noticed two pointy ears sticking up behind the lodge. I got super excited, stopped paddling, fumbled to get my camera out of my life jacket, whispered ‘Wolf!’ to Chris who I don’t think heard me, and started taking pictures.

But I didn’t have to hurry—he was not afraid of us. He watched us watching him, then turned and looked at the kids farther back, then turned back to us. A beautiful black wolf! He was fairly thin with a sleek summer coat, and I wondered if he was hoping to catch a beaver this fine morning. I was so happy to see him! What an amazing creature! He stayed there long enough for the kids to paddle close enough to see him, then turned and walked into the forest.

We passed by a campsite right before the portage where two men were preparing their breakfast—one was slight, old, and bent over at the shoulders. He greeted us enthusiastically with information I didn’t really understand. He said half the people were portaging through the five-rod portage and the other half were pulling through. I smiled, nodded, and thanked him, not having a clue about the ‘pulling through’ thing. When Aaron caught up to us, he explained that sometimes, depending on the water level of the creek/river that connects the two lakes, you can get out and walk the creek and pull the packed canoe through to the next lake. I wanted to try that! It was fun, and it worked! Easy! The river channel into Splash Lake was calm and beautiful.

It was not far to our next and last portage, a thirty-rod portage that would return us to Newfound and Moose Lakes where we began our trek. When we got close to the portage, we could see it was the busiest of all the portages we had been through. We let a group of guys pass by us but could also see a group (or two?) coming into Splash Lake from the other way. It was kind of a mess. Emily had warned us earlier that she had little patience for such portage messiness—there is portage protocol, courtesy, and responsibility, and when people breeched that in obtuse ways, she moves into ‘take charge’ mode. A group of people with excessive piles of gear—folding camp chairs, Coleman camp stoves, tents, bags, canoes, etc.—were standing around. Were they waiting for more things? We disembarked and swiftly got packed up and canoed up with Emily and Zoe in the lead. Aaron was the last one out with a pack and canoe and took an alternate route through low branches because the other group had started to move into the lake—bad form on their part. Our last portage was still smooth in the midst of messiness, and I was proud of our strong, experienced kids.

At the other side of the portage sat a man in a motorboat who had ‘towed’ in the last group and their gear. He had even portaged things through for them. He was waiting for another group that was coming out that would ride back to their landing instead of paddling back. He said he had plenty of time for a nap, however.

We paddled on through the wide channel into Newfound Lake. I was startled when an eagle flew from a nearby tree, out above us, to a tree in front of us. When we ‘caught up’ to him, he flew ahead to another tree. We and he were at the end of a point, the end of the channel, and when we caught up to him again, he flew into the forest. It was like he was guiding us to Newfound Lake, to Horseshoe Island, back to where we had started five days before.

As we paddled through Newfound Lake, we saw a group of four canoes leave a campsite as we passed by. It was a group of all men, and it soon became evident that there was one canoe that could not keep up with the others. (Sounds and feels very familiar.) The ‘lead’ canoe had a boisterous bearded man in the back who was drinking coffee, singing, and at various times, playing the ukulele! They would paddle ahead, then stop and wait for the slow canoe to catch up. We were on par with the slow canoe, so we saw and heard the exuberant troubadour many times. His singing drifted back to us as we got to the windy, wavy Moose Lake. Emily reminded me that I would have to dig in and keep paddling as we headed into the wind—and I did. I was in the flow—I knew what to do, my muscles were strong, my mind was grateful, and the troubadour sang us on. “Toes in the water…not a worry in the world…life is good today.” **

Three hours and six and a half miles after seeing the wolf, we were pulling into the Moose Lake landing. I couldn’t believe it was over! But it wasn’t quite over. We unpacked, repacked, returned gear to KWK, took our unbathed bodies into the coffee shop in Ely (a common sight/smell in Ely), and took off for Duluth and the shining Lake Superior where we would shower, get a burger and beer, and sleep in a bed.

As we re-entered ‘normal’ life from the wilderness, the processing of the trip began. But even as small a town as Ely is, it was rather shocking to me and my body with all the people, cell phones and towers, cars, stores, etc. It was ‘too much’ at the beginning—I wanted to be back in the quiet trees and water. The week had been a mini-lifetime, when you start out as a young novice full of anticipation and excitement, then trials and tribulations pull you down and threaten your will to go on, when challenges of all sorts throw roadblocks to mind and body, then accomplishments and triumphs build confidence, and finally, transcendence and flow ‘miraculously’ appear. It was a hero’s journey for me, when time is of a different realm and the universe has lessons to teach.

As the week had progressed, it became evident that our bodies are meant to move and that we can be sustained on much less food, even with that exertion, than we typically ingest in our ‘normal’ life. I felt better, stronger, more able, and happier as the week went on—it was like my DNA recognized this way of being, and my body responded.

I also realized how often we ‘give away’ our precious time to external standards and pastimes that actually have little meaning or benefit to our lives. Just the idea of running every aspect of our life by the clock is challenged when you live without one. It was disorienting at first, to be sure, but as the week progressed, a natural rhythm ensued that seemed to benefit us all (even when we determined we should get an ‘early start’ the next day.) And then there’s the internet and social media….for those of us who have lived a substantial period of our lives without it, we can ‘remember’ how we had perfectly wonderful lives before its invention and access…but how many have forgotten that? Life is fully lived in the wilderness without computers and cell phones, and there was a heart-filling freedom to experiencing that with our adult children.

