Archives for June 2023

On a Quest for the Elusive Pitcher Plant

June 25, 2023 by Denise Brake 6 Comments

Two years ago for my birthday we hiked at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park where I discovered the intriguing deep red flower of the Purple Pitcher Plant. But it was in the middle of a bog, unreachable, unattainable, elusive. So I was never able to see the actual plant—the ‘pitcher’ part, the insect-eating, carnivorous, cartoonishly-scary part of the plant. So a few days after my birthday, when I knew the Pitcher Plants would be blooming, we got up early in the morning and headed north to Lake Bemidji State Park. The boggy land between and among Lakes Bemidji, Big Bass, Timber, and Big Bog has been protected as a park since 1923. The bogs are a result of water-filled depressions formed by the receding glaciers that over the years has filled with partially decayed plant material or peat. Bogs contain decayed sphagnum peat moss which can hold water like a sponge and is used to enrich garden soil. The bog environment is cold, acidic, and low in oxygen, a rather challenging ecosystem for plants to thrive. So they have adapted by becoming efficient in the use of light, moisture, and nutrients. Many have evergreen leaves to extend the growing season, some have thick, fleshy leaves to store moisture, and many have showy flowers to attract pollinating insects, then produce huge numbers of seeds. We found our way to Bog Walk Trail, prepared for mosquito attacks, and walked through the upland woods to the bog boardwalk.

Bunchberry Dogwoods are a low-growing groundcover, a northern Dogwood with the iconic showy white flowers. A cluster of bright red berries forms after flowering.

Soon I spotted the elusive Purple Pitcher Plant flower among the Horsetails, its heavy head bent over, its stem buried in the abundant vegetation of the bog! I strained to see the base of the flower, the ‘pitcher,’ but could not see it.

My attention was drawn to a single purple flower on a smooth stem, a Dragon’s Mouth Orchid! This beautiful flower will produce up to a million seeds! That is mind bog-gling!

I did not have to walk far before I saw more Pitcher Plant flowers on their sturdy, curving stems, and this time I was just able to find the green-mouthed ‘pitcher’ at their base.

If one was walking the boardwalk even at a stroll, there are many plants and flowers that would be missed. This is a place that compels a person to look closely, to stop and peer into the green wonderland of this soft world. Twinflowers rise from a single stem, then a pair of pink, bell-shaped flowers opens above the creeping evergreen leaves. These tiny flowers (1/3″ to 1/2″) are fragrant for their diminutive size (almond scented), are part of the Honeysuckle family, and have the lovely Latin name of Linnaea borealis!

At the Mille Lacs Kathio bog, I was enthralled with the clumps of Tussock Cottongrass. At Lake Bemidji bog, a different species—Slender Cottongrass—grows. It is smaller, droopier, but no less stunning!

Large-leaved Showy Lady’s Slippers (Minnesota’s State Flower) were in the bud stage, just about to bloom. Another of the Orchid family species, the Stemless Lady’s Slipper or Moccasin Flower, was in full pink bloom.

Starflower, a type of Primrose, and Labrador Tea, a type of Heath, were abundant in the bog. Most of the Labrador Teas were past bloom, but we found some in shadier spots that were open and seemingly desirable to some insects. (Speaking of insects, we were amazingly not bothered by mosquitoes!)

I saw more and more of the nodding Purple Pitcher Plant flowers as we walked the boardwalk trail. Even when they were close to the trail and in relatively open vegetation, the Pitcher Plants were well-camouflaged. The ‘pitcher’ is a very specialized leaf in the shape of a cylinder. It is an engineering marvel with a ‘wing’ structure down the front to strengthen it when it is full of rainwater. The lip is densely covered with stiff downward-angled hairs that help glide the insects into the enzyme-rich rainwater where it drowns and is ‘digested’ so the nutrients can be used by the plant. The red-purple veining and nectar attract the insects to their demise.

We saw more bright Moccasin Flowers, a few other Dragon’s Mouth Orchids, and some Wild Lily of the Valley. The forest part of the bog was occupied by Tamarack (Larch) and Black Spruce trees who like wet feet and acidic conditions.

