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Walking Where Bears Tread

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Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves—it reveals the ‘true self’ of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple and shimmering about that. But many people dread the coming cold and snow and how the days are short on sunshine and light. I have learned to appreciate the gray clouds of a Winter’s day and how the light has shifted from peeking into the north windows of the house to the full, long gaze through the southern windows. It’s a warm gift from the tilt of the Earth. Receive it with an open heart. And the invigorating cold and the beautiful snow…but I’m getting ahead of myself!

Before our trip to Mille Lacs Kathio State Park a couple weeks ago, I checked the website for alerts and notices, and at the top of the list was this: “The bears are active! Please practice bear safety and plan accordingly.” Good to know. The DNR has a couple of dedicated pages to bear safety—what to do, what not to do, and reassurance that bears (like so many wild animals) are not ‘out to get you.’ So we were well aware that we were walking into bear territory as we packed our snacks, but we soon had Fall’s colorful changes in our eyes and on our minds. The perennials—ferns, grasses, and flowers—go through their own color transformations that add interest to the forest floor. The greens of mosses and ‘evergreen’ plants are the rich outliers in the Autumn palette.

I loved how some little creature had tucked an acorn into the thick moss that was growing up a rough-barked Pine!

An amber wetland with spikes of dead trees was surrounded with the rust and red glory of Oak trees. A water trail through the cattails made by a beaver connected him to the forest trees.

The woods were quiet except for our rustling through the fallen leaves.

Then I recognized and remembered a Grandfather Pine ahead of us on the trail. Old darkened claw marks from a bear had scarred the tree from year’s past with beads of hardened sap like amber rings on the claw print. And on the other side of the tree, there were much newer claw marks with whitened, sugary sap dripping from them. (Not so new that the sap was still wet!) Mad respect for claws that can do that to an old tree.

The backpack camp site where we were hoping to eat our snacks was occupied with tenters—lucky them to be camping on that beautiful place overlooking the lake! So we curved back through the glorious Maple trees towards a bog, one of dozens in the 10,000-acre park.

The bog was ethereal as the sun lit up the golden Tamarack trees. They weren’t quite in their full glory, as some were still tinged with green, but there is hardly anything more beautiful than a stand of golden-yellow Tamaracks before they drop their deciduous needles!

Bogs are fascinating ecosystems! Peat moss looks like a solid substrate from which all the trees and plants grow, but with only one step into the bog from the forest floor, my boot sank into the water just under the surface. That’s why only certain trees will grow there, those adapted to wet feet and acidic environments. So even while the colorful Oak seedlings germinated in the mossy bog, they don’t stand a chance of maturing there.

We circled around the bog, often walking on boardwalks over the low spots. Orange mushrooms, green moss, gray lichens, and a scattering of leaves decorated the fallen logs and ground.

All I could do was peer into the bog, into its mystery. I wondered if a bear would cross a bog. What creatures live in the floating fantasyland? These places where we cannot go capture our attention and imagination.

Colorful leaves camouflaged a colorful Fly Agaric mushroom popping from the ground in its Autumn season. This one is pretty but toxic.

The trail veered away from the bog and was covered with a golden blanket of Big-toothed Aspen leaves. Old logs, like troughs, held the shimmering leaves. Drink in the beauty.

Claw marks from a smaller-than-a-bear animal were etched into a mushroom on the trail, but soon we passed another large Pine tree that had the head-high scratches from a bear.

Another sign was a torn apart rotten log where a bear had been on a quest to find ants, grubs, or rodents.

One tree gone back to the Earth, a new one to take its place.

Towards the end of the trail, there was a wetland of rushes and grasses carving out a space in the forest of Oaks and Aspens. The most beautiful part was a ring of young Paper Birch trees standing in a singing circle close to the edge of the wetland.

There is mystery and intrigue with bears and bogs. Both are natural and necessary parts of Northern Minnesota. The water-laden peat moss is an unsteady anchor for most trees, yet others have adapted their root systems to splay out in order to stand tall. The bog plants are unique in the same way—adapting to the sometimes harsh conditions in order to thrive. The bog and the bears stand apart from passers-by (usually), even as we are in their midst. We know on whose ground we tread (or tread around.)

Autumn is a glorious time—perhaps to fill our hearts with goodness and appreciation in order for us to traverse our more difficult Winter. Life is like that—we have goodness-filled glorious moments to sustain us through our hard times. Through it all, we are walking the trail of our Life’s journey towards our true self. We begin to see our own true colors and those of the people around us. And there is always a place, a part, a piece of us that seems like a place we cannot go, a place we fear to go. It nags at us, consciously or unconsciously, and intrigues us in some wistful way. That’s where we need to go—it’s an invitation and a map. There may be bears and bogs that frighten us and deter us, but our true self is brave. Our hearts are open to receive it. Drink in the Beauty of it.

Thank you, readers! I am grateful for all of you who have joined me on this glorious Autumn walk. This post marks my 500th post of North Star Nature! I began this venture almost ten years ago (March of 2014) to share Nature’s beauty and wisdom, never dreaming I’d write 500 posts and share over 7500 photographs! A special thank you to those of you who have been with me from the beginning. If you love the great outdoors, be sure to like and share North Star Nature!