That leads me to the third take-away from the week—how we can’t do this thing called life alone. We need one another. From the beginning stages of our planning for the BWCA trip, I needed and appreciated the advice and knowledge from our kids who had planned and led so many previous trips. Experience and expertise matters. It matters not for individual glory and adulation but for how it can help people. From day one of our journey (and for forty years before that), I am grateful to have my partner Chris beside me (or behind me in the canoe) giving me encouragement and support—through every doubt, freakout, breakdown, triumph, excitement, and discovery. He brings humor, steadfastness, love, and movement to my life. I am grateful for the leadership, clarity, and purpose that Emily brought to all of us, and for her ability to articulate difficult things in loving ways. I am grateful for Shawn’s quiet tenacity, his amazing storehouse of knowledge, and his ability to rise to every difficult situation. I so appreciate Aaron’s quiet skills and patience, his caring heart, his humor, and his resolve. I’m grateful for Zoe’s strength and competence, her ability to relax at any given time, her consideration, and her quick wit. And so much more—from all of them. We all brought our strengths and weaknesses, our idiosyncrasies and foibles, our wounds and powers. We had an advantage being a family group that we were familiar with the dynamics beforehand and more free to share our vulnerabilities and the words of our hearts. For every difficult time when we needed everyone’s skills and participation, there were countless times of ease and joy of being together. And so it is with life, wherever we are. So keep paddling, for life is good today.

This is the fifth post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

**from ‘Toes’ by Zac Brown Band

Ascending

September 19, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Sometime in the night the air cooled, became less muggy, less smokey. The sky was darker, the stars more brilliant. On my nighttime trip outside of the tent, I had to use my headlamp to see my steps, and the shock of it scared a foraging deer close by—at least I think it was a deer? We had gone to bed when the sun set and rose before its rising. I had slept better than the previous nights, thank goodness.

This would be our shortest day of paddling—only about four miles—as we moved into the next large lake that would get us close for our exit day on Friday. The challenge was to find a campsite in a lake where many were ‘staying put.’ We were all up early and ate cupfuls of granola with powdered milk, and the coffee drinkers drank instant cold-brew coffee so as not to take time to heat water.

We fueled ourselves for the second 180-rod portage of our trip—we only had a short paddle from the campsite to the portage entrance. I was confident I could carry our pack like I did for the other portages—until I saw the steep, rocky incline of the trail—whooaa! Most of the others had already gone before me with their gear, so I used the paddles for climbing poles (not the best idea for paddles, but definitely useful) and slowly made my way up the rocks. The ascent continued. The trail peaked as we walked on huge boulders with crimson-colored wild blueberry bushes lining our path. A small clearing in the trees allowed Emily and I to see that we were at the highest elevation of our whole trip! We had climbed the ‘mountains’ that I had not wanted to portage up the day before! As we got closer to Ensign Lake, and the descent became steeper, Aaron came back to help after dropping his gear. I handed the pack off to him for the last leg.

After our ‘hooray, we did it!’ moment, we paddled on around the huge island-like peninsula of Ensign Lake. We saw campsites with large tents and colorful shade cloths, unlike anything we had seen thus far. The kids fished as we paddled, and I noticed how Autumn had suddenly appeared in the northlands.

We found a campsite on a point across from an island that was close to the west side of Ensign—a perfect spot for our last night in the BWCA.

We unloaded, set up a shade tarp and hammock, and the activities began. Aaron and Shawn went fishing, Emily and Zoe went swimming, and I went exploring. There was a nice little cove made by the point and the island with lots of rocky shore to climb along. The rocks were amazing! Most of the point was a dark purplish-colored rock that looked almost like some kind of lava rock. When I got to a place where some had chipped away, I saw that it was Ely Greenstone, which is a metamorphic rock that began as basalt lava flows that gushed onto a cold sea floor 2.7 billion years ago. The green color is from a number of different green minerals that grew in the rock. Ancient Earth history under my feet.

I moved away from the shore to climb boulders that buttressed the whole point of land, and from my vantage point, I saw where the cove met the land behind our campsite. That looks like a perfect place for moose, I thought, then saw the many tracks imprinted in the mud. But I could not tell what kind of animal made them.

The rocky trail wound back to the campsite through dried ferns and the unusual wildflower called Fireweed. The intricate lavender flowers produce elongated seed pods that burst open to fluffy white down that carry the seed on the wind. The plant is so named as it is one of the first plants to grow after a wildfire.

Emily had brought a little travel pack of watercolor paints to reignite her artistic talents that, like so many things in all our lives, had been put on the back burner of her daily life. She set up her painter’s table on a flat rock close to the water’s edge, and the two of us painted. While we were painting, we heard and saw fish jumping at the rock point so alerted Chris to that. Not long afterwards, Chris caught a nice Walleye that, along with a Northern Pike Aaron caught, became our supper.

Our constant companions in camp were a trio of Ruffed Grouse—they scurried around on the trails and through the brush, not seeming to mind at all that we were there. They flew up four or five feet to ‘pick’ the red rose hips, a fruit packed with vitamin C.

I was still very curious about the tracks in the cove, so had Aaron take me there in the canoe, but I still couldn’t get close enough to see what made the tracks. So I trekked along the shore rocks again to the land side of the cove. The ground was squishy, but I walked on the sedge grass that grew between the mud and the forest. Then I was close enough to see…the moose tracks…

…and the bear tracks…and the wolf tracks! The big three of the Northwoods had pushed pathways through the shrubs and sedge grass to get to the water’s edge. Here was evidence of the reason we protect our food in bear barrels hung in trees.

