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Reclamation

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I lived in eastern Pennsylvania for a good part of my growing-up years. Since the late 1800’s, Western Pennsylvania was known as coal country. In the 1960’s, strip mining began to replace underground mining, and with the heightened awareness of environmental issues by the first (April 22, 1970) and subsequent Earth Day Celebrations, strip mining was a big issue. I chose that topic for a term paper I wrote in high school, because the pictures of what strip mining did to the land turned my stomach and kind of broke my heart. Even the phrase ‘strip mining’ has a violent, ugly sound to it, and now tends to be replaced with the term ‘surface mining,’ which also includes ‘open-pit’ and ‘mountain-top removal’ mining. (Two other methods that sound as ugly as they are.) Strip mining is more efficient and cost-effective for the mining companies and safer for the miners, but it is an environmental nightmare that pollutes waters, scars and alters the landscape, erodes soil, damages infrastructure, and destroys wildlife. In the early 70’s, the mining companies promised ‘reclamation.’ They said they would reclaim the land—return it to its natural state. But also by then, the evidence of their reclamation claims was almost non-existent. The scarred and barren land was most often abandoned.

Minnesota also has a long history of mining—not for coal but for iron ore. Iron ore was discovered in the Cuyuna Range area in 1904 and became a mining boom during the World War I and II years. Twenty to thirty mines were dug and new towns sprang up in the area—Ironton, Cuyuna, Crosby, and Riverton, to name a few. Twenty mines were still operational in the early 1950’s, but most were shut down a decade later. The mining companies abandoned huge pits 100-525 feet deep with rock piles 200 feet high. Through the combined efforts of the Iron Range Resources Rehabilitation Board, local and county governments, volunteers, and the Department of Natural Resources, the Cuyuna Country land became a State Recreation Area in 1993. I don’t know how much of the ‘reclamation’ was human manpower and how much was Mother Nature doing what she does, but the area has been transformed back to a more natural state. The 5,000 acres of land has six natural lakes and fifteen deep, cold, mine-pit lakes that house Rainbow and Brown Trout. Aspens, Pines, Birch, Basswood, and Ironwood have regenerated the land.

Asters and Zigzag Goldenrod brighten the landscape with their late summer blooming, enticing the pollinators.

The pit-mine lakes have clear, deep-aqua-colored water that lends itself to scuba-diving, canoeing and kayaking, along with fishing.

The before and after pictures of Portsmouth Mine and now Portsmouth Mine Lake are dramatic. I would like to see the before-the-mining pictures. The damage is gut-wrenching, and I am reminded why I fervently wrote about strip-mining in high school.

Aspen trees are naturally a ‘reclamation’ tree—they are one of the first to grow after a forest fire. Their colonized root systems and fast growth allow them to quickly regenerate vegetation on barren land.

Sumacs are another tree/shrub that easily ‘fill in’ scarred or empty land and also provide food for deer, rabbits, grouse, wild turkeys, and many songbirds.

Cuyuna Country Recreation Area is probably best known for its fifty miles of single-track mountain biking trails. When we arrived in Ironton, I mistakenly thought the mountain bike riders had special red-colored tires for their bikes. We were there with our old bikes to ride on the paved State Trail, and it wasn’t long before our tires picked up the red color from the iron-laden rocks and dirt from the mountain bikers that crossed the paved trail.

We rode along three of the larger pit-mine lakes on the State Trail with only a few places to pull over to see the water. The mountain bike trails wound around much closer to all the lakes. The trails are color-coded and graded from easiest, easy, more difficult, very difficult, and extremely difficult. By the end of our ride on the paved trail, I must admit that I kind of wanted to try a dirt trail, but I was intimidated by how fast the red-tired bikers all seemed to be going!

The best find along our paved trail was a sneak peak through the trees at an Osprey sitting in a dead tree. I screeched to a halt when I saw the flash of a white-headed bird, thinking it was an eagle. When I zoomed in, I saw the dark brown stripe through the eye, the white underbody, and the incredible sharp beak and talons of this fish-catching bird. Ninety-nine percent of their food is live fish, so they are efficient hunters and catchers. They have a specialized toe that grasps the others and barbed pads on their feet to hold the slippery fish. Like eagles, they mate for life and make large stick nests with the males gathering the sticks and the females arranging the nest. Their population numbers crashed in the early 50’s to 70’s when the pesticide DDT poisoned them and thinned their eggshells. After DDT was banned and people helped out by building platforms near water for nesting sites, their numbers began to recover. Unfortunately, now plastic bale twine and fishing line are a concern for young chicks. These bits of plastic get picked up for nest building, and the chicks can get entangled in them.

Cuyuna Country illustrates the demise and destruction of natural resources due to mining and the amazing regeneration that is possible afterwards. Time and Mother Nature are the two driving forces of reclamation, with the help of man, money, vision and commitment for a better way. Great mistakes have been made in the quest for efficient, cost-effective industries. Mother Nature literally and figuratively often gets bulldozed with little thought or care of the impact and ripple effects. Sometimes we do the same thing to ourselves. We sacrifice our own internal resources in the quest for more money, other people’s wants and wishes, a bigger house, or fame. And things can get ugly and devastating before we realize our mistakes. But we can reclaim ourselves. We can return to our natural state. With commitment and time and a good dose of Mother Nature, we are soon on the trail to a miraculous reclamation.

Warning Signs

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Every one of us has a threat detector or warning system in our brains. It begins with incoming sensory information—things we see, hear, smell, touch, taste, and notice—often things we may not be aware of consciously. Those incoming signals go to the thalamus—a routing structure that sends the information to the amygdala or fear center of our limbic system and to the frontal cortex part of our brain that ‘analyses’ what the information could mean. The pathways are much more complex than that, but basically we process information through our emotional threat center more quickly than our analytical, thinking brain. Our brains and bodies can be activated into fight, flight, or freeze before we even have a conscious knowing of why.