Awe All Over Again

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I love details. Details are up-close things to be noticed and examined. All the tiny nuances and changes, colors and shapes, normality or pathology. When I was in graduate school, I could spend hours with my eyes to a microscope looking at chromosomes of triticale, histological specimens of mouse testes, and morphological characteristics of sheep sperm. So fascinating! When I lifted my eyes from the microscopic world, I tended to look closely at details of the people around me. What was different? Why was it different? What’s going on with you? There are certainly situations where noticing details and questioning changes are super-powers—it works well for scientific research, but it can have its limitations when it comes to certain aspects of interpersonal relationships. Just ask Chris. This literal ‘short-sighted’ attention to details can bog me down in the minutiae of life—I am not thinking about the future or the ramifications of my inquiries; I’m just gathering facts and information. And I can get stuck there. Perhaps that’s why I’m extremely near-sighted. But I would hate life without my ‘corrective lenses’—I also want to clearly see what lies beyond my armlength! There is a world of wonder in the whole spectrum of near to far! Just like most things in life, it comes down to balancing the details with the big picture. While Chris has had many annoying moments with my detailed fact-gathering, I am fortunate that he has balanced me out with his foresight or far-sightedness. I am literally speechless when he asks me a question about how I envision something in the future. “I have never thought about that,” is usually my answer after realizing the void in my brain. So while I try to sing the praises of details, he challenges me to move my eyes to the horizon.

Last weekend we encountered Autumn in its full glory at Mille Lacs Kathio State Park. The first thing on my list was to climb the 100-foot fire tower to see the big picture! But I had to wait my turn! Cars were parked along the narrow road, and a line of people waited for their opportunity to climb to the top. Each section of stairs brought me closer to the tree-tops, then far above them until I could see, on the horizon, the shining blue water of Mille Lacs Lake, Indian Point peninsula, and Rainbow Island. It was glorious to get a 360 degree view of the beautiful Fall forest. The Oaks and Aspens were brilliant in all colors of rust and red and golden yellow. The clouds were thick and moving, so at times the sun would burst through and brighten and lighten the colors. I felt like I could touch the sky!

When my feet were back on the ground, we drove to the interpretive center overlooking Ogechie Lake, a historical producer of wild rice. The conical-shaped Tamarack trees that lined the wetland of the lake were not quite to their peak golden-yellow. Then we hiked the Touch the Earth trail that led to the bog boardwalk.

Big-toothed Aspen leaves were falling to the ground and the red and rust of Oaks shocked us from the yellow-of-it-all.

The bog was beautiful despite the toll of the summer drought. The leaning Birch trees were golden along with the Tamaracks while the Black Spruce trees and Labrador Tea maintained their constant green.

Most colorful in the bog were the Wild Blueberries in shades of red and pink.

It takes time and intention to notice the details. One has to put aside the compulsion to hurry, make every second count, and get in the recommended number of steps in a personal best time. Letting go of that compulsion, as hard as it may be, releases something inside yourself and allows a different dimension of time and success to flow through you.

The new-brick color, the number and shape of the leaflets, the environment of sticks and leaves, how it touches moss, the wear and tear on the leaves, and most extraordinarily, the veining of the leaflets and how a heart shape is formed—those are the details of an Autumn Wild Geranium leaf.

A Wild Cherry tree wears a unique Fall color that draws our attention to it—not quite yellow, not quite orange, not quite rose, but a combination of them all.

The beautifully barked Pine trees are a constant through all the seasons, though they, like the other trees in Autumn, drop some of their needles to create the fragrant carpet of rich brown.

The source of the Rum River is Mille Lacs Lake. It runs through Ogechie Lake, meanders to and through Shakopee and Onamia Lakes, and joins the Mississippi River at Anoka in its 154 mile run. It is a State Water Trail, a designated Wild and Scenic River, and was originally called Mde Wakan or Spirit Lake River by the Dakota people. It is a venue that encourages paddlers to see life from the River’s point of view, up close and personal.

I have traveled through decades of Autumns, and with each passing year I experience awe all over again. Isn’t that wonderful?! Nature has so much power and beauty, uniqueness and wonder that each season of each year is like new again! It allows us to touch the sky in order to see the big picture and to touch the earth and see the amazing details. I think we each have a tendency towards one or the other of ‘the pictures,’ so it helps to surround ourselves with people who can see things differently than we can. It is also a personal challenge to do that within ourselves when we know we can get stuck in always striving towards that future big picture or we are bogged down in the details of the moment. Nature helps us see the whole spectrum, from near to far—in the world and in ourselves.

Magical Reflections

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I’d hate to try to count the number of times in my life that I’ve employed ‘magical thinking.’ Developmentally, it’s a common occurrence with young children—the line between creative fantasy and reality is blurry. But adolescents and adults commonly find themselves with false beliefs about how their thoughts, actions, or words can cause or prevent undesirable events. I remember my Grandma believed that her worrying would prevent ‘something bad’ from happening. Chris’ Grandma believed her daily prayers brought her son home alive from World War II. Is it ‘magical thinking’ or ‘a belief?’ Is it a problem or a solution? Is it superstitious or factual? (Hmm, seems like we can all relate to a good amount of that in our world in the last few years.) Magical thinking is a common indicator of trauma. It’s a form of dissociation, a coping mechanism employed by our psyches in response to an overwhelming event. It’s an attempt to feel more in control when we feel totally out of control. So I don’t disparage magical thinking—it’s been a major player in my coping-mechanism toolbox.