When I returned to the campsite, Chris was talking to a man and a woman who had pulled their canoe up to the shore. They explained they had dropped their water filter in a lake and needed water. As they talked, the woman filtered lake water into their Nalgenes from one of our filter bags. Filtering water is a necessary and sometime tedious job that someone has to do multiple times a day, especially in the heat that we experienced in our week there. The small bags can be filled, the filter screwed on, then squeezed to filter the water directly into Nalgene bottles. The big bag (with filter) can be hung from a branch or rope to let gravity slowly do the work. The experienced Canadian travelers were grateful for the water, and talked about their troubles of finding campsites on their trip also.

Aaron and Chris filleted the fish, and Aaron cooked it over the small camp stove—it was so good! As evening arrived, we set up tents, hung the bear barrels, and I took one last hike to the boulder look-out to see if any of the big three had come to the water. I saw lichen-covered rocks and Aaron and Zoe fishing, but that was it.

Shawn was fishing from the shore as the sun set and the moon ascended above the trees and reflected its reflected light onto the water. Another peaceful evening.

Day #4 was a wonderful day! My paddle-down-head-down moments were minimal as we left Vera Lake. I had made such progress since my Tuesday morning breakdown. The portage was surprising to me—coming up to it, I couldn’t see that it would be such a steep climb. But once again, our choice wasn’t even a choice—we just did it. I’m not even sure why I was so scared of portaging ‘the mountain’ the day before, but I guess it was my lack of confidence in myself. So the blueberry-bush-lined portage was another big deal for me—I ascended the ‘mountain’ and rose in confidence. I loved our downtime at the campsite with painting, scaling boulders, eating fish, being with grouse, and, of course, seeing the tracks of the big three of the North (if only I could have seen the animals from my boulder lookout!) I was already getting kind of sad that the next day would be our last—just when I was really getting the hang of all of this! But each day, each breakdown, each resolve, each portage, and each challenge lifted me to a better place.

This is the fourth post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

Challenge

September 12, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The quiet, still mornings in the Boundary Waters are the epitome of peacefulness. We don’t realize how noisy our normal world is until we experience the wilderness. Despite another night of not sleeping well (I found myself rolling downhill off my sleeping pad), the dawn light and smooth water soothed my morning fatigue and rejuvenated my spirit. After our difficult day #2 that had little time for fishing, Aaron rose with the sun and launched the canoe to glide on the glassy water of Dix Lake and entice some fish. The mirror reflection of the shore trees and rocks is a little disorienting—the ‘real’ world doubles in illusion.

Aaron had a couple of bites, and he discovered some other early morning adventurers. He saw a mama otter swimming with her two young ones. Otters are such excellent swimmers—graceful, playful, and skilled. When Aaron got too close to them in the water, they popped up onto shore, and mama hissed at him to stay away from her babies. They then disappeared into the woods but reappeared in the water farther down the shore.

After the previous challenging day of finding a campsite and lacking any desire to stay in the cramped site that saved us the night before, we got an early start. We ate a quick oatmeal breakfast, then packed up and pushed off. I wish I could say my reckoning from the day before had eliminated my morning paddling struggles, but I had my fair share of paddle-down-head-down moments. But it was better than the previous two days, so progress is good in my book. We had a short 30-rod portage into Skoota Lake, then prepared our heads (okay, I did) for our longest-yet portage of 180 rods (a little over half a mile). It was a challenge I was ready to accept! I carried my pack and paddles up and down the rocky terrain—another milestone for me to check off. After our portage, we were rewarded by one of the most beautiful lakes we paddled through—Missionary Lake. The pictures don’t do it justice!

Another short portage brought us to Trader Lake, a smaller lake with no campsites. We paddled around a large peninsula looking for the next portage. All I could see were steep hills, and I commented I didn’t want to portage up those ‘mountains!’ The trail makers had chosen wisely though, in a place that went between the steepest elevation with only a rocky descent into Vera Lake. Our smooth portages continued with us getting all our gear in one trip and with the kids carrying packs and canoes.

It was a hot, hazy day, but with our early start we progressed through five lakes and four portages and found the last campsite on Vera was open! And it was only mid-morning! We were going to have a much more relaxing day than the day before! Our campsite was large; our tents were scattered out so that no snoring, talking in our sleep (a-hmm, like the previous night), or zzzipping the tents open and closed would disturb the others. The animals of our campsite were lots of chipmunks who bravely skittered around in the hopes of food crumbs (and climbed over Emily’s shoulders), Ruffed Grouse who made funny little ‘talking’ sounds, and of course, the Loon of the Lake who crooned us to sleep at night.

Paddling, portaging, and sleeping were not my only challenges of the week. I like to have things…clean. While I absolutely love being outside and embrace being ‘in the dirt’ in the garden and flower beds, food preparation is another story. The first time we stopped for lunch (and every meal since) when I saw all the bags of food being put down in the dirt around the bear barrels, I had a physical reaction. I wanted to pick them up and put them on….something. By the second night I was heralding the presence of a large, flat rock beside the fire grate—“We have a table!” But once again, the kids were the pros at this, despite working in the dirt. I never bit into a ‘gritty’ piece of food, I never had to brush dirt off anything I was eating, and really, I just had to ‘get over it’ a bit, because ‘when in the Boundary Waters…!’ Washing the dishes was another area where I needed to ‘loosen up.’ We didn’t have the time (at times) or the energy (at times) to heat water and wash them in hot water with camp suds. So I turned a blind eye towards that after a while (and survived.)

Another aspect of BWCA wilderness life is the latrine. From the campsite, there is a path that wanders into the woods until you reach the latrine. It is an open-air bathroom, the most primitive of outhouses. So the system of the latrine is a ‘toilet’ bag with rolls of paper to get everyone through the week and some hand sanitizer that is placed at the beginning of the latrine trail. If the bag is there, nobody is at the latrine, so pick up the bag and take it with you. If no bag, wait until the person comes back. Simple.