We have all experienced the warning signal from our amygdala—don’t trust that person, don’t walk down that street, don’t eat that food, don’t participate in that action. It is often labeled as a ‘gut feeling’ or ‘intuition’ type of knowing that is hard to explain. Part of our warning system is an inborn, mammalian, basic safety system and part of it is based on previous experience—if we have been traumatized in any way, we are particularly sensitive to any information that feels anything like what we have previously experienced. Our amygdala immediately activates our body to protect us. This is a very good thing to keep us safe when we are in danger, but it can also cause a lot of ‘false alarms.’ After an unprocessed trauma, the amygdala’s ‘reading’ of a situation causes alarm, even when there is no actual threat there. (By unprocessed, I mean the facts and feelings about and around the traumatic event have not been acknowledged, accepted, talked about, worked on, and put to some kind of rest.) That’s why it’s important to take deep breaths for a few seconds and let your thinking brain catch up. Easier said than done. That’s why it’s so difficult—and personal—to determine what is a legitimate threat, whether that is to our personal safety, the protection of our children, or the security of our country and democracy. Our ‘thinking’ brain needs information and data to come to a conclusion—when we refuse to ‘see’ the reality of facts, figures, and footage, we are allowing our ‘fear center’ to run our lives. (And on a physiological note, that is a damaging way to live.)

Chris and I went hiking at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge on the Blue Hill Trail. We have been there a couple of times in previous years. I suggested we go the opposite direction than our usual path so we could climb the Blue Hill spur trail. We were usually too tired after the five-mile hike to climb the hill, so this time we started with it! At the foot of the hill, at the entrance to the spur trail, was a warning sign: poison ivy could be growing along the trail. The sign also said they leave the poison ivy (don’t kill it) because wildlife eats the berries that are produced. Hmm, I thought. Well, we know how to identify poison ivy. How bad could it be? After a quick, questioning glance to Chris, I headed up the hill. Things were fine for a little while. If I saw some, I would say, “Poison ivy on the left” or “On the right.” Chris was in shorts, and I had short pants on with bare ankles. I definitely get the itchy rash from poison ivy, but I am not allergic to it like Chris is after an overwhelming exposure he had much earlier in his life that demanded medical care. As we climbed the hill, the trail got narrower, and raspberries and other foliage folded over the path. I peered under the waist-high briars to look for the ankle-high poison ivy that was now surrounding most every step. Are we ready to turn around yet? We passed the ‘down’ trail, so I figured the top couldn’t be too much farther, but by then I was seriously questioning their practice of ‘leaving the berries for wildlife.’ We made it to an observation deck, but we still weren’t at the pinnacle. I left Chris there and said I would see what’s farther up—but the path was barely discernable and covered with brush. Forget it, another time. We had a view to the north from the platform. The first thing I noticed in the landscape of trees was how many dying Oak trees with rust-colored leaves were scattered before us. Then I noticed the sparse gray branches of Aspen trees. Warning! Why were so many trees failing and dying? The drought last year could definitely take out some of the old or damaged trees, but this year had not been so bad. Most of the summer, I have seen places where the Aspen trees looked sick, their leaves sparse and spotted where usually they are shiny green and dancing. Even some in our own back yard were dead or failing. I wondered if the herbicide Dicamba was the reason for the tree treason. It is notorious for its drift and damage to trees. Or was it the changing climate that warmed our winters and allowed more insects to invade. Such a large number of dying trees in a protected area flashes a blinking red warning sign to me.

Warning: Poison ivy.

Warning, expected and benign: At Sherburne and all around the northland—the beginnings of Fall. We seem to be closer to the meteorological calendar than to the astronomical one when Autumn comes the first of September instead of the 21st. At any rate, the process has begun!

Warning: Some plants, butterflies, insects, animals, and even people try to look like or be like others in order to protect themselves or make themselves look bigger or more fierce. False Solomon’s Seal has foliage similar to Smooth Solomon’s Seal, but the flower and fruit are at the end of the stem instead of under the arching stem. How many times has your warning signal flashed when you have met a ‘false’ person?

Warning: There are two types of Elderberry–Sambucus canadensis, one that produces purplish-black berries that make tasty jelly and wine and Sambucus racemosa, red-berried Elder, whose fruit tastes bitter and causes digestive upset. It’s a smart decision to know the difference before gathering and eating berries.

Warning: These petal-less flowers form flat brown seeds with two barbed awns at the top. Devil’s Beggarticks or Devil’s Pitchforks catch and stick to fur or fabric in order to spread the seeds. What kind of negative rhetoric sticks to you and spreads to others with no factual basis? Words of fear and fallacy.

Warning: Toads will give you warts if you pick them up. Nah, that’s an old wives’ tale! Toads have warts on their skin and taste bitter to any predator who dares eat them.

Warning: The stream is hardly a stream and the lake (which looks big on the map) is barely a lake. Cattails and other vegetation have taken over almost the entire Buck Lake! Far into the middle of the cattails, I could see a little bit of water and a Trumpeter Swan family. It’s disappointing (and sometimes embarrassing) having been duped by false advertising.

Warning: Prescribed burns not only rejuvenate prairie grasses and wildflowers but can damage even mature trees if things don’t go quite right.

Aster
Anise Hyssop
Fireweed

Forewarning to the purveyors of fear and fallacy: Truth and Light will shine on and overtake the Darkness.

Grow With It

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I remember the hard work of growing up. I remember the hard work of growing other humans for those first nine months and for the twenty years after that. At the time, I didn’t even realize that those two things were happening simultaneously—as I stewarded the growth of my children, I myself continued to grow and develop.

It’s hard work to grow. It’s hard work to turn soil nutrients, water, and sunlight into a prolific number of new cells that function in numerous ways in order to reproduce. Plants, insects, birds, and animals are productive from Spring to this time of late Summer. And the fruits of their labors are evident. Flowers, fruits, seeds, and offspring combine to showcase the miracle of an ecosystem where not only is the organism’s genetic material passed on to another generation but the organism or its fruits or seeds are used by others for sustenance for their growth. It truly is a circle of life, a web of interconnected growth, give, and take.