The definition of ‘magical’ from Oxford Languages is ‘relating to or resembling magic’ (as in supernatural or mystical) or ‘beautiful or delightful in such a way as to seem removed from everyday life’ (as in extraordinary or incredible.) I’m not much interested in the former definition, but the latter describes so many things I discover in Nature!

Last weekend we hiked at Moose Lake State Park. It’s a relatively small park established in 1971. They have a beautiful park office that houses the Agate and Geological Center which displays Minnesota’s state gemstone, the Lake Superior Agate. On the Rolling Hills trail, we wound through towering Pines with an ethereal carpet of Meadow Horsetails—it looked like the homeplace of fairies.

Dark red fruit known as ‘haws’ loaded a thorny Hawthorne tree. It has hard and durable wood, edible fruit, and is the subject of many legends and myths. The Hawthorne tree is an emblem of hope and is said to heal a broken heart.

We passed by Wildlife Pond but did not see any wildlife. Instead we noticed beautiful White Water Lilies still blooming in the Autumn water.

White Water Lilies represent rebirth and enlightenment—an extraordinary occurrence in a person’s spiritual journey. They are a symbol of peace, love, and harmony—a magical blessing for anyone.

Across the trail from the Wildlife Pond was a smaller, more hidden pond where ducks and geese lazily swam and dove, bottoms up, to find food.

We heard the distinctive call of a Pileated Woodpecker before we saw him. They are not easy to capture with the camera. As a ‘spirit animal,’ the Pileated Woodpecker symbolizes strength, resilience, and determination.

The rather magical transformation of leaves was displayed with every step we took. The Maples were dressed and dropping their cloaks of red, orange, and yellow.

The Birch and Aspen were beginning their metamorphosis to golden yellow.

A tiny little environment of moss and mushrooms blossomed under the fallen leaves. Who else lives here?

Round-lobed Hepatica leaves were conspicuous through the leaf litter. These hardy leaves turn a rich burgundy color, persist through the Winter, then wither away when the lavender-blue flowers begin to bloom in early Spring. The new leaves unfold after the flowers bloom. The dark color and shape of the leaves reminded people of the human liver (thus the name Hepatica), and at one time was used by herbalists as a ‘treatment’ for the liver because of this connection. Magical medicine?

I noticed a large, golden-tan mushroom that had been eaten. At first I thought it was from a larger animal, but then I saw the shimmery shine of slime and dozens of snails attached to the underside and stem! Not an everyday sighting.

At one section along the trail, the Birch trees were bowing, creating an archway fit for royalty. As ordinary citizens, as lovers of Nature, as flawed and seeking humans, we marched under their humbleness with honor for them.

I have always thought of Autumn Quaking Aspen leaves as golden coins scattered on the ground—an abundance of riches, not for the taking but for appreciating.

A few Asters were still in full and fresh bloom, reminding us all that blooming happens in different seasons for everything (everybody.)

In contrast, Fireweed had bloomed, fruited, dried, and released its seeds into the wind with the help of fluffy cotton. Fireweed is a plant that represents rebirth and resilience, since it is one of the first to grow after wildfires. The lake-side Swamp Milkweed had also released its seeds, the empty seedpods creating a bouquet against the water and reeds.

The amazing afternoon sun and clouds were reflected on Echo Lake (echo lake).

Reflections of what we see in our lives and echoes of what we say are really the basis of our magical and not-so-magical thinking. As parents it is our responsibility to help our children ‘see’ things in a more realistic way and to ‘hear’ the facts and make sense of this world, while at the same time honoring their visions and words at whatever stage of development they are going through. It’s a huge, challenging endeavor that I know I had failings at, as hard as I tried. As loving, caring adults, it is our responsibility to do the same for ourselves and in our community of life and work. When there is a vacuum of loving exchange, a hole of information that could help us ‘hone’ our thoughts and ideas, that’s when we are left to figure it out on our own. To me, that’s what magical thinking does—it helps us try to figure out a situation in our own heads. It helps us identify our needs and wants—they are plainly being played out in our heads. The challenge is to straighten out our skewed thoughts and move them from our heads to our real life—easier said than done. Trauma in childhood can be crippling for life. Magical thinking is our good faith attempt to try to repair it. It’s part of our healing process. There are many things we employ in our lives that are not based on facts and reality of the moment—hopes, dreams, faith, prayers, affirmations, and our magical thinking. They are all a part of our nonfactual spiritual journey. Nature, with all her magical, delightful, and extraordinary creations and moments, is an integral part of my spirit, healing, and reality.

The Lone Wolf

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I remember in the first year of my marriage to Chris that I consciously struggled with what it meant to be one part of a couple versus my own person. Were they compatible, the me with him and the me for me? It’s not that I was a lone wolf for years before I met him—I had just graduated from college and was living at home with my parents. I had lived with people all my life! Though I was an introvert and liked being alone, I also valued belonging to a family. The importance of being an independent person within the interdependence of a married couple was an issue that hadn’t occurred to me before marriage. But I had come of age during the tail-end of the cultural revolution of the Women’s Movement, so the issue had been constantly in the background of my life. Who are we as women in our own right, not just from the family we came from or who we married?