So much of the ‘land’ in northern Minnesota is actually just rock, and many of the campsites are positioned on large outcroppings that jut into the lakes. This huge boulder was unusual with its lines of white quartz, like ancient artwork preserved for our modern eyes.

In the heat of the day, I waded into the cool, refreshing water to where I could still stand and ungracefully dog-paddled to and fro (unlike the otters)—it was my first ‘swimming’ adventure in nearly three decades. The fishermen fished, some napped, some read, and we watched canoers pass by looking for an open campsite. We knew their frustration, even as we breathed a sigh of relief that on this day, we were settled for the afternoon and night. We had a delicious supper of chicken tacos. With our limited, measured food, we anticipated our meals with excitement, enjoyed them with gusto, and appreciated them for fueling our bodies. At dusk, Emily went swimming again while Aaron and Zoe fished. The peacefulness of our early morning settled over us again with the smokey sunset. And with that, it was time to get ready for bed.

Life is simplified in the wilderness. The sun and stars are the clocks (though I don’t know how to ‘read’ the stars yet, I was aware of their movement through the night), food is life-giving and limited, water is abundant, the ‘work’ of paddling and portaging literally gets us to a new place, and art and beauty surround us. Challenges are simplified also. As Emily said the day before as we sat in the middle of a lake with no campsite in sight—what other choice do we have but to keep paddling? In the modern world, with copious choices for nearly everything, challenges and even day-to-day events can be confusing—too many choices do not give a person clarity. Being in the wilderness allows your mind and soul to rest and rejuvenate, and even challenges can bring peace.

This is the third post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

Reckoning

September 5, 2021 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

What keeps us from the restorative bliss of sleep? Who are the gatekeepers that decide whether we have restful sleep or fitful stirrings and wide-eyed starings into the dark? My first night in the Boundary Waters was the later. I was tired enough, and no caffeine gatekeeper propped my eyes open. It was not the fear gatekeeper, as I was on solid ground, and I was not afraid of any potential bears bumbling into our campsite. (I have an intimate past with the fear gatekeeper who has kept me awake far too many nights of my life.) Pain is a common gatekeeper—physical pain or emotional pain, it makes no difference—there is no restful sleep for the pained, a relief though it is. I think I was under the influence of the busy-mind gatekeeper—I had so much to think about and process from the unusual, out-of-my-comfort-zone day. Drinking too much water towards the end of the day didn’t help any. Zzzzipping out of the tent and zzzzipping back in seemed to make enough noise to wake all the critters of the forest. It was also too warm, too muggy, and too smokey, so I guess the discomfort gatekeeper was standing guard. The fitful sleep and star-staring was the background to the most difficult day of our trip…and to my most important one.

When I opened my eyes and saw the red ball of sun rising over the water, I zzzzipped out of bed and found Chris already throwing in a line. It’s good his day started peaceful.

We had a ‘big’ breakfast—hashbrowns, scrambled eggs (thanks to Egg Beaters) with bacon bits, and hot tea and coffee. Water for coffee, cooking, or washing dishes is dipped from the lake and boiled for a couple minutes.

After breakfast, we cleaned up, packed up, and got ready to travel into Knife Lake. We talked about portaging, as we had five portages to get from Birch Lake to Knife Lake. Portages are the ‘hiking’ portion of a BWCA trip, how we get from one lake to another or around a rocky rapids area of a river that connects two lakes. Ideally, you do it all in one trip with everyone carrying something. Something meaning packs, canoes, paddles, and fishing poles. I was excited for my first portages!

But first, a breakdown…and I don’t mean an analysis of the game of portaging. I mean me, once I was in the canoe again…trying to paddle. It’s like my arms weren’t working right. I felt weak. The kids were already a ways ahead of us. I would put the paddle down, hang my head down, and try to talk myself back to it. It wasn’t working very well—my paddle and head were down for longer than I was moving forward. I started to cry. I was so frustrated with myself. Unfortunately for Chris, I took a bunch of that frustration out on him. As the ‘back’ person in the canoe, he was responsible for steering us, and I was the forward motion ‘power.’ Since I wasn’t bringing the ‘power,’ it felt like we weren’t going anywhere—and if we were, it felt like the wrong direction. I was chippy with him, asking those no-answer questions like, “Why are we going in that direction?” and “Where are you going?” He probably didn’t hear half of them. I don’t remember how long before the kids stopped and waited for us. I felt, once again, like I couldn’t do this. Emily was a little exasperated with me, ” Mom, you can’t keep doing this!” More tears, more frustration with myself. Finally, Aaron told us when campers were having a hard time, everybody would just take a break. Put the paddles down. Sit still. Breathe. So we did that. I don’t know how long…but it worked. I was able to paddle again.

We glided through the long, narrow, beautiful Birch Lake until we got to our first portage—a 40 rod portage. (One rod is equal to 16.5 feet, which is the length of an average canoe.) I heard him before I saw him. He greeted us with some chattering calls. I quickly pulled my camera from my life jacket pocket, thinking he would fly away. But he didn’t. He was the portage gatekeeper. He watched us disembark from the canoes, get the packs and canoes hoisted onto our shoulders, and walk into the woods! I heard him make the same calls when a canoe behind us came to the portage!

On the other side of the portage, we stopped to celebrate our first one! I now knew I could carry a personal pack, which Aaron estimated to be between thirty-five and forty pounds. But it was the kids who really impressed me—how they easily carried a pack and a canoe!

We had portaged around a rocky creek, and I didn’t realize until looking at the map just now that the creek belonged to Canada. We were walking the line and canoeing the line between two countries.