The abundance of growth and production is a visual treat for the eyes on the prairie and woodland trails at Saint John’s Arboretum. Big Bluestem—big as in four to seven feet tall and Bluestem as in the purplish tint to leaves and three-pronged ‘turkey foot’ seedheads—was the predominant grass on the prairie. In all its glory. It provides cover, nesting sites, and food (seeds) for a number of species of birds and is considered by ranchers to be ‘ice cream for cows’ in pastureland. ( I like that depiction.) Gray-headed Coneflowers provide food and housing for butterflies and moths and seed treats for goldfinches and other song birds.

Goldenrods of numerous species are the golden magnets for butterflies and other beetle bugs. Stiff Goldenrod has thick, leathery leaves that look like feathers, especially the basal leaves.

The fruits of the Wild Rose—rosehips—are turning red and are food for birds, squirrels, rabbits, and bears.

I think the winner in cell production in one season is the Compass Plant—look at those sturdy, almost tree-like stems! While the deeply-cut leaves can be up to two feet long, the flower stems can grow up to twelve feet high providing a prairie perch for birds. The sunflower-like flowers provide seeds for birds and small mammals, and the hardened sap can be chewed like gum.

A slightly shorter relative to the Compass Plant is the Cup Plant. It has sturdy square stems with large leaves that clasp the stem and form a cup that catches rainwater and provides drinks for birds and insects.

I was happy to see a few Monarchs in the prairie—knowing they are endangered makes seeing one that much sweeter.

One of my favorite prairie grasses is Grama grass—a short, drought resistant grass with horizontal seed heads that look like tiny brushes.

The ponds were surrounded or inundated by tall cattails, so it was difficult to see the water birds, but I was able to catch a glimpse of a Trumpeter Swan family. They had a perfect place for their July-August molting and regrowth of flight feathers—very protected for their flightless time. Usually the females lay 5-7 eggs in the Spring, so I was a bit surprised there were only two cygnets.

Swamp Smartweed displayed a pretty pink spike of a flower. Dew and rain beaded on leaves of Jewel Weed, sparkling like diamonds. It has a succulent stem with an aloe-like juice that can relieve itching from poison ivy. The seed capsules will explode when touched, sending seeds in all directions. Hummingbirds are especially attracted to the dappled orange flowers, but butterflies and bees also pollinate them.

Shallow water with minimal movement is a perfect place for Wild Rice to grow. The pointed stalks sway in the breeze, heavy with the developing seeds. Zizania palustris (isn’t Zizania a great genus name?) has a higher protein content than most cereal grains and is an important food source for waterfowl and Native American tribes. Minnesota has more acres of non-cultivated Wild Rice than any other state.

Another edible wild thing is Chicken of the Woods mushrooms. These were accompanied by other pretty and interesting fungi growing close by.

Then there’s the beauty of Maidenhair Ferns with stems of shiny, black that make the fronds seem to float in the air—so elegant.

Late blooming flowers like Joe Pye Weed, Asters of all kinds, Rough Blazing Star, Rattlesnake Master, and Anise Hyssop are imperative for nectar supplies for Monarchs and other butterflies, bees, and Hummingbirds. The gift of beauty and the gift of food.

Joe Pye Weed
Aster
Monarch butterfly on Rough Blazing Star
Rattlesnake Master
Tiger Swallowtail butterfly on Anise Hyssop

The hard work of Spring and Summer is in full display as flowers produce pollen and nectar, fruit is developed, seeds are formed, and babies grow. The circle of life is turning. The interconnectedness of flora, fauna, and humans creates an invisible web that ties us all together. As we enter slowly into a new, old season, it gives us an opportunity to pause and give thanks for the incredible burst of growth of new cells, new skills, and new fruits of labor. It is a time to celebrate the hard work—of Nature and of ourselves. All of Nature, including ourselves, take the resources and predicaments we have been given and grow with it. Poor soil, rich soil, drought, abundant rainfall, shelter, partners, wind, war, famine, predators, encroachment, mentors, protectors—so many variables. But we all grow with it, whatever it is. None of us grow by our own volition—the web of genetic material, family of origin, environment, occurrences, teachers, and friends all contribute to our growth. It is a miracle of Life, in all its glory.

Spirit of the Moment

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Nobody would describe me as spontaneous. It’s not that I desire my life to be ‘planned out’—I don’t operate that way either. It’s more like a new idea always hits me as a surprise, which in some part of my brain I take as a potential threat, I think. So the idea has to be vetted and examined and evaluated and deemed sound and safe. Then maybe I can proceed….

Chris has been ‘dealing with’ this trait of mine for over forty years. Yes, bless him. And bless him for not giving up on the idea of spontaneity. Last Tuesday he came home from work, walked in the door, and dropped this bomb on me—“Let’s go camping somewhere tonight!” Yes, a Tuesday evening when we were going to eat supper, go for a walk, take a shower, watch something, you know, really important on Netflix, and go to bed. (The Routine.) I was in the kitchen making supper, and he knew enough to drop the bomb and leave it in my lap—he said he would be outside getting some rays. So in my shock and surprise, I kept making supper—it really was a beautiful day today and is supposed to be the same tomorrow—and then I washed all the baking dishes—IF we go, I’d have to have these dishes done and I’d better sweep the floor—and then I scooted over to the computer to see if Father Hennepin State Park had any open campsites—IF we go, that would be a pretty close, pretty place to go—and then I checked the cupboards to see if we even had any food to take with us—IF we go, we would need to have something to eat with minimal effort—and then I ran outside to ask Chris if he could really get the day off tomorrow with such short notice—IF we go, we really shouldn’t be breaking any rules—and then supper was ready—I really didn’t get out to enjoy this beautiful day as much as I wanted to—and then, much to both of our surprises, I said, “This is one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but let’s do it!” Lol! (It is not beyond my understanding that the ‘crazy’ part may not be the part about spontaneously going camping, but ‘C’est la vie’ says this old folk.)

So we ate, reserved a campsite, packed our tent and sleeping bags, put some food in the cooler, packed our toothbrushes and a few other clothes, and left our Tuesday evening Routine and drove north and east to Father Hennepin State Park on the shore of Mille Lacs. (And truth be told, I was a little giddy with our crazy actions as I informed the kids to prove to them I was not entirely a ‘stick in the mud.’)