I’m intrigued with the term ‘lone wolf.’ On one hand, it describes a very independent, solitary person, a rugged individualist who forges their own path. On the other hand, the negative connotation of ‘lone wolf’ is a person who commits a crime or act of terrorism by oneself rather than as part of a group or organization. The myths and stories of ‘lone wolves’ make for good songs, books, and video games, but the reality of a lone wolf in the wild is quite different. A lone wolf is defined in wildlife biology as a ‘dispersing’ wolf. He or she will leave the pack they were born into when they are 11–18 months old, depending on the availability of food. In essence, lone wolves are young adults who are ‘leaving home’ to find their own mates and start their own pack or family unit.

The size of a wolf pack’s territory depends on the availability of food. In northern Minnesota, there is a high density of white-tailed deer, so wolves do not need to travel far for food, though they can easily travel thirty miles in a day. If food is prevalent, packs are usually bigger with multiple generations, including non-breeding young adults. Minnesota wolves make up nearly half of the wolf population in the lower 48 states, so it is not unusual to see wolves in the wild in northern Minnesota.

In our September trip up north to Ely, we stopped at an overlook to see the Fall colors. At the opposite corner of the lake clearing, we saw a dark shape in the grass. Was it a bear? Zooming in with the camera, I saw a charcoal-colored wolf. I’m sure he saw us before we saw him.

His first instinct was to run away, and I thought that was all we would see of him, but soon he circled back to look again.

He turned away, but his curiosity kept turning him back towards us!

He headed away from us to the water behind some reeds, but once more looked our way.

Finally he trotted off into the forest, into his home territory. Was he a lone wolf or part of a pack?

‘Lone wolf’ personality qualities include being introspective, intelligent, self-aware, and self-motivated. I can relate to that. But like any human or animal ‘lone wolf,’ we all are social animals. We begin our lives in a family structure that (ideally) feeds us, defends us, keeps us safe, and teaches us to someday function on our own and perhaps have our own ‘pack.’ The makeup of the ‘pack’ can vary with circumstances and environments, most especially for us humans. When I was first married and for the many years subsequent to that, I have embarked on the very human journey of navigating my individual life with my life as a partner, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and co-worker. It’s an honor to be on such a journey, and perhaps that is not just a human journey.

Later that night, around the campfire, two of our fellow campers lifted their heads and voices to howl in tandem. In a spine-tingling response, we heard the whole pack answer in an orchestra of different voices and tones. I know the charcoal wolf we saw was one of them.

For more information on wolves, visit the International Wolf Center in Ely, Minnesota or go to their website: https://wolf.org/

Courage of an Explorer

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Imagine your life as a lake. There’s a trail around the life lake that allows us to explore, day after day, this gift we are given. There is mystery, uncertainty, beauty, sustenance, and a calling of spirit that keeps us moving onward. Our lives are the ultimate exploration!

Our fourth hike at Savanna Portage State Park encircled Lake Shumway, the lake adjacent to the campground. Curious about the name, I found out ‘Shumway’ is the Americanized form of the French name ‘Chamois,’ which is a metonymic occupational name. In essence, it names a person by what that person does for a living—in this case, a person closely associated with the mountain goat ‘chamois’ or the leather produced from it. Interesting!

The beginning—of our lives or of the day—is pristine and fresh, misty and mysterious as to what lies before us. The colloquial saying “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” is true! Each dawn of a new day reminds us of that.

After our morning Continental Divide Trail hike and lunch, we began the loop around Lake Shumway. The lake reflected the early afternoon sky—a different look from the sunrise sky and water.

Much of the trail was covered in Pine needles which gave rise to the heady, comforting scent of glorious Pine with each step. We passed by the impressive work of a beaver who had felled a large Pine and removed a chunk of it from the trunk—his work was ongoing.

As with many places along the trails of life, we came to a divergence—one trail continued around the lake, another veered off into the forest towards a bog. We took the bog trail, knowing we would need to backtrack to continue around the lake. How many times do we have a choice in life, take a path, have to backtrack, ‘lose’ time or money, and/or find a treasure?

The bog was in a sad state—our Summer drought had taken its toll on the wetland. The mosses were dried up and discolored; luckily the rhizomal roots of Labrador Tea provided enough water to have kept them green. We found a few Pitcher Plants near Bog Lake with red leaves and dried, nodding flowers. The environment matters as to the flourishing of the members in any ecosystem/community. Temporary droughts/setbacks can be overcome, but continued distresses often cause permanent damage.

Red leaves of Pitcher Plants
Spent flower of Pitcher Plant and seedhead of Cottongrass
Spent flowers of Pitcher Plants

We backtracked back to Lake Shumway trail and found the lodge of the busy beaver. He had a great place to live in the protection of a jutting peninsula.

We boardwalked over a stream and wetland that still had rosy blossoms of Joe Pye Weed and a bright array of yellow Sneezeweed. Beautiful ‘weeds’ in just the right places.

The trail rose in elevation where Maple trees lined the path. We crunched through red leaves that had fallen in the early Fall. Sunlight dappled the dotted trail.

A stand of Pines lined the shore about halfway around the Lake. It was a peaceful place to loiter, to stand back-to-trunk with a tree to breathe in the beauty.

Two-thirds around the Lake, we left the water’s edge to skirt a wetland area. Again, we climbed up into the forest hill until, again, we came to another fork in the trail. After examining the map, we decided to take the narrow, more rugged trail that would take us by the lakeshore. It would also lead us to a backpack/canoe-in campsite I wanted to see. The campsite was situated on a rounded peninsula, tucked into the cove side. It had a beautiful view of the Lake from a tent area closest to the water. A picnic table sat under the tall trees with a fire ring close by. A three-sided, rough-hewn Oak lean-to with a long bench and peg hooks offered protection for firewood and sun- or rain-drenched campers. I was really excited that the site had its own outhouse, not just a trail latrine! I could live here! I thought.