We lunched in Carp Lake. We portaged into Melon Lake, a small, shallow lake with the clearest water—it was like a natural swimming pool. We portaged again and again up the Knife River. Our portages were smooth—everyone knew what they were carrying and who was helping who with lifting packs or clipping water bottles. After our longest portage of the day, 92 rods, we opened up into Knife Lake. The water was ‘bigger’ than we had traveled all day, more open, windier, and wavier. Our first priority was to find a campsite.

Every campsite, marked with a red dot on the maps, was occupied. What was strange is we had only seen two groups traveling all day. We felt like the lone canoers on Knife. We paddled on. The air got smokier, and the sun got hotter. It was somewhere on Knife Lake where I had a reckoning with the water and waves. The kids were scouting each campsite, so often they were headed in different directions, and Chris and I tried to just move towards them or between them. We didn’t really know where we were going—we were just going and knowing they were not waving us in to a campsite. In the reckoning, I gave in to the waves. In the reckoning, I rode on the deep waters. I was paddling strong and steady, and at times, it felt like we were skimming from wave top to wave top as light as a feather. While some of the others were voicing their discouragement, I finally felt like I could do this!

We passed about fifteen campsites before we changed course to portage into some smaller lakes to see if the few campsites on them were open. It also turned the loop on our traveling so we were heading back towards our entry/exit point instead of going farther north and east. The campsites on the first two lakes we portaged into were taken. As the sun got lower in the sky, Aaron was formulating his plan of what to do if no campsites were available by dark (we found out later.) We portaged out of Spoon Lake through a mucky, swampy, muddy portage. The muck was so deep we couldn’t get out of the canoes, but the water was so shallow and littered with logs that we got hung up. Aaron helped ‘lift’ our canoe over the logs from his canoe and by balancing on the slippery logs until we got to solid ground. As we began our eighth portage of the day, we hoped and prayed the next lake would offer us a campsite. We didn’t paddle long before Aaron scoped out a place that barely even looked like a campsite—but it was, and it was unoccupied! We had made it!

We unloaded, pulled the canoes out of the water, and got down to the business of filtering water and preparing supper. We had pizza! The pre-baked pizza crusts had been quartered in order to fit in the bear barrels. We topped each with pizza sauce, green peppers, onion, pepperoni, and cheese and ‘baked’ them in a frying pan over the backpacking stove. They tasted so good! We cleaned up quickly, set our tents up in the very small, bumpy area around the fire grate, stuck the bear barrels under the canoes for this one night, and soon the mosquitoes chased us into our tents. What a big, big day!

A reckoning is an appraisal or judgement of a situation. It is often used in a financial way of settling accounts. In a spiritual way, it is wrestling with our inner thoughts and emotions about any given thing, usually when our backs are up against the wall or in my case, when in the middle of a lake in a canoe for hours with no campsite in sight. Not only did I have to reckon with my feelings of fear about the deep water and the waves, I also had to reckon with my feelings of inadequacy. That part actually played out over the five days, but I made a huge step forward in my self-confidence. Later, after we were off trail, Emily asked me why I thought I needed to keep up with the ones who were so much younger and more experienced. Hmmm, that’s a good question.

Our quiet timekeeper (who had a watch) told us we had been on the water for eight hours that day. I had no concept it had been that long. We traveled through eight lakes, big and small, and had hiked eight portages. That was the accounting, the summing up, the reckoning of our day #2 in logistic terms.

The reckoning inside myself probably wouldn’t have happened without the challenge of all those eights, and for that reason, I am grateful for the day. I wondered how my sleep deprivation had played into it all—had it opened me up to the reckoning? I know I’m not proud of my snipping at Chris all day long or of how raw and vulnerable I felt in the morning, but it led me to a triumph I didn’t think possible. So respect to the gatekeepers, whoever they are.

This is the second post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

Anticipation

August 29, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The pandemic birthed the idea. We were having weekly Zoom meetings with some of our kids in the winter of the Winter. Our extroverted daughter Emily was struggling with the isolation and the unknown, undetermined future. She wondered how I could seem so happy in the midst of it all. (Introvert advantage.) She reminded us again and again, ‘We-all aren’t getting any younger.” Her desire for movement, planning, connection, action, and excitement was palpable. I knew how important it was for her to have something to look forward to, and her ‘not getting any younger’ statement hit home with me…so I said, “Why don’t we plan a summer trip to the Boundary Waters?” And the anticipation began.

Anticipation includes preparation, expectation, eagerness, planning, and excitement about something that is going to happen. For me, anticipating this trip into the Boundary Waters also included apprehension, doubts, and a good dose of the big, boogeyman F-word—Fear. While Emily and Aaron had both been guides for many summers preparing for and taking people into the Boundary Waters, this trip would be my first time…. And I don’t swim. And I’m kind of scared of deep water. And I’m afraid of tipping the canoe…and losing my glasses…and not keeping up…and, well, the list goes on. But plans were made, equipment acquired, plane tickets from Texas reserved, BWCA (Boundary Waters Canoe Area) permit obtained, menu planned, food bought, etc., etc. On August 14th, we headed north.

We stayed two nights at KoWaKan, the camp the kids worked at during their college years. We did our last minute shopping (and eating) in Ely and spent time relaxing in the sun and beauty of the northwoods.

We talked about our goals (fishing was high on the list) and concerns. My concern was waves and how to navigate them, so Aaron hopped into a canoe with me on that very windy day, and we practiced.

By evening, the last minute packing was underway, and the non-essentials were stashed in the vehicles for our return. The anticipation was building.

There’s a fine line between excitement and nervousness. As the packs and canoes were loaded on the cars the next morning, I crossed that line. My stomach began to feel ill. I took a few trips to the outhouse. Tears welled up in my eyes. My steps slowed. Now that we were ready to go, I was not at all sure I could do this.