We pulled into the campground, found our site, set up the tent, and then I grabbed the camera, walked a very short path from the back of our campsite to the fishing pier on the lake and was presented with a gift for my spontaneity. The gentle laps of the water reflected the subtle colors of the sunset—so beautiful and calming. Twenty minutes later when I returned with Chris, the colors had intensified, and together, we watched something really important.

After watching the sunset, we climbed into the tent, into our sleeping bags, but I could not fall into sleep. I marveled at how quiet it was—we were far away from any other campers, so we heard no one. The Aspen trees sang a soft fluttering lullaby, and still I resisted the Sandman. A couple of owls started hooting back and forth, and I thought how it sounded like they were telling one another about their day. I wonder if owls are spontaneous. At some point a couple of hours later, I fell asleep, but it was a sporadic slumber. The wind picked up during the night, and I could hear the waves hitting the rocks on the shore and rocking the squeaky pier. Three (too many) times I crawled out of the tent and saw stars and clouds through the tree tops. When dawn arrived, I was ready to start the day, despite my lack of sleep.

Cold coffee and tea and bowls of granola nourished us for breakfast. Then we hiked along the lake on Pope’s Point trail. The eastern sunlight shone through the trees to the trail, lighting up a mass of mushrooms growing on a large tree.

Many backwater channels contained wetland plants and some standing water. Large-leaved Arrowheads bloomed on tall, stiff stalks, their delicate white flowers almost orchid-like. Another name for Arrowheads is Duck Potatoes—the edible tubers are a favorite food for muskrats, geese, ducks, and swans.

We saw a number of interesting rocks that were piled along the lakeshore. This one looked like it had cuts through it—was it an artifact from another time?

The choppy waves were creating foam along the shore, but then we saw a river of foam snaking through the middle of the lake. There must be a change of current or direction that is stirring up the water.

At Pope’s Point, the trail ended, and Mille Lacs stretched out in front of us like an ocean. The water pounded against the rocks and the trees hardy enough to stand it.

Look closely at the water horizon about one-third of the way from the right side of the photograph. The tiny speck of white is Hennepin Island, one of two small boulder islands that make up Mille Lacs National Wildlife Refuge, one of the last nesting places in Minnesota for the Common Tern.

Closer to shore are the ducks who hid out in the Bulrushes that provided some shelter from the wind and waves.

We dubbed this rock the Green Face….

and this one, the Leaf Rock.

After our backtrack of the Pope’s Point trail, we circled around the park, through the forest, past this bed of flowing Sedge grass…

and a Common Saint John’s Wort, whose leaves and petals have tiny sacs of oil that can be used in a herbal remedy for infections and depression.

Once we were in the forest, the mosquitoes started to bother us for the first time since we got to the Park. When we entered the Pine forest, a mosquito spontaneously flew into my ear—all the way into my ear. What a weird, creepy feeling to have a mosquito fluttering its wings inside your ear. Chris couldn’t even see it, but it kept trying to fly while in my ear, and I kept trying to shake it out. The rest of the hike back to the campsite was not quite so peaceful, though finally the fluttering stopped.

We tried to entice it out with the light from a headlamp—fly towards the light, little mosquito, but that didn’t work. I could still feel it in there. So Chris googled ‘How to get a mosquito out of your ear,’ and we weren’t the first to do that. “Pour mineral oil in your ear, let it set for ten minutes, then drain the oil out of your ear.” (Hopefully with the bug.) Well, we didn’t bring any mineral oil on our spontaneous camping trip, but we had passed a little grocery store in the little town outside of the park. We were lucky to find mineral oil there, and with the picnic table as the exam bench, Chris poured the mineral oil in my ear. He never saw the mosquito come out, but when I sat up, there was a flattened mosquito on the picnic table. Was that my ear dive-bomber?!

We ate a picnic lunch, Chris grabbed his fishing pole, and we returned to the pier and to the great Mille Lacs water at midday. It was such a beautiful day!

Spontaneous is defined as ‘impulsive, instinctive, automatic, acting without deliberation or premeditation, not planned, an open, natural and uninhibited manner.’ There are qualities about spontaneity that I eschew—acting impulsively doesn’t seem like a productive way to live life. I also know I can be bogged down in my routine of safety and miss out on some wonderful aspects of life. Surprise is one of our six core emotions—it contains the emotions of startled and shocked, which are very close to another core emotion of Fear. It’s no wonder my hypervigilant brain gets activated by something that surprises me. But on the other side of surprise are the contained emotions of amazed and excited, which are close to the core emotion of Happy! So once we actually acted on the spontaneous trip, I felt a surge of excitement and joy. But I still did a lot of examining and evaluation of the idea in the time when Chris left me alone while I was preparing supper. Another definition I came across for spontaneous was ‘spirit of the moment,’ which felt much different from ‘impulsive’ and ‘automatic.’ ‘Spirit of the moment’ reminds us to live in the moment and in doing so, we are living with Spirit! Once we were on the shores of Mille Lacs, it was easy to do so. The sky, water, plants, rocks, and trees all became something really important to notice and appreciate. Even the mosquito in my ear honed me in on the present moment! Perhaps my current of Fear is changing. Perhaps I can swim out of my bulrushes of safety to experience the larger world. Perhaps Spirit is leading me towards Happiness.

Hallelujah!

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I call this the Hallelujah Tree. Sunlight shone down on its crown and through the canopy to the ground, lighting up the trail before us. Its ‘arms’ were raised in praise of this glorious day, and it was framed by a chapel door of trees. After walking through the heavily shaded forest, the light was notable. Another notable was how dry the forest floor was, not only on the trail but throughout the stand of Maples and Basswood. The undergrowth was stunted and almost barren-looking from too long a lack of moisture. We were less than an hour from home, where grass and growing things were more nourished, and I could hardly get over the stark, unexpected difference.

A hardy resident of the dry forest jumped on the sandy trail. He didn’t seem concerned…about anything. American Toads are the most abundant toads in Minnesota. I liked his orangish-red speckles on his legs and back.