I didn’t take any pictures of the campsite, but I kind of want to go back and camp there sometime. It was an unexpected find with a special feel to it—that spirit of the wilderness that combines discovery, freedom, peace, and a satisfactory sense of being.

The white sign shows the campsite from the water’s view.

Tree roots made stair steps, ‘like a railroad track’ observed Chris—the ways we get where we’re going.

The bright berries of a Winterberry shrub that climbed close to an old Birch tree help us know that we can be fruitful during any season of life.

On the last part of the trail we passed another beaver lodge that was covered with Jewel Weeds, and beside the lodge was an old, fallen tree that seemed to be a practice log (or maybe a teeth-sharpening log)?

We also passed a random boulder that was at the edge of the Lake—out of place but purposeful, it seemed.

We finished our hike and found the campground had cleared out—it was only us and one other couple in this loop of the campground. Evening on Lake Shumway was peaceful and calm. We had circled the Lake—what more could we see and learn?

The random boulder from the water’s view.

The next morning after some rain and before more rain, we paddled a canoe onto Lake Shumway. There’s more to a lake than a person can see from the shore, and there’s more to life than walking the trail over the years. Our interior life is a whole new adventure to explore, and in most cases, takes even more courage to navigate.

Reflecting on the paths we have taken, the work we have done, the bridges we may have burned, and the special or not-so-special people and places we have encountered is the soul work of our lives. Asking ourselves questions and waiting patiently for the absolute truth of the answer—the answer that wells up tears in our eyes and resonates deep in our hearts and bodies. It takes so much courage to go there, to explore there, to be present there. But therein also lies the trail to freedom, peace, and satisfaction. We may have felt out of place in the world, but after exploring our interior life, we can be like the lake-side boulder and stand in our purpose and dignity. Our soul work is ongoing.

Discipline of an Explorer

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We’ve all done it. We have walked the paths of those who came before us. Few of us are ‘novel’ explorers—we are more like ‘re-explorers.’ What seems new to us may very well have been the experience of our relatives, of our ancestors, and surely of those who lived in the generations before us. In no way does that deprive us of the immense learning experience and spiritual well-being of re-exploring, but it adds a depth of meaning to the steps we take.

So it was with our third hike at Savanna Portage State Park. After our first night of sleep at the park, we planned to get up early, eat a ‘hearty breakfast,’ and hike the 5.3 mile loop of the Continental Divide Trail. One of the qualities of an explorer, according to exploreratlarge.org, is discipline. When it comes to an early morning routine, there is hardly one more disciplined than Chris. My own discipline gets dragged along behind his due to his steadfastness, his determination, and thankfully, his humor. Even though the dripping rain, that had chased us into the cabin for supper the night before, had continued with faint-heartedness through the night, Chris was up before the first glimpses of daylight. The Coleman stove whooshed and banged metal on metal as he prepared coffee and readied the ingredients for breakfast. The late-nighters who tented nearby may have been annoyed by the early bird, but we were coming precariously close to ‘burning daylight’ in Chris’ mind. After our hearty breakfast sandwich and fruit, we packed the backpack with water and snacks, slipped down the hill, and began our morning hike.

Everything was dewy and wet—thank goodness for waterproof boots—and the sun shone horizontal through the trees. The early morning birds sang songs of delight as we began to ascend the ridge that divided the water flow. On one side, the water would flow east into the St. Louis River, the Great Lakes, and the St. Lawrence Seaway to the Atlantic Ocean. On the other side, the water would flow west to Big Sandy Lake, to the Mississippi River and down to the Gulf of Mexico.

This height of land was an obstacle for the people who traveled the ‘water highways’ before roads scarred the earth. For thousands of years, by the Native Americans, by explorers, and by fur traders, a trail connected those two water highways, a trail now known as Savanna Portage. We walked a portion of the old trail that was packed by millions of historic footsteps.

We wondered what ‘dragons’ they had seen and slayed in those six miles between rivers.

We would return to a portion of the Savanna Portage trail on the last leg of our hike, but we continued north on the Continental Divide trail to an overlook of Wolf Lake and the Tamarack Lowlands. On the way, we would occasionally see wolf tracks in the sandy soil.

From the overlook, a trail continued north for a couple of miles to a remote camping site—the trail was named Jacobson Trail. The last leg of our hike was on Anderson Road Trail. After the Native Americans and fur traders, there was obviously a Scandinavian presence in this place. Were any of them my ancestors? A settlement of some kind was close, as the south heading trail was named Old Schoolhouse Trail. We passed a stump with a story, some Red-berried Elder, and an odd sinking ‘dead space’ in the forest where trees had fallen into it and few other plants grew.

We turned again to the east on Anderson Road Trail, the last leg of our triangle loop. The Savanna Portage trail ran alongside Anderson Road and at times merged with it. There were many huge Pines along the path, likely hundreds of years old. One ancient tree had tipped over, pulling up a section of earth, roots, and vegetation that must have stood twelve feet high! It was such an unusual sight to see! And the fallen tree had branches as big as old trees and spanned and sprawled through the forest and across the trail with its impressive now-horizontal height. How many travelers had this old great-grandfather tree seen in its day?