Chris, Emily, and the others gave reassurance that they would help me and take good care of me. I trusted their experience and their words. Deep breaths. We drove to Moose Lake entry point, unloaded the three canoes, five packs, and fishing poles, and we were off on our BWCA adventure!

Fishing began right away—for the humans and the eagles that chattered from the trees alongside the lake.

In the months prior to our trip, I had a BWCA map laid out on a bed, and I looked at it every morning. I had no idea at first how far we would go, so I concentrated on Moose Lake where our entry point was and hoped we could get to Horseshoe Island in Newfound Lake, the lake after Moose.

Little did I know at the time that we would be eating our lunch on the first day on Horseshoe Island! It’s strange not knowing the time at any given time of the day. We looked to the sun and our stomachs for clues, but as the days went by, it mattered less and less what the actual time was since it had no bearing on our day. But it was hard to let that time-structure go.

Food preparation was planned and executed by Emily who had done the same process for numerous groups over three summers. She made a menu, we bought the food, she measured it out, bagged it up, and labeled everything. All the food has to be carried in and contained in ‘bear barrels’—plastic barrels with metal closures that protect the food from bears. Since it was a drought year, and wildlife were hungrier than usual, the bear barrels also were required to be hung in trees at night and during the day when mealtime was over.

She had different stuff sacks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to help organize the barrels. As plastic food bags emptied, they were used for trash, as it is required to carry out all trash. (Which has to go back into the barrels, so it doesn’t attract bears.) Lunches were bagels or pitas, summer sausage, cheese, or peanut butter and jelly. We had one apple each for the week so could choose which day we wanted it. Carrots were our ‘fresh’ vegetables. A handful of trail mix or a homemade granola bar were for dessert or a needed snack.

After lunch we paddled through Sucker Lake until we reached…Canada! We turned to Birch Lake where the low-horsepower motor boats were no longer allowed as they were on Moose, Newfound, and Sucker Lakes.

We paddled with Canada on our left and the United States on our right until we found a campsite on a peninsula that was hanging by a five-rod portage to the mainland. The almost-island campsite was our home for the night.

We unloaded the canoes, set up tents and hammocks, and hung the bear barrels. The fishermen got serious about fishing. The nappers got serious about napping.

The hazy sky of afternoon turned smokier—we could smell it, and the smoke seemed to settle on the water. Because of the drought and Canadian wildfires, there has been a fire ban in the BWCA and most of northern Minnesota. So no campfires for us or anyone. We cooked over a small white gas backpacking stove—our first supper was macaroni and cheese with polish sausages. So good! The largest fish of the trip was caught by our son-in-law Shawn just as evening settled around us. The feisty 30-inch Northern was the one who got away before a picture could be taken—but the excitement of the ones who saw him will stay with us.

We traveled for about eight miles this first day with no portages (as we determined by the map and key after we returned from our trip.) I was getting used to the water and waves. The process was intriguing, the landscape incredibly beautiful, and the companionship of our family comforting.

Because of the drought, there were not many wildflowers blooming, but down by the water in a little boggy area beside our tent, the showy Jewelweed brightened up the dry and dusty landscape. It’s a native plant of the Impatiens genus whose sap from the watery stems has been used by Native Americans to relieve pain and itching from hives, poison ivy, and insect bites. A jewel to look at and a jewel for relief.

My anticipation of our Boundary Waters trip was like the Jewelweed—part jewel and part weed. I loved the excitement and planning of it over months of otherwise difficult times of pandemic and political unrest and uncertainty. It is a priceless gemstone to engage with adult children in a common love and endeavor. But there were definitely weedy things about it—even though my decision to suggest the trip in the first place took much thought and can-do self-encouragement, I still struggled with my fears when the time actually came. If only our fears could be plucked out like weeds and tossed into the compost pile. But they reside with us until they are respectfully encountered and challenged. As I stared up at the stars in our unflyed tent, listening to the calming, flute-like calls of Loons and hoping for a breeze on the stuffy, smokey night, I decided that it had been a pretty great first day.

This is the first post in a series of five that chronicles my experience of five days in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA). It is best to read the whole series from the beginning (Anticipation) in order to understand certain things I refer to in my other posts.

The Golden Threads of Spider Town

July 25, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

July is taking a long time. It’s only been three weeks since the 4th holiday, but it seems like so long ago—and we still have another week until we turn the calendar to August. I’ve always been curious about why time seems to move at different speeds. I do know that pain—physical or emotional—s-l-o-w-s d-o-w-n t-i-m-e. There is usually no endpoint in sight—if we knew the pain would end at such and such a time, our minds would be able to skim over the suffering with determination—‘Yep, I can do this.’ With no endpoint to hitch our hope to, our confidence takes a hit, our determination wanes, and time drags on. I’m pretty sure this is where addiction steps in to ‘manage’ the pain…and time. But time can also move slowly when we are waiting—waiting for baby to come, waiting to hear back from the doctor, or waiting for a long anticipated celebration or event. Good or bad, waiting slows time. How about when time goes fast? When one has too much to do within a certain amount of time—deadline crunches crunch time. Time goes fast when ‘spending time’ doing something we love to do or being in the presence of someone we love to be with—especially when that time is short. We want that feeling to continue, but time is fleeting. I do recall days, though they are few and far between, when time was perfect—neither too fast or too slow. Usually those days are busy, but not hurried, fun, but not manic, productive, but not intense, and usually those days are shared with someone I love.