As with any forest, there were many broken trees, but this one caught my attention. It was a relatively new break, still attached to the tree, and the break seemed complex. It looked like there was a burl at the break site, a place where insects or fungi invade and the tree grows ‘scar’ tissue around it.

We hiked by the dry wetland of the park that usually has standing water and squishy trails. We found blooming Goldenrod and Joe Pye Weed, though they were far from robust, so even the wetland was suffering from the drought.

We did, however, see the tallest Jack-in-the-Pulpit I’ve seen in a long time! It had little competition from other plants besides the small Jewel Weeds growing at its feet. The cluster of green berries will turn bright red towards Fall, attracting birds and rodents. But beware, the leaves, berries, and roots can cause painful irritation if humans touch it.

The wetland abruptly ended as the ground cover of ferns stopped, and brown, crunchy leaves took over.

Almost every lake in Minnesota has a resident Loon, and this small lake was no exception. The Loon seemed unpaired so was probably a yearling. But he took great care in preening and cleaning his feathers, having the advantage of living in his own large bird bath! Hallelujah!

Handsome!

The small, shallow lake was also home for an abundant population of White Water Lilies. While they seriously impede the lake activities of humans, they are actually a food and shelter haven for many insects, amphibians, turtles, ducks, muskrats, beaver, and moose!

The fragrant flowers close at night and open in the morning and have a profusion of pollen for insects with their forty or more yellow stamens.

The drought had instigated an early Fall in the forest. Maple seedlings had dried up and would not grow into saplings. Aspen leaves were turning color and dropping to the ground. But in the midst of that, the sun shone on a well-established spider web and created all the colors of the rainbow!

Environmentally (and in many other ways), it feels like we are on shaky ground. Extreme weather is causing unprecedented damage and suffering to people and all God’s creatures around the world. It’s scary. And scared people and animals tend to lash out at others and self-protect in any way possible. The broken trees of society are complex.

I happened to be going to the store this week when I heard an interview on the radio with the Minneapolis author Richard Leider. His latest book is ‘Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Old? The Path of Purposeful Aging.’ He instructed that our daily purpose in life is to grow and to give—a simple mission we can all undertake. How do I grow today? How do I give today? That is the very purpose of Nature! Growing and giving! The ecosystem isn’t working only for the largest, most powerful of the flora and fauna—it benefits all. One plant like the White Water Lily feeds tiny thrips and gigantic moose, and looks and smells beautiful at the same time.

We live in a world that has some very scary things going on, and people are suffering. Fear has us lashing out at others, making them enemies, while history and logic are defied and defiled. We want to defend ourselves, take for ourselves, hold on to our own ideas. We end up hurting others—and ourselves. It is the antithesis of growing and giving, the antithesis of Nature. Think about how much each of us is blessed by Nature’s growing and giving—not just blessed, but sustained. Nature can flourish without us. We cannot live without Nature. I can’t help but have a foreboding feeling that we’re not doing enough to stop the earth wreck. But I will continue to appreciate and share the incredible beauty and intelligence of our natural world in hopes of making a difference. Let us not destroy what we love. I’m going to hold on to the Hallelujahs.

The Land of Oz

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It’s hard to see a storm coming when you’re in the forest, nestled in the trees, no horizon in sight. In fact, hardly any sky in sight. It’s a different story when the flatland prairie stretches in all directions, and the sky is big, open, and expressive. I lived on the prairie when I was hit by a metaphoric storm—it turned out to be a tornado, in fact. It picked me up out of my ordinary life, spun me around and around until I didn’t know which side was up or if I would even survive it. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see it coming because I was surrounded by ‘tall trees’ of ordinary life—three children in three different schools and their activities; graduate school with classes, research, animal caretaking and data-gathering, tests, and writing; church goings-on; family fun and responsibilities. Those details of life kept my eyes directly on what was in front of me—no time for sky-gazing or soul-searching. Looking back now, it was that swirl of activity that helped perpetuate the storm, not just my blindness towards some outside force moving in from the horizon to bowl me over, though there was that, too.

Elevation helps a person see the storm coming when you’ve been in the trees. It lifts you above the interesting, compelling details right in front of you. It helps you see a little farther, a little further.

I can definitely get bogged down in the details—I love them. They are so darned interesting. Look at these papery seedpods of the Ironwood tree. They look like hops, which is why the other name for the tree is American Hop Hornbeam! The highly serrated leaves are similar to Birches, but they do not turn brilliant yellow in the fall like the Birches do. They grow extremely slow, thus making the wood very hard—ironwood.

And look at these Wild Rose hips or fruits forming after the pink petals fall from the flowers. They will turn a bright red color and develop sweetness as Autumn comes, especially after a frost. They are one of the highest plant sources of Vitamin C and contain antioxidants that make them a desirable food for humans, birds, and other animals. Wait…what? There’s a storm coming?!

Perhaps the greatest skill is being able to examine and interact with what is happening close to you—whoa, look at that Mullein flower—and being able to check in with the bigger picture—the prairie meadow is beautiful at this time of year, and the Maple Leaf hills must be spectacular in the Fall! Near and far. Present and future.

It also matters which direction you are looking…. During our hike up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park, we were facing west, so we noticed the storm clouds building.

Did you know you can make a lemonade-like drink from the red berries of Staghorn Sumacs? Did you know you can eat the leaves and seeds of Broadleaf Plantains, either raw or cooked?

We finished our Hill hike, sensing that it would be our last hike of the day given the storm clouds, then we drove the five-mile Park Drive. It was a gravel/packed dirt road past a small campground and boat launch, then continued on a narrower, one-way trail. We stopped at a wildlife observation hut on Beaver Lake—no wildlife to be seen at that moment.

Farther down the road we saw a mama deer with her two spotted fawns who leapt away when they saw us.

On a hill overlooking Field Lake, we saw the sky getting darker and the clouds beginning to envelop the park. They were no longer on the horizon—the storm was imminent. A restored prairie on the banks of Field Lake had Leadplants in full bloom and Purple and White Prairie Clovers, their colors rich and vibrant with the darkening sky.

As we wound through the Maple forest on the rutted road, we were hoping to beat the rain. I knew by the map we were close to the end of the one-way road when we passed Cataract Lake. It looked like late evening instead of three in the afternoon—time through a cloudy lens or perhaps in a different realm.