After we passed a small Tamarack bog, the last part of the trail was through a Pine forest. The wind whispered and softly whooshed through the tops of the trees. The undergrowth changed in the Pine forest that had been thinned by loggers—young Oaks and Maples grew along with the ruby-fruited Wild Rose.

At a certain point, another instrument of music joined the whispering Pines—the louder, more jubilant fluttering of the Aspen trees. We were nearing the end of our three-hour hike and still going strong with our hearty breakfast and the invigorating experience of exploring.

A couple hours later, we drove to Wolf Lake to see it from water level. It was a beautiful, wild-looking lake encircled with wispy Tamarack trees in the lowland bog. Wild Celery grew in the shallow water by the boat dock, its flat leaves floating on the surface of the water, green against blue.

But when I turned towards the sun, the floating leaves turned silver and glittered in the silver water. A shining transformation in the wild Wolf Lake. Not far from the shore, I found the silvery leaves and flowers of Pearly Everlastings—priceless treasures of our journey of exploration.

During the fur trading years, Savanna Portage was divided into ‘pauses’ in order to transport the heavy freight of furs and trading goods (not to mention the large canoes that carried it all) over the ridge from one river to the next. The men would carry 160–180 pounds of cargo at a dog trot to the first pause, unload it, stop for a smoke (according to the signage!), then trot back for another load. When everything was transported to the first pause, they would begin again to the second one. Savanna Portage had 13 pauses (so basically a half mile per pause.) It takes discipline and persistence to portage canoes and gear, and in their case, freight. As Chris and I traveled the high ridge, the Tamarack lowlands, the Pine forests, and the old Savanna Portage trail, we walked with the ghosts of Native Americans, fur traders, and explorers. We carried the discipline that had been passed down to us from our relatives. We persisted mile after mile with the encouraging music of the forest. And we discovered treasures that Mother Nature so generously offers to us all.

Persistence of an Explorer

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When was the last time you did something you were afraid of? When did you say ‘sign me up—I don’t know what I’m doing, I know I’m going to be uncomfortable, I’m not even sure I can do it, but I’m going to give it a try?’ That was me when our family decided to do a Boundary Waters canoe trip in 2021. I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew I would be uncomfortable, since I don’t really know how to swim and I’m afraid of deep water. And how would I even keep up with the more experienced and younger people? (Thankfully those people were my family.) But I said ‘sign me up.’ That’s the definition of courage, though I was certainly not feeling courageous at the time. According to exploreratlarge.org, courage is the cornerstone quality, along with curiosity, of being an explorer. And there is hardly anything that makes a person feel more like an explorer than packing your needed goods into a canoe and paddling through the Wilderness! But there was another explorer quality that actually got me through the very difficult first days, and that was persistence. I know about persevering through adversity—it’s a life lesson that comes with age and circumstances. In spite of how difficult it was physically and how overwhelming it was at times emotionally, I kept at it. And my son Aaron gently pointed out that there was no other choice—I was sitting in a canoe in the middle of a lake in the wilderness. I couldn’t give up.

We humans are a part of the Animal Kingdom where persistence is demonstrated daily by our animal friends. One creature that quietly carries on with persistence is the Beaver. Their whole livelihood is defined by their persistent behavior of gnawing down trees with their teeth, cutting the tree into manageable sizes, then moving those pieces from land to water in order to build a dam or build a lodge.

Our second hike at Savanna Portage State Park was Beaver Pond trail, a short half-mile trek around the beautiful pond that housed three beaver lodges. The pond was like the bottom of a bowl—the land curved up and around it in a protective way, so most of the time we were looking down at it. Despite our vantage point, we didn’t see any beaver activity of any kind. We saw the lodges and the pathways through the rushes where they could swim and move logs.

The second lodge was very large and well established, with vegetation growing on most parts of it. But there was a ‘new’ part with additions of logs—I guess a beaver’s house is never finished.

The lily pads had begun their annual color change along with the trees, shrubs, and other plants. Autumn in the pond.

The one place where we were more on the level with Beaver Pond was a boardwalk that dissected the lowland area. A small open creek ran from the pond to an adjacent wetland where bare trunks of dead trees stood in the rushes.

Water Shield is an aquatic plant that likes slow-moving water. They made up a puzzle of etched leaves, like little works of art.

The third beaver lodge was just barely seen when looking towards the pond. A rhizome of Wild Calla made a fence through the creek but nothing to deter the hefty beavers.

On the other side of the pond, we walked into the woods, losing sight of the water. Bright flowers of Orange Hawkweed grew along the trail. Its other name of Devil’s Paintbrush alluded to its invasive status.

I found it amusing that the trail markers were Bigfoot signs. What happens when Beaver meets Bigfoot?

The Beavers lived in an idyllic place, a small glacial bowl surrounded by trees. They had plenty of building materials, plenty of food, and lots of neighboring animals and birds. They lived and worked with strength and tenacity, persistence and humility. Our Boundary Waters trip cultivated those characteristics in me—it was a master class in wilderness exploration, and a voyage into my own self. What’s your story of courage and persistence?