The Pitcher Plant flowers are in and of themselves a work of art. Their thick, waxy petals can be in all states of opening—from tight buds to open, expanded umbrellas. After the petals fall the seed capsule remains on the long stem into Fall.

The mossy floor of the bog is suspended above water and is the substrate from which the plants grow. The trees grow horizontal roots to help them stand in the wet conditions. Marsh Marigolds, with their veined round leaves, were at the end of their blooming season; we saw a few of the rich golden flowers.

As we got closer to Big Bog Lake, we began to see some cattails growing with the bog plants. Wild Calla Lilies, with their beautiful heart-shaped leaves, grew in the outlet of the lake.

Wild Blueberries were bountiful in the bog and were setting fruit.

Smaller even than the Twinflowers are the Bog Cranberry flowers (1/4″) with pinkish-white petals that curl back away from the stamens and pistil. They have viney evergreen leaves and produce a small, red fruit. Now look even more closely—at the bottom center of the photo below the small Cranberry flowers is another carnivorous plant of the bog—Round-leaved Sundew. The round, reddish tinged leaves have sticky hairs that trap and enfold insects that are digested for nutrients for the tiny plant.

The bog is a fascinating ecosystem with beautiful and interesting plants. The elusive Purple Pitcher Plants ended up being plentiful in the Bemidji bog! Their pitcher leaves turn more colorful with the sun and the progression of the season. They are a perfect example of evolutionary adaptability that all the plants of the bog display.

From my first encounter with the alluring Purple Pitcher Plant flower, I became kind of obsessed with them. I had heard of carnivorous plants, but did not realize they were right here in the wilds of Minnesota! And while they were elusive in the bogs I had visited, I was hardly a bog aficionada (well, I do have the enthusiasm and appreciation.) I had the desire to see more and learn more (a quest) and was happy to get up early to go to a place we had never been before. There are many desires in our lives that seem unreachable, unattainable, or elusive. How can we find these hard-to-catch yearnings? Being in the right place at the right time is more than just a cliché—some of our longings absolutely need to be timed correctly and situated in the right place—or the pursuit will be unreachable. It also helps to have the right people who are willing and able to walk beside us, be patient and encouraging, and who possess a kind heart and sense of humor. I’m grateful my bog boardwalking partner is all of that. Most every one of us have a bountiful life teeming with beauty, diversity, and goodness. Stop for a moment or two and peer into the wonderland that is your life on this amazing, great green Earth.

Puzzling Places

June 18, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I appreciate our brain’s ability to ‘fill in the blanks.’ In any given situation, our brain has a puzzle of sorts before it—some pieces are the sensory information our body gathers on an ongoing basis—what we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, the temperature on our skin, the ground under our feet, and so many other things we are not aware of in the moment. Other pieces are the actual facts—the day, the time, the place, who is with us, what is happening. Most of this puzzle-piece-gathering happens in an instant of time and often without our conscious awareness. But then there’s a dilemma for our brain—the picture is not complete. Some things are missing. In a desire for order and wholeness, our brains ‘fill in the blanks.’ We use our past experiences and/or our imaginations to extrapolate the rest of the picture—and it feels better, more satisfactory. It’s a remarkable ability that allows us to function in a productive way, so we don’t have to ‘re-learn’ everything in any given situation. It can also get us into trouble when the puzzle pieces we have inserted look like they fit but are really the wrong pieces.

Going to Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in the southeastern corner of Minnesota challenged many of my Minnesota optics—the land of 10,000 lakes vs. an area with no lakes, a glacial state vs. the ‘driftless’ area that is devoid of the sand, gravel, and silt (called drift) deposited by the last glaciers. It is an area like no other in the state, and at first, it’s a little mind-bending. One of the mind-bending occurrences was the disappearing river that we learned about on our Mystery Cave tour. The South Branch Root River disappears into the cave which is at a constant, year-round temperature of 48 degrees, and is cooled by its journey underground. That is why 700 miles of streams and rivers in this area are designated cold water trout streams. The landscape here is known as ‘karst’ where limestone and other soluble rocks have eroded to form sinkholes, springs, underground rivers, and caves.