We drove to see the other big lake of the Park—Beers Lake—and the campground by it. Rumbles of thunder and sprinkles of rain began to reach our ears and the windshield. A small pond by the road had a family of ducks swimming happily in the ripples and bubbles of the rainy water.

When we reached the end of the road at Beers Lake, there was one family still fishing on the pier and a lone Loon swimming and diving nearby. It wasn’t so dark anymore, and the roiling storm clouds had morphed into a consistent palette of gray from which the rain fell in a steady cadence. The ‘big storm’ part must have passed to the south of us. We drove back to the Trail Center, a small building with tables and chairs, maps and safety equipment. We ate our picnic dinner there as the rain fell.

With elevation and open prairie, we could easily see the storm clouds coming towards us. When we were driving through the Maple forest, all we could see was the darkness falling on the afternoon light. It’s shocking when we don’t see the storm clouds of life coming towards us. Sometimes there is no warning, even if we are scanning the horizon. All of a sudden we’re in the dark, not knowing, not prepared, not able to get our bearings. Other times, we see the billowing signs of an impending storm but ignore them. And still we get hit hard. When we notice the storm coming and believe it, we can make different choices, we can plan for the future, and we can ready ourselves, both physically and mentally. Like Dorothy, I landed in Oz after being swept up in the tornado—in this surreal place of bad and good, fantasy and reality, past and present. The land of Oz was my own brain and heart and being that I explored with the help of my guide and lots of courage. It took a while—for time is often warped in the midst of a storm—but I finally found the home of my-Self. It’s a place where I can do sky gazing and soul searching and immerse myself in the sweet details of life. There’s no place like it, you know.

Hanging on Lightly

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What happens to your body when someone says, “Hang on tight!”? Usually your hands latch on to something and grip it tightly. Your muscles contract, often throughout your whole body. You ‘brace’ yourself for what’s to come, whether that’s for a physical wild ride or an emotional rollercoaster. There is an element of survival that takes over—your sympathetic nervous system is activated. Adrenaline is released, your pupils dilate, your heart beats faster, and you become hypervigilant. There are plenty of times in life when this response is the prudent thing to do—it can literally save your life.

Chris is back to short hikes—yay!—so we hiked up Hallaway Hill at Maplewood State Park in the western lakes region of Minnesota. The trail zig-zagged through mostly prairie in this part of the 9,200-acre park. Mid-summer wildflowers bloomed among the still-growing green grasses that had begun their blooming, too. Lavender-colored Wild Bergamot or Bee Balm was in all its glory, attracting bees and butterflies with its minty fragrance and tubular flowers.

It was not long before we noticed dragonflies darting around above the plants. It was a breezy day, and I noticed a colorful dragonfly holding on to a dried flower stalk. I thought to myself he must be hanging on for dear life in this wind with his three pairs of legs! Halloween Pennant Dragonflies (isn’t that a great name?!) alight and fly in a different way from most other dragonflies—they have a fluttery flight like a butterfly.

The wooly purple coats of Purple Prairie Clover are wrapped around the gray thimble head of the spikey flowers, belying the typical flower of the Pea family. But like most members of the Pea family, Prairie Clover can increase soil fertility by capturing nitrogen from the air and transferring it to the soil.

Purple Prairie Clover—host plant for the Dog Face butterfly

More and more of the Halloween Pennant Dragonflies were hanging on to grasses and dried flower stalks, some right by the trail. As I looked more closely at them, it seemed like they were very comfortable on their precarious-looking perches.

Black-eyed Susans brighten the prairie with their cheery ray flowers, and their seeds are favored food for Goldfinches and House Finches.

Black-eyed Susan—host plant for the Silvery Checkerspot butterflies

A larger, more traditional dragonfly with its black and silvery transparent wings is named Widow Skimmer. The male has a long powder blue abdomen and is thus named because he leaves (or widows) the female by herself when she lays her eggs just under the surface of the water. Other male dragonflies will fly with the female while she lays her eggs.

Bulrush seedheads

A large, crater-like mushroom captured rainwater and became a ‘watering hole’ for insects and small animals.

The coloring and veins of the dragonfly’s wings create intricate patterns, and their large compound eyes see 200 images per second with nearly 80% of their brain being dedicated to sight! They have specialized spines on their legs used as an ‘eyebrush’ to clean the surface of their compound eyes.

In our northern climate, the growing season is condensed into a relatively short amount of time, so fruit and seed development happens quickly. Signs of decline are already noticeable in the later part of July.

Again, like I noted in my last post, the Monarchs are few and far between anymore. In all the prairie we walked through, we only saw one Monarch. It was perched on its host plant—where eggs are laid and where the caterpillars eat and grow—the Common Milkweed.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil (Beggar’s Lice) is a woodland plant with pretty pink flowers on long stalks that produce sticky seed pods that hang on to fur or clothing of passers-by.

Pointed-leaf Tick-trefoil—host plant for Silver-spotted Skipper butterflies

The silvery-gray color of Artemisia complements all the other prairie wildflowers and grasses.

I was surprised to see a whole Artemisia plant covered in bugs! The black creatures (Black Vine Weevils?) look like the ones who have invaded our house in the last month, and the big, black ants must be getting some sort of nutrition from them.

We ascended to the top of Hallaway Hill, once a popular ski hill in the 1950’s and ’60’s, even after the State Park was established in 1963. 196 vertical feet above Lida Lake gave us a view of the many lakes, the rolling Maple-Leaf hills, and of the storm clouds that were gathering to the west.

Dragonflies spend most of their life in the aquatic nymph stage—the larger ones from three to five years—but only live as an adult dragonfly for five weeks or less, some only for a few days. Their ‘flying’ days are limited.