Black and White Wonderland

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“If one more person says ‘Winter Wonderland’….” and he trailed off to silence. I knew the frustration he was feeling—we had been through this for years. I am that person who happily calls this snowy scenario a ‘Winter Wonderland.’ But this was the third day in a row of substantial snow, ice, and sometimes rain—as beautiful as it was, it was also extremely messy and difficult to ‘remove’ from all the places that need to be cleared on a college campus. The snow was heavy, laden with moisture as temperatures hovered for days and nights around the freezing mark. Chris gets up long before the five o’clock hour in order to be on the road—sometimes plunging through unplowed snow, other times following snow plows—to get to work. Then he bundles up to get in the snow removal machine and begins to clear the sidewalks. He and his two full-time workers have a carefully planned ‘execution map’ of their routes. The student workers are taking their finals or have already left for home, so the hand-shoveling gets pushed back on the to-do list. Sometimes the equipment breaks down, and sometimes people all over campus are emailing him to tell him about slippery spots. Welcome to Winter.

Before I worked on our own long driveway of snow removal, I walked out into the black and white Winter Wonderland world. The sky was dark gray and large crystalline flakes fell slowly and softly on the already heavily–flocked trees. It was so incredibly silent. And it felt good—we hardly notice how we are inundated with noise for most of our waking hours and for the toll it takes on our nervous system. Silence is a gift from Mother Nature. But in the midst of the snowing Winter Wonderland was the reality of a black and white world—black tree trunks and branches covered in white snow, black evergreen trees wearing coats of white, the gray sky and white ground.

Our vision and perception of what we see in the world is so fascinating to me. In physiology we learn that the retina in our eyes contains specialized cells called rods and others called cones. We are taught that rods are for night vision—they distinguish size, shape, and brightness but do not perceive color. Cones are for day vision, are highly concentrated in the central part of the retina, and distinguish fine details and all the colors we see. Black and white functions, right? Except why do our retinas contain 91 million rods and only 4.5 million cones when we are basically diurnal animals? What are our rods doing on a day like this one when what we ‘see’ looks black and white?

We do see the size and shape of an Elm tree with its fine, lacy branches…

and how these young, squat Jack Pines covered in snow look like toddlers in snowsuits…

and how the flexible branches of a Paper Birch bend and bow under the weight of the wet snow.

One has to look closely to notice any detail in the black and white snow globe. The snow obscures most of the defining features we see in the other seasons.

Black and white thinking is an ‘easy’ way of thinking. Things are right or wrong, good or bad, helpful or unhelpful. I’m a pro at it. (And notice I did it with the word ‘easy.’) It’s actually an immature way of thinking that we all go through in our development. As we grow, our developing brains are better able to detect nuances, comparisons, contrasts, subtleties, ‘gray areas,’ diversity, patterns, details, and connections—the ‘cone-like’ qualities. (This is what good education teaches us.) But as ‘mature’ as we are in our adult, educated brains, when we are emotionally triggered by unprocessed traumas and wounds, we revert back to our ‘rod-like’, child-like, black and white thinking. Our primitive reptilian brain takes over—it is ’91 million’ strong compared to our ‘4.5 million’ pre-frontal cortex. We are complex and wonderfully made creatures with both rods and cones, with both limbic and cortical regions of the brain, with both immature and mature skills and qualities. But we do not have to be at the ‘whim’ of our triggering emotions—we can use Mother Nature’s gift of silence to calm our bodies and brains in order to notice details, to see all the colors of our situation, and to know that two opposing things can be true (and okay) at the same time. We’ve had a beautiful Winter Wonderland week and a really messy, difficult, time-consuming clean-up. Welcome to Winter and Life!

Addition and Subtraction

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Have you seen that commercial where the man is stoically and rather cheerfully walking around with a enormous bear trap on his foot? It will be alright, he says. No big deal. He can handle it… Well, I can relate. Stoicism has its merits, including self-discipline and perseverance, but it can also become ridiculous. There seems to be a fine line between stoicism and self-inflicted suffering, and I have walked that line. I have also voluntarily veered into the suffering field and set up camp there. In fact, I was pretty comfortable in my suffering. But not anymore. I see the bear trap I’ve been dragging along on my foot—it’s heavy, and it hurts, and there’s no reason for it anymore.

So I have made a decision to subtract some things from my life, starting with that bear trap. I am taking away a few things I dearly love and fervently believe in, but I have realized that I can get so wrapped up in them that I neglect other things I should be paying attention to. My decision-making took long swaths of time and lots of angsty jumping back and forth across the line—should I or shouldn’t I? The process became as long suffering as my stoic self. But I finally feel like I’ve shaken some things off, and I’ve got to say, it feels….strange and rather exhilarating (in a stoic kind of way.)

Saturday was a day right on the line of freezing, give or take a degree or two. The air was heavy with humidity—at times it sputtered as snow, other times a misty sprinkle. Would we add snow or subtract it with rain? We hiked at the Little Elk area—it was a pretty spot where the Little Elk River opened up and flowed into the Mississippi River. But now both Rivers were iced over—the shallow parts had strong–enough ice for sleds and tent houses used for ice fishing. Each cold day and night adds ice. Each day above freezing deteriorates it.

Large White Pines and Oaks lined the River trail, along with little patches of prairie grasses in open areas.

For a pretty picture: just add mushrooms and a cap of snow!

We soon saw evidence that a beaver had been busy subtracting the number of standing trees along the River, and I wondered if the slushy footprints belonged to him.

I think beavers must be stoics considering their impossibly hard job of gnawing trees down in order to build their homes and make their dams. Try, try again and again and again. Perseverance and self-discipline.

As we followed the River, I began to wonder how many beavers were actually working in the area, especially when we got to this (de)construction site. Many of the trees were young Oaks—very hard wood to chew through, but what a sturdy structure they will make!