Mystery Cave is the longest known cave in Minnesota—over thirteen miles of underground passageways. Ours was the one hour tour that is accessible to most, but there are two and four hour tours that include much more rugged terrain and smaller pathways that require crawling. The cave is home to hibernating bats in the winter (they have a special door to get in and out) and is an actively forming cave with dripping water from above and pools and streams of water below the walkways. Come explore the cave with me!

A hole in the ceiling formed by upward flowing water

At one point in the tour, the guide turned off all the lights, and we were in total darkness. Our brains are not used to functioning in complete darkness, and some people still ‘see’ light. Our brains are ‘filling in the blanks’ again. The cave tour was such a cool, interesting part of our day. Later that night, after supper, when sitting around the campfire, a sliver of a moon shone in the western sky. We began to hear noises down by the dumpsters—the lids opening and banging closed. What could it be? It wasn’t people. I walked down the path to see who was doing the dumpster diving.

A truly tubby raccoon was climbing in and carrying out leftover food to eat on the top of the dumpster. He was not concerned when he saw me but returned to his supper routine.

The evening air was still, the campfire smelled of clean-burning wood, the trees were silhouetted against the still-light sky. It was a peaceful, restorative place.

The next morning, we drove to the little 1850’s village of Forestville at the northern end of the park. It was a ‘forgotten’ town when the railroad bypassed it, and eventually one man bought the whole town. A tour bus of people were gathering for a historic visit. Chris and I took to the trails that rose from the South Branch Root River up the forested bluff. Oak and Maple trees shaded the forest floor that was covered with ferns, Wild Geraniums, and Mayapples with an occasional red-pink Columbine. It was beautiful!

An overlook at the top of the bluff looked out at another bluff. This area of wooded hills and valleys seemed like a different world than central Minnesota—it was a confirmation of the splendid diversity of landscapes all encompassed in one state.

As I looked over at the next bluff, I noticed a stream flowing through the trees—it seemed so unlikely that a stream could be flowing so far up on a hill! But the karst region is a tangle of streams that begin from springs that flow through the underground rocks and defy the usual flow of water, just like the upward flow of water etched a hole in the ceiling of the cave. My brain’s ‘filling in the blanks’ of how things are, how things work was wrong in a place like this.

Our brains do what they do to expediate processing—we use what we have learned in the past to figure out what is going on in the present. But just like working on a real puzzle, when we have put a wrong piece in place, we eventually ‘see’ that it is wrong and remove it for the piece that really fits. That is the gift of learning—the picture becomes more complete, more satisfactory, more real. When we are stuck in our ways, stubborn in being ‘right,’ and unwilling to change out an ill-fitting idea or ‘fact’ for a valid one, we end up with a dystopian, Picasso-like, distorted picture. I never expected a Minnesota State Park, a place we went to for peace and comfort, would be a place that expanded my thoughts about darkness and water. We have an opportunity to learn every day, in every situation. Are we willing to do that in pursuit of a more whole, realistic picture of Life?

The Sweet Fragrance of Our Toil

June 11, 2023 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

I remember the incredible energy and enthusiasm I had in early adulthood to make my way in life. I was naïve in the ways of the world and idealistic to a distinct and long-lingering fault. My pragmatic friend Judy tried to point out my rose-colored vision and give me a reality check, but I cheerfully resisted and persisted in my verdant views of life. I was young, fresh-faced, and immature in experience and judgement. I was in the early Spring of my life, teeming with tender ideas and raw emotions.

One month after we had been walking through those resistant, persistent snow piles in central Minnesota and after our short stay in Cassville, WI for Mary’s burial, Chris and I spent a couple of days in the verdant hills of Forestville/ Mystery Cave State Park in southeastern Minnesota. The trees had not fully leafed out yet—groves of Walnut trees, shy of cold temps, were just pushing out their young compound leaves. Everything was fresh and green and flourishing! This ‘driftless’ area of Minnesota was unglaciated in the last two glacial advances, but the glacial meltwater cut through the limestone and created the bluffs that predominate the area. Winding through and at the bottom of the bluffs are shallow, cold water streams and rivers that support trout, making this an angler’s paradise. After a death and burial, our bodies and minds do well to have a respite from the busy, ‘normal’ life that feels like an assault against the tenderhearted soul work of losing a loved one. This rich green park was a perfect place to buffer ourselves for a transition time back to normal life.