Hanging on tightly is a way for us to survive—physically and emotionally. In fact, in our young years, it is a reflexive act to connect us with our caregivers for all of our dependent needs. When resources are scarce—food, shelter, safety, and love—we tend to hold on more tightly, even when doing so doesn’t get us those things we need and desire. But as a child and young adult, we don’t know any other way to do it. But what of the fleeting adult life of the dragonfly? The Halloween Pennants were hanging on lightly—not clenched but attached, not contracted but relaxed, not grasping but flowing. They embodied freedom—like an eagle soaring in the wind, like a feather floating through the air, like a leaf drifting on the water. Is it the culmination of their reproductive life that allows them to live out whatever days are left with such freedom? Or is it just a ‘mammalian’ thing to hold on so tightly? We can learn from the dragonflies. We can mature into hanging on lightly. We can brush the cobwebs from our eyes. We can be attached and relaxed. We can live day by each wonderous day, confident in our ability to rest when we need to and fly when we can.

Empty Homes

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One fall day I looked out the kitchen window and saw a swarm of butterflies flying through the yard. We had a garden full of nectar-producing flowers, so we were used to seeing butterflies during the three seasons of blooming. But this was different. I walked outside and realized that they were no longer relaxed and meandering from flower to flower—they were on a mission—a Monarch migration mission to be exact. And while I stood there, the air filled with the orange– and black–winged beauties! They were everywhere! Some were close enough for me to touch, seeming to fly towards me, then up into the sky, above the tree tops, and beyond! It was awe–inspiring and joy–producing! Millions of Monarchs!

In a matter of minutes within the hour, they were gone, moving south in their annual migration from southern Canada and the northern Midwest, gathering all from the eastern United States, on to central Mexico where they spend the winter high in the mountains on the Oyamel Fir trees. Abies religiosa means ‘sacred fir.’ These trees and the wintering Monarchs require the same ecosystem for survival—cool and moist—which is now being threatened by our warming climate. Climate change, along with increased use in pesticides and herbicides, loss of northern habitat for Monarchs, and logging of the sacred firs have all contributed to the alarming news that was released this past week. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature has placed Monarch butterflies on the endangered list, just two steps from extinction, because of their fast-dwindling numbers. In just ten year’s time, the population of Monarchs in North America has declined between 22% and 72%, depending on the method of measurement. Other groups have seen even larger declines of the iconic butterfly. The most well–known and beautiful butterfly, once with a population in the billions, is headed towards extinction.

Loss of Monarch habitat in the north mirrors the declining number of acres of prairie, grassland, fence lines, and wetlands. There are statistics for these losses, but anyone who loves the prairie, who loves seeing cattle on grassland pastures, and who delights in a fence row of wildflowers has noticed the disheartening change in the last decade.

There is untold value in a prairie environment—home and food source for insects, birds, and mammals; erosion control; and carbon sequestration to name only a few. This time of year, the prairie displays a brilliant culmination of months of unseen root growth and a sea of green vegetative growth of grasses and wildflowers as they burst into flower and seed production. It is a beautiful sight! It was a good year for Butterfly Weed, a member of the Milkweed family. I have seen more of the bright orange flowers this year than I can ever remember.

Host plant for Gray Hairstreak and Monarch butterflies

Common Yarrow inconspicuously grows in most grassy places but is a dazzling background for Hoary Vervain’s sharply–toothed leaves and spikes of violet flowers.

Verbena stricta (Hoary Vervain)—verbena is Latin for ‘sacred plant’

And the grasses….each with their distinct–colored seedheads are the foundation of a healthy prairie.

Rough-fruited Cinquefoil with heart-shaped petals
Sheep Sorrel

In the acres and acres of prairie, including all the showy Butterfly Weed, I saw one Monarch. I was paying attention—awareness of dwindling numbers of Monarchs has been on my ‘radar’ for years now, and this year seems particularly bad for the numbers. The prairie had many Common Milkweeds, the primary host plant for Monarch caterpillars. Empty homes, waiting for the striped caterpillars to munch on their leaves, spin a cocoon, and produce another butterfly.

Monarch butterfly
Common Milkweed

Evening Primrose is a night–blooming plant with buds that start to open at the end of the day and close up by noon of the next day, making them an unusual and enchanting wildflower.

Another favorite wildflower for butterflies is False Sunflower or Ox-eye Sunflower. The prairies that are planted and preserved in parks and natural areas are trying to bring back habitats for the butterflies, bees, and other creatures who depend on wildflowers and grasses for their survival. But is it enough?

My joy in witnessing a Monarch migration happened more than eight years ago—before I began writing my blog. Since that time, fewer butterflies of all kinds visited our gardens. I noticed fewer Monarchs on our hikes. It is a complicated, complex problem with no one in particular responsible for the solution. The statistics are jarring, and Nature-lovers feel sad and angry when they hear the news but powerless in the big picture of our world. Is it loss of habitat—we are personally leaving and cultivating all the Milkweeds we can—or are the populations of butterflies actually being killed by pesticides and by microwave radiation from cell towers that have proliferated in the last ten years? (please read the scientific research below) In civilizations and centuries past, plants have been seen and named as ‘sacred,’ just as all of creation has been deemed so by Christianity and other world religions. I am not an alarmist by nature, but the news of the rapid rate of decline of our favorite butterfly is cause for alarm. Because biologically, what is destroying butterflies, bees, and trees is destroying us, just at a slower pace. We are all connected with all of Nature. I don’t know what the answers are either, but I want all of us to be aware, concerned, and thinking about the big picture in our choices, our votes, and our advocacy. We don’t want any more empty homes.

Bees, Butterflies and Wildlife: Research on Electromagnetic Fields and the Environment

Protected

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One of my most instinctual and intentional qualities of being a parent, as I’m sure is true for most parents, was to protect my children. To protect is to preserve from harm, safeguard, shield; to keep secure from injury, damage, exposure, and destruction. It was a daunting task, and one that seems to be even more so in this day and age. The issue of how we protect our own children, those we know and love, and the children in our communities at large is complicated and emotionally-charged. Add to that who should do the protecting and from what we are protecting them, and the issue gets more muddied, more challenging, and more divisive. It seems like a simple matter—keep kids safe—but it is not.