As in any forest, time, weather, insects, and diseases can subtract the number of large trees that make up the forest. Their loss is impactful. Their death and downing makes a cracking, crashing wail of letting go of what was a beautiful, productive life.

And yet, as those old beauties die, the young ones are sprouting up to take their place. Subtraction and addition.

At a point by a curve in the River was a fenced-in area that had been excavated by an archeologist in the 1980’s and 90’s. He found three dwellings of a French fort from the mid 1700’s. The area is listed with the National Register of Historic Places as the oldest European outpost in the Mississippi River headwaters region.

Logs were floated down this section of the River back in the logging days of late 1800’s/early 1900’s to local saw mills. Log jams were common and would take weeks or even months to clear. Interestingly, some of the logs sunk, caused a jam that didn’t get cleared, and created an island over the years! Addition of islands!

We left the River trail and circled into the Pine forest that followed a ridge. Red Pines joined the old White Pines, both towering above our heads. It was such a good feeling to be walking among them!

Nature is all about addition and subtraction. Birth and death. New things and old, failing things. Mother Nature also shows us how old things can be transformed into new things—downed trees into a new island! Humans seem to resist these natural transitions and transformations. At least I do. But when one is closer to the cracking, crashing wail of the end of life than to the sprouting vigor of a newborn, it is easier to let go of the things that feel like subtractions to our lives. Why carry around the heavy things just because we can? I know that I am strong enough, persistent enough, and disciplined enough—all good qualities of stoicism. But I also want to add loving enough (to myself), empowered enough, and peaceful enough. Subtraction and addition—it’s simple math.

The Way It Should Be

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My prejudice about these particular trees has been with me now for almost three years. I wrote about them in a February 2020 post, “I co-exist along with them, messy or not, ugly or not, worthy-in-my-mind or not.” I literally stare at them every morning and evening when I sit down at our table to eat. They have always been ‘not right.’ Like the Sesame Street song (modified), “Four of these things are not like the others, four of these things just don’t belong…” I don’t know who planted the Lombardy Poplars—their one ‘redeeming?’ factor is they grow quickly—up to six feet a year, so they are used for a fast screen or wind break. Neither of those reasons seem relevant here. These tall, columnar trees are native to Italy, so they do have a place in the world. The most fascinating thing about them is the word that describes how the branches grow more or less parallel to the main trunk—fastigiate. But they are messy (branches die and fall easily), ugly, and not so worthy in my mind. They are short-lived and very susceptible to pests and diseases, especially fungal diseases in more humid climates, and they have a shallow, wide-spreading root system that throws up suckers anywhere along that route, making them invasive and terrible for any kind of drainage system, including septic systems. So you won’t be surprised to hear that I was not sad at all when the trees started dying last year. As the last one put out some leaves this Spring, then slowly withered and died, I was already contemplating their removal. But Summer and most of Fall slid by without me gathering the troops to help bring them down…until the perfect solution…Thanksgiving!

I baked and cooked all day on Thanksgiving—rolls, pies, cranberry sauce, croutons, gravy, etc. and prepared for our Friday feast, and Chris lined up chainsaws, safety glasses, ear protection, and rakes out on the garage floor. I was much more excited for the after-dinner activities than a person really should be, considering it was a holiday!

Our Thanksgiving meal was wonderful, and I dangled dessert like a carrot on a stick for ‘afterwards.’ Our son Aaron and his talented, professional chainsaw instructor of a partner Zoe, along with my brother Scott and his partner Kris were our co-workers on the felling of the Lombardys. The chainsaw wizards felled the tall trees with precision, saving all the young Pines growing in their midst. Clean-up was swift and fun with six purposeful people and gratefully, two young and strong bodies to carry logs. I was happy.

As we commented about how much better it looked with the Lombardys gone, I anticipated that the neighborhood deer would be very curious about the change to their territory. Sure enough, the evening after, the little herd showed up. First two, then three, then four….

They munched on the brush in the pile, the one pile that may have had some semi-tender green branches from the last live-ish tree. Then they wandered one-by-one through the trees to the stumps and checked them out.

From the southeast, a young buck emerged from the trees, watching the others munching and exploring, then watching me when he saw me through the window. He wasn’t concerned. He took his turn through the trees, noticing the changes to their wandering grounds.

So now my view is the ‘way it should be.’ The native Pines are growing and will soon fill in the gaps left by the big Lombardy Poplars. They will not be missed.

I am not the only person who is so prejudiced against Lombardy Poplars. Michael Dirr, the author of the tree bible ‘Manual of Woody Landscape Plants’ wryly writes, “if anyone plants poplars they deserve the disasters which automatically ensue.” So maybe prejudice is not the correct word since there are plenty of valid reasons for the rejection of this tree, especially in Minnesota’s northland. We have our own native poplars—Quaking Aspens, Big-toothed Aspens, and Eastern Cottonwoods. They grow and flourish among the evergreens.

When something seems ‘not right,’ we owe it to ourselves to investigate that feeling. Do we carry a bias or a prejudice that is invalid or erroneous? Do we feel that way because others around us feel that way or impel us by their words? Do we really know what we’re talking about? Experience, facts, and reason are valid ways we navigate our inquiries—whether that’s all the downfalls of a species of tree, the actual workings of an election system, or the character of our neighbors. Anyway around it, the Lombardy Poplars lost.