We hiked the Palisade Trail the first morning in the shadow of the palisade or line of cliffs that loomed over the shallow South Branch of the Root River. On the trail down to the river bottom, we saw Mayapples with their two umbrella leaves and single white flower.

Wild Geraniums and Honeysuckle flowers attracted bees and insects and disseminated a sweet fragrance.

The limestone cliff shaded the River and trail from the morning sun—it was noticeably cooler when we descended to the River.

Meadow Rue, Wild Mustard, and Wild Blue Phlox thrived in the cool valley of the rugged limestone cliffs.

With the heat of the sun and the cool of the valley floor, dew had collected on plants, including the beautiful Virginia Bluebells, and soaked our shoes as we walked.

There were fishermen trying to land a trout, and geese swimming in and flying above the River. It was a peaceful, beautiful place.

Later in the day, we walked another trail that wound by the Root River, through the campgrounds, and up over a Maple tree-covered hill and ridge. Ferns of every sort and large Jack-in-the-Pulpits lined the trail.

The park has a horse camp area, and we saw numerous riders on some of the trails we hiked. The horse trail forded the River below the road bridge. Hiking up the ridge was a good workout, and as we puffed our way up, a horse rider exclaimed that they let their horse do the work!

The trail at the top of the ridge was beautiful. I had expected there to be a flattened meadow once we got to the top, but the ridge was literally the ridge between two steep, deeply wooded valleys. Exploring a new place is always an adventure.

Early Spring, whether in our own lives or in Nature’s cyclic rhythm, is a time of fresh and supple greenness. Ideas, beliefs, faces, leaves, flowers, and all accompanying entities are unscarred, unscathed, and untested. Then comes Life, death, soul injuries, insects, weather, loss, and a whole host of things that temper the young, fresh living beings. ‘Temper’ is a key word about the process—it describes how steel is heated and then cooled repeatedly to improve its hardness and elasticity. Life does harden our young greenness, but it also increases our elasticity or resilience, if we include ‘the cooling.’

Whenever there is grief, a ‘heating up’, whether by the death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a stark and jolting reality check, or the gradual realization that a naïve, fervently-held belief is not nor ever has been true, we desire comfort. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”* Comfort is the ‘cooling off’, the neutralizer or counterbalance to the heat and pain of Life. It is often overlooked, undervalued, and not given its due time and respect by society. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.”* Green pastures, streams and rivers, old forests, ancient rocks, fragrant flowers, rest, love, words of care and understanding, hugs, and time for self reflection cool us down and restore our souls. Life is a good workout for our souls, but we have to do the restorative work ourselves. God knows it’s hard work, and he leads us on the right paths.* With each pain, each grief, each adventure, and each comfort, we are tempered—stronger and more resilient. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”*—the sweet fragrance of our toil.

*from Psalm 23

Flowing Together Like a Great River

June 4, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

I grew up caring for animals. Always cats and dogs. Sometimes chickens and ducks. Later horses and cattle. I would feed them, make sure they had water, help build their shelters, and take care of their wounds. I hauled hay, cleaned out stalls, helped pull a calf, and doctored pink eye. Taking care of animals teaches responsibility, selflessness (chores come first), and hard work. I loved it, and I loved them.

I’ve been a little obsessed lately about what people care about and how it seems to be skewed in some odd directions. Can you make a list of things you really care about? And how do you know you really care about something? Spend time doing the work of caring? Spend money in support of the cared about thing? Give energy to the entity, relationship, or cause high on the caring list? And then, what is the outcome of your caring? That’s often even harder to identify and articulate. Certainly we gave time, money, and energy to caring for our animals—in return they gave us food, protection, fun, love, livelihood, and lessons, to name a few.