When reading about Myre–Big Island State Park near Albert Lea, Minnesota, I was struck with them mentioning how the Big Island was protected from fires that had previously swept through the area. Big Island is 120 acres of hardwood forest that sits in the middle of Albert Lea Lake. A narrow causeway connects it to the ‘mainland.’ It is protected by water on all sides. We hiked around the island on a warm, muggy day. Maple trees are the predominant hardwood on the island and offered deep shade with their large palmate leaves. The water was hard to see from the trail in most areas, since the young Maples crowded the shore for sunlight.

It was a beautiful island forest that had been home for humans for over 9,000 years. Not only was it protected from fires, but it provided a secure place for its inhabitants with food, water, shelter, and a moat of safety.

The large Maple and Basswood trees were accompanied by Ash, Red Oak, and Elm trees. Ironwood was the main understory tree. There were many interesting trees in all stages of development, from seedling to decaying. I noticed an Artist’s Conk, a perennial fungus that often grows from a wound on a living tree. The white underside of this bracket fungus is used by artists to etch a drawing into, leaving a sepia-colored work of art! (Google it!)

Woodpeckers, wind, lightening, old age, sunscald, and insects have all made their marks on the trees of Big Island.

The undergrowth was dominated by Gooseberry bushes that had been ‘pruned’ by the grazing deer, despite the fact they have protective spines or thorns on them. The deer eat the tender new growth that is more palatable. I was also amazed at how many Jack-in-the-Pulpit plants were growing under the Gooseberries—perhaps the thorny Gooseberries shield them from damage or offer a symbiotic relationship of some sort.

As we walked, the sky grew cloudier and darker, and the air was so thick with moisture that my camera had a hard time focusing. We cut our hike a little short because of the weather, and in switching paths, we saw five deer, including two spotted fawns. The vigilant does stamped their feet and watched us carefully as they protected their fawns.

Caretaking mothers of all species have an innate drive to protect their young ones—one only needs to spend time with animal parents to witness their fierceness. But their and our determination to protect our children, despite our best effort, sometimes fails. Our children get hurt, exploited, harmed, or damaged by accidents, by bullies, by ignorant cultural practices, or by dark forces that impel people to act in anti-social ways. We cannot become immune to the damage that befalls our children, and we should take every step possible to safeguard their lives. Every step possible.

What Used to Be

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There is always an interplay between change and holding steady. Not only does it play out in the overarching culture of the world but also in smaller community and relationship entities. But the most personal, most impactful, and most difficult interaction between change and holding steady happens inside each one of us. We have a desire for learning, a curiosity of the world around us, and an innate drive for ‘something new’—except when we don’t feel safe. Safety is our default system—our primitive brain takes over when we are threatened by anything—real or imagined. When that happens, curiosity, compassion for others, learning, and openness get shut out from our brain and body until we feel safe again. So what happens when the people around us and the media we consume continuously stoke our fears?

I am already a month behind in my posts—it used to be the beginning of June, and it used to be Spring. On our way home from our Duluth wedding weekend at the beginning of June, we stopped at Banning State Park. We didn’t have a great amount of time, Chris was still on ‘no hiking’ status from his hip surgery, and the mosquitoes were ravenous. But Emily and I braved a one and a half mile hike on the Quarry Loop trail that followed the beautiful Kettle River. The trail used to be a railroad.

There used to be a forest of towering Red and White Pines in this area that was logged in the mid-1800’s. The Kettle River was used to move logs to the St. Croix River and to mills. In 1892, the Hinkley Sandstone of the area began to be quarried, thus the railroad to haul it away to the Twin Cities and Duluth for building blocks and road pavers. Then the enormous Hinkley fire in 1894 took trees, lives, and losses for the railroad and quarry. What used to be.

Long before enormous trees and logging, desirable sandstone and quarrying, there used to be a sea here hundreds of millions of years ago. The silica and sand formed the rock that is now called Hinkley Sandstone. There used to be a glacier here tens of thousands of years ago that upon melting created Lake Superior and the Kettle River that formed along a fault line. What used to be.

But in the here and now, the Kettle River is a favorite place for experienced whitewater paddlers with Class III-V rapids named Blueberry Slide, Dragon’s Tooth, and Hell’s Gate.

Bunchberry Dogwood

What used to be—the quarry and railroad—is being taken over by Nature. Ferns, trees, grasses, and wildflowers have incorporated into the sandstone boulders and cliffs once again.

But there are ruins and remains of the Quarry still evident and still standing—the Rock Crusher and the Power House which contained a coal-fired steam generator and interestingly, an artesian well where ‘Sandstone’ water was bottled and sold as a side business to the quarry. What used to be.

Above the Hell’s Gate rapids on a level area once stood the town of Banning, established in 1896 and abandoned in 1912 when the quarrying boom was over. The town site is no longer visible—Mother Nature has covered up what used to be.

Precisely-spaced drill holes remain on this sandstone wall where black powder and slow-burning fuses would simultaneously blast a section of rock off the cliff.

This section of smooth rock wall was not quarried—it is called a ‘horst’ where a section of the earth’s crust is lifted along a fault line.

Strange Liverworts, like plastered fallen leaves, grow on the horst, and water drips from the cracks to nourish the plant life that found their unlikely place to grow.

While reading about the history of the Park, I was amazed that railroads, a town, hundreds of quarrymen, and numerous businesses had occupied the trails we were hiking and the forest that had re-grown. There is value in what used to be—many buildings still stand with foundations and walls made from Hinkley Sandstone. There is also value in looking back at what used to be—how it was accomplished, what mistakes were made, what the unacceptable costs were—in order to move forward in a different and better way. Holding steady is a form of safety, as are ‘the law of the land,’ guardrails, rules and norms, order, and peace. They help us get our bearings and feel safe, so we can be in the here and now with those around us. Change and holding steady are not opposable values and actions. Holding steady—safety—is the foundation from which we can be compassionate, be curious, learn and do new things. Do you know what makes you feel steady, open, and peaceful? Do that. Are you aware of who or what brings unfounded fear and stress to your life? Purge them. Fear is being used as a tool to manipulate people for political and financial purposes—one of the oldest tricks in the book. Don’t fall for it. In the ruins and remains of what used to be—in our collective past or our individual past—there is space for peace and renewal and a place to grow.