So back to slow July. For me, heat and humidity are days to suffer through, and thankfully air conditioning (such a funny name, really) minimizes my suffering even as it contains me inside when I’d rather be outside. (As I stare longingly out the window…) Add to that a drought, and I just about can’t take it. The suffering of trees, crops, flowers, and garden plants is painful to see. Then, why is there so much drought…and fire…and water shortages…and on the other side, extreme rains…flooding…and excessive storms? We know the reason why. What are we waiting for in a-l-l t-h-i-s s-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g?

We have a little oasis back in the trees where we have chairs, a fire ring, small table, and this summer, a tent for camping out in cool nights or reading in during breezy afternoons. In July, our oasis has been a desert of sorts. No fires. Match-like mats of bone-dry pine needles. Suffering trees, dying trees. But I go back there still. I found a random Lily growing under a Jack Pine. It provided food for hungry ants. Daisy Fleabane—little yellow-bottomed cups of frilly white petals—and Spotted Knapweed—lavender and purple spikes that curl into a knot when spent—still grew and flowered and provided food and beauty. (Though Knapweed is listed as an invasive, noxious weed.)

One evening when the sun was shining sideways into the trees, I noticed a whole spider-web town on the pine needle floor. Without the sun, I probably wouldn’t have noticed them. Each web-house was unique in size and construct of using sticks, pinecones, and needles to weave their webs around. There were dozens of them shining in the sunlight.

Each web contained a funnel where the Grass Spider could wait for any prey that happened to get too close. I had seen these webs before in the dewy grass of the lawn, but what struck me about these were the glistening colors of the gossamer webs. They were like mini-rainbows but random in their color sequencing. Strands of gold, copper, green, and orange. Hints of red, pink, and blue—like threads of gemstones. Beautiful houses of color!

One hot, dry, July evening, as darkness was falling over the trees, a doe and her mate grazed at the edge of the yard. His velvet-covered antlers were still growing—the ends were tender bulbs, not pointed tips. He had old scars on his shoulder and hip, wounds more likely from an encounter with a car than one with a fence. Survivor.

Just the other day, a walk through the trees showed the drooping, dismal dehydration of even the hardy Sumacs. Their vibrant red flowers had crumbled and dried into brown clumps—the viability of the seeds were desiccated away. The lower leaves had turned red and were withering into dry stalks. Aspen trees were in protection mode also, with leaves turning bright yellow and falling to the ground. Autumn in July.

When pain and suffering strike, we all go into protection mode, whether tree, shrub, spider, deer, or human. We conserve our resources. We hunker down in our self-made funnels. We lose our reserves. We react in erratic-seeming ways. Time slows to a c-r-a-w-l. But hope is an exquisite flower in a drought. It is the sun-dazzled home of a ‘lowly’ spider. Hope is the instinct and desire for a mate. And hope is a nighttime thunder storm that drops an inch of rain. Hope is also awareness. We have a lot to do in a certain amount of time to save our Earth from our own destructive ways. I will not be blind to the damage already done and what will be done before we turn this ship around. We are losing people who should not have died. We are losing bees, butterflies, birds, and trees to harmful practices. There is too much suffering among all species. We cannot survive if Nature doesn’t survive. So every day I find some hope in a flower, a tree, or a spider. Perfect time flows from love.

Walking With Wolves at Sunrise

July 18, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

After our Summer Solstice bear sighting, we returned to our campsite and went to bed in the evening light. We had plans to do an early morning hike on the Sunrise Trail that followed the St. Croix River. We slept fairly well, considering our questions of whether we could sleep on the ground at our age, and with thanks to 21st century sleeping pads. I woke at about 4:30, rested and ready to go, so we got up in the mostly dark, got ready, and hit the trail. The forest was dark, though we walked without headlamps. There was just enough light to see the trail—we placed our feet by feel. It was quiet and calm, a rather magical time of day, and it felt like we were participating in the waking of a morning. We came to a small meadow, and the morning light opened up to us, and a haze of mist lifted from the grasses.

After we left the loamier soil of the woodland trail, we walked on sand, and with the light and with the sand, we noticed that we were not walking the trail alone. The wolf tracks were as fresh as those we were laying down. We wondered if he had followed the trail by night or if he had just beat us to the Sunrise Trail this morning.

We had been hoping to be close enough to the River to see the sun rising over it, but we were up on a ridge with trees between us and it. Every once in a while I could catch a glimpse of water. When the sun did rise, the undeterred shine of light made its way through the trees in spectacular fashion!

We walked for a little over an hour until we began to lag in energy and in hopes of getting close to the river. Could we make it to Sunrise Landing? I had thought so with the trail marks we had passed. We heard an awful squawking call and saw a pair of vultures fussing with one another. Then in the sight of the vultures, we stopped to look at a map and realized we weren’t even close to Sunrise Landing! So we ate our breakfast bars and drank some water with the realization that we really weren’t as great at this as we thought! Lol! We decided from then on, it wasn’t how many miles we were able to do but how many hours we were out there trying.

We turned around to go back to our campsite. The ever-optimistic, ever-reliable sun shone its encouragement on us and the forest dwellers.

When nearly back to the woods behind the campground, we saw a sign that said ‘Sunrise Landing—8 miles’ that we had missed in the dark. Well, no wonder we weren’t close! Perhaps the wolf was already there.

We cooked our breakfast over the campfire, packed up our things, found out from a neighboring camper they had just seen a bear behind their campsite, and determined that we would hike around the prairie and horse camp area before leaving the park.

The whole trail was sandy, making walking a bit harder, but at the same time, the warmth and feel of it felt therapeutic.

We saw two people walking and two people on horseback and lots more wolf tracks…

and wolf scat covered with butterflies.

Summer flowers bloomed and attracted scores of butterflies. The dry heat released scents of pine needles and sweet milkweed.