When looking up the definition of ‘care,’ I was surprised that the first meaning of the noun was ‘suffering of mind: grief.’ The second was ‘a disquieted state of mixed uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility.’ The third was ‘painstaking or watchful attention.’ The verb care was similar. Only later on the list of meanings for both was desire, regard, interest, or fondness mentioned. The first definition actually gets to the crux of care—if what we really care about is ‘taken away,’ suffering of mind is sure to follow.

Two weeks ago we pulled out of our driveway on the Great River Road and hours later drove the Great River Road into tiny Cassville, Wisconsin. We left the Mississippi River at times to expedite our trip, but the force of it was ever present on our minds. We returned to Cassville to bury Chris’ sister’s remains beside her parents and infant brother. The four and a half months since her death had taken the edge off our grief, but our disquieted minds still desired the closure of a burial. The permanence of a burial, along with prayers and blessings for the deceased and for those caring, grieving people left to live, is a sealing of that chapter of life.

After seeing the flooding the Great River unleashed in our area, we were curious to see what was happening in Cassville at the little resort cabin we had reserved that was the favorite of Chris’ folks. The floodwaters had risen to the edge of the cabins but had started to recede by the time we got there.

Our first visitor to the deck overlooking the River was a tiny Hummingbird. Soon after, we discovered a pair of Robins had a nest in the Birch tree that provided shade from the western sunlight. The male Robin took great care to bring food to his mate who warmed the eggs in the nest they had built.

The receding floodwaters and subsequent mud provided a perfect playground for a pair of Killdeer and their fluffy, long-legged offspring. Their halting scurrying, bobbing, and distinct high-pitched chattering made them endearing neighbors.

The people-free, flooded dock was a great place for the Northern Map Turtles to bask in the sun. I didn’t even see the little ones in the bright sunlight when I was taking the photo of the big one. The next day we saw one floating down the River on a log—I think they are glad for this warm Spring weather, too!

Across the slough on an island was a dead tree that provided the perfect lookout for an ever-watchful Eagle.

It was good to be in Cassville beside the River. The cabin hadn’t changed much since the folks had stayed there, and my mind easily ‘saw’ them standing against the pine-paneled walls or on the deck overlooking the River. These people who we so deeply cared for and loved were home again or still in this River land, in this familiar cabin, and as always, in our hearts. Evening came with softly rippled reflections. The still water seemed ‘alive’ with a humming layer of mosquitoes or other bugs that had the fish jumping. The well-fed fish had little interest in the lures and bait that Chris and Aaron were throwing into the water from the marina dock.

As dusk fell, a Spotted Sandpiper teetered about in the shallow water, and a beaver swam undeterred until Aaron threw his line too close for the rodent’s comfort.

I cared for our animals with diligence and love, and if one of them was injured or died, I suffered their injury or loss. I like the analogy of grief as suffering of mind—it normalizes the pain of loss and gives it a deep container and a long timeline in which to hold it. Time tends to ease a suffering mind in ways that make living a little more doable. I have learned that the next step is to give your suffering mind some watchful attention, some care, some love, so that life becomes more than just doable. If we think about our grief as a palpable display of caring and love, the grieving and the living flow together like a great river. When grief gets dammed up behind a supposedly protective wall, it can easily overwhelm everyday life. It displays as depression, anxiety, lethargy, anger, blame, hate, and violence. Remember, grief is a suffering mind, no matter the cause. I think Mary’s life and death taught me to bind the suffering with joyful living. As a person with Down Syndrome, she needed people to take care of her—there was always uncertainty, apprehension, and responsibility with her care (just as with all children.) And she cared deeply for the people around her, for animals, and for her job—she lived with joy. I can suffer her death and live with a peaceful heart. It takes time, energy, and oftentimes money to really care about someone, a relationship, an entity, or a cause. Caring is the business of lifting up, providing for, giving attention to, and suffering at the loss of the cared-for; it is not a frivolous business. We can all step into the great river of caring and grieving, loving and suffering—it is a force that can change the world.

Archives for June 2023

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