Wild turkeys and deer, along with the wolves, accompanied us on our trail, whether previously or in person.

Name some things people are afraid of and the list will probably contain ‘snakes,’ ‘wolves,’ ‘bears,’ ‘spiders,’ and ‘the dark.’ It’s much easier to put our fears upon an animal, a person, or entity. We can hold that fear away from us–-if we can hold them away from us. But rarely is the fear of a certain animal or set of persons the real fear—they are place-holders for the deeper, scarier fears that reside in our hearts. Fear of loss of control, fear of ‘what if,’ fear of aloneness, fear of irrelevance, and fear of unworthiness. So what if we just walk with it? Walk with the wolves and the bears, the spiders and snakes who were there and didn’t show up this trip. Walk with the dark, the doubts, the limitations, and the vultures. It can be hard and therapeutic at the same time. It’s easy—and fearful—to think the light is only shining on certain trees or persons or entities, but the fact remains that we all walk in the dark and we all walk in the light. Thanks be to the Sun.

The Day the Sun Stands Still

July 11, 2021 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

The first thing to greet us as we pulled into Wild River State Park was a most unusual sign! “Please, BRAKE FOR SNAKES.” Nobody would need to tell us to do so—we Brakes are a snake-loving family, especially our son Aaron. You could say, “Brakes for snakes” and be perfectly correct!

Chris and I were going camping on the Summer Solstice for the first time, just the two of us, in over three decades. It was an experiment. Did we remember how to do this? Could we do it? Would we want to do this again? And most importantly, could we sleep?! Since it was a Monday, the campground had plenty of available spots; we checked in, parked in our campsite, and headed out to hike after a brief rain shower.

We hiked along the Old Logging Trail, a paved bike/walking trail, to the Visitor Center where we had our picnic lunch, looked out over the trees to catch a glimpse of the wild St. Croix River, and learned how Vice President Walter Mondale had worked tirelessly to protect the natural resources of Minnesota and the United States, including the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act in 1968 that helped preserve this river. We left the paved trail and walked toward the River after discovering a colorful and unique Chicken of the Woods mushroom.

The trail dropped from the ridge through fern-covered hillsides and milkweed patches teeming with butterflies. There is something exquisitely beautiful about the fair pink and green ball of about-to-bloom buds of the Common Milkweed flower.

The trail turned and followed the River for over a mile and a half and would bring us back to the campground. The St. Croix River is a large river originating in northwest Wisconsin and creating the boundary for Minnesota and Wisconsin for 130 miles of the River.

King of this part of the River is an Eastern Kingbird. The genus-species name is Tyrannus tyrannus, an indication of his territorial behavior. He will harass crows, hawks, even Great Blue Herons who ‘intrude’ on his territory.

The ‘backwaters’ of the St. Croix were interesting little ecosystems of sometimes stagnant water, beaver activity, damsel and dragonflies, and pretty patches of Forget-me-nots.

We heard the distinct ‘talking’ of an eagle to its young ones. Looking up, I could barely see the nest, but then discovered who was doing the ‘talking.’ It was an old-looking eagle—pale eyes and rather disheveled feathers—who has seen many more humans than humans who have seen him.

St. Croix River was used as a means of moving logs from the northern forests to the mills during the logging era in the late 1800’s. A pile-driven dam was constructed at this site in 1890, so logs could be let through at an even pace, after they had experienced numerous, humungous log jams that halted production at the mills. The last ‘log drive’ was in 1912, and the dam was removed in 1955.

When we returned to the campground, a deer was wandering through the trees between the campsites with no cares about the people wandering through. I practically had to shoo it from the door of the outhouse when I went there…where I was greeted with a sign and warning about other visitors.

Okay—fair warning. We set up our humble campsite and settled in for the longest day of the year. As the sun disappeared behind the trees around our campsite, I decided that I wanted to get a picture of the sunset on the Summer Solstice. We drove to an observation deck that overlooked the Amador Prairie—after stopping for the deer that were crossing the road.

The prairie was full of deer looking this way and that way, running, leaping, and grazing.

The sun was still shining so brightly on the horizon that I could barely look at it, so I found other things to look at while we waited for the sun to set. The almost full moon was already high in the sky; a couple of bucks with velveted antlers roamed the edge of the woods.

The purple flowers of a tendrilled Vetchling(?) picked up the purple color in the sundrenched spears of Bluestem grass. It takes a long time for the sun to set on the longest day of the year. I was over taking pictures of deer. I lounged against the boards while looking to the west into the bright orb of sun. I joked to Chris, “Where’s that bear when you need him?!” Not two minutes later, as he looked over my shoulder, he very matter-of-factly said, “There’s a bear over there.” What?@! I turned and looked at a very dark, moving object way over by the trees.

Sure enough, there was my bear!

But it wasn’t a ‘he’ and it wasn’t just one. It was a mama bear with two little cubs bounding along with her, mostly hidden in the tall grass.

Solstice is derived from the Latin words sol meaning ‘sun’ and sistere meaning ‘to stand still.’ On this day, the North Pole is tipped directly towards the sun, making it seem like the sun is standing still.

We didn’t see any snakes that day, but we experienced the exquisitely beautiful about-to-bloom season of summer. Or are we more like the Swedes who celebrate the Solstice as midsummer, the height of the warm, sunshiny season? However it falls, the longest day does hold some magic worth noting. The magic of empty-nest experimenting with pre-children pastimes. The magic of flowers and butterflies, birds and dragonflies, wild rivers and sweeping prairies. But most of all, for me that day, the magic of seeing my first bears in the wild—just when I needed them.

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.

Badlands

June 27, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Archives for 2021

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