It's not a big place, but it's all mine

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Summer 2010 ~
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I positioned my canoe near a flock of Pelicans that were arguing about who should get the better of resting places among the rocks and cattails. The process appeared quite complex; one bird would bump another from the nicest roost, then that Pelican would then jump to a nearby log... pushing yet another bird from that spot. And so the process continued as the larger and stronger birds jockeyed for position, and the smaller and weaker ones moved aside to lesser locations.

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Throughout this take-and-give negotiation, there was one wise old bird who realized life was too short to worry about a proverbial pecking order. He had found a roost that was nothing special, but adequate; indeed, his body dwarfed the stone on which he sat. But while the other Pelicans spent their afternoon fighting over the best places to rest, he was content to spend the time… resting.
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Beads of glass on blades of grass

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Autumn, 2010 ~
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It wasn’t rain, really, but something between a very heavy fog and a very soft drizzle. The moisture was landing with such subtlety that it did not disturb even the fragile blades of grass it fell upon.

Within weeks, the precipitation will almost certainly be less kind.

Snow will beat the meadow into submission, driven by harsh winds and arriving in quantities that will simply overwhelm the tall grass and field brush… forcing it to lie down and sleep for winter’s duration.

But for now, this moisture is the meadow’s refreshment; like the drink of water one might sip before going to bed.
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Tea time

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Autumn, 2010 ~
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Maple, poplar, box elder and ash; these and other trees have dropped their foliage into the river like tea leaves into a boiling pot. It turns an otherwise crystal-clear Saint Croix River into a brownish, bubbling churn… made particularly dark this year by the roiling water of heavy rains and floodplain runoff.

It is amazing to sit on this bluff, perhaps fifty feet above the river… and realize that by spring, the melting winter snow will make this water run pure again.
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

The footsteps of winter

Very early autumn, 2010 ~

One could feel the first chilling breezes of autumn as early as Labor Day. The foliage was beginning its conversion from deep green to gold, and the leaves had gone from tender and flexible to slightly crisp… a change that was conspicuous, if not to the touch, then by the bristling sound they made as they waved in the wind.

I catch myself trying to imagine life as it was perhaps a century or more ago, as people prepared for the onset of winter here in Minnesota. In my mental picture of that history, life presented few of today's conveniences; there was no running water, no electricity or the fancy appliances it powers, few of the comforts modern life has taught us to take for granted.

The harvest was carefully stored to prevent vermin, moisture or mold from stealing the crop. Pork had to be salted away in brine, in case other livestock should perish and venison should be too scarce. Fruits and berries were put-up in jams and preserves, and vegetables were steamed and vacuum-sealed into jars starting as early as late July, a task that would not be complete until late fall. And weeks were spent cutting and splitting logs, in quantities sufficient to keep a small house tolerably warm over the brutal months of snow and ice. Anything one might need between now and spring had to be carefully thought of and prepared-for in advance; in Minnesota, winter is long and unforgiving.

While on a less life-and-death scale, I have found myself preparing for winter these days, too. It has been a very busy year, with many demands swallowing-up the time I would rather have spent on a river or trail. As if cutting timber for the woodshed, I find myself collecting scenes of summer… even by staring just a few seconds longer when I look out the window, glance toward the meadow, or gaze up at the night sky. I am stuffing memories into my mental closet... and collecting some books that will take me to fascinating places, even in the depths of January: Thoreau, Muir, Pinchot, Burroughs. Perhaps I should set-aside some photographs from Ansel Adams, and observations that are more current and close to home, like the writings of Greg Breining.

I know these books—plus some of my own photos, perhaps—will be an insufficient substitute for actually walking outside on warm summer day. But they are the only reasonable replacement for actually being in the woods or on the water.
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At mid-afternoon, Julie (my wife) interrupts my train of thought with an urgent idea. She asks, “Why don’t you take some time and hit the river with your canoe today?”

Knowing a more brilliant idea could not possibly exist, I set down my pen and quickly head for the garage. Within moments, my canoe and I are headed for a landing ten miles to the west on the Crow River. My cruise will end just as dark falls, if I paddle quickly.

Late in the trip, I capture the silhouette of an American Bald Eagle. We seemed to have something in common: The desire to take pause... and enjoy some of the final moments of the season.

Look long and listen closely, my friend. Winter’s footsteps are not far behind.
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Photos... from a camera, and the minds' eye

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Summer 2010 ~

While on a flight to New York for a job assignment, I am reflecting on the kayak trip I took yesterday, floating from Rockford, Minnesota, to Bernings Mill near St. Michael. It was longer than my usual trip on the Crow River; normally, I take the shorter run that begins at Hanover. But it was just my fourth time out this season—and only my first river trip this year—so I was determined to make the most of it.

[Right now, I suspect we are flying over the Allegheny forests of west-central Pennsylvania. They compose a beautiful range of rolling hills and mountains, seasoned with various rivers, lakes and farms. In the distance, I can see the powerful thunderstorms which I presume to be the cause of my several travel delays today. It is ironic that thesestorms can raise such havoc on the ground, and yet, seem so peaceful (almost surreal) and majestic from the vantage point of the sky.]

My day on the river yielded no new, remarkable photographs; not for lack of worthy sights, but because my camera skills and patience had become rusty since my last river voyage. I did capture one blue heron as it studied me from the top of a hollowed tree trunk. I am pleased to add this shot to my collection.

Among the sights which escaped my camera lens were an adolescent bald eagle (brown features with a spackling of white dots), a more mature eagle (with its iconic white head and tail features, dark body, and gold talons), and smaller blue heron that would leap into flight each time I tucked my camera into its’ dry stow. The camera-shy bird would fly downstream to the next bend to hide, repeating this taunting behavior no less than four times. I saw a green heron, distinguished by its deep green feathers, and accented by burgundy and blue. And finally, a number of painted and soft-shell turtles slid from the logs where they were sunning before I could snap their portrait.

While it takes years of practice to become any good at natural photography, it takes only weeks to lose your edge. No matter; I have captured many shots in my minds eye. (I only wish my mental pictures could be printed and saved, that they might be shared with others, and less likely to fade.)

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A game of chance

Summer 2010 ~

As a whole, nature is a skilled architect, using an endless variety of elements and conditions to build forests which are both structurally sound and aesthetically beautiful. But for any animal or plant that lives there, the woods are little more than a game of chance.

Young pine saplings—those fortunate enough to have their seeds cast into a clearing by the forces of gravity and wind—must be aggressive in setting their roots and reaching for the sky. After all, competition is fierce, as the forest floor is covered with grass, ivy, burning brush and other broad-leaf shrubbery. These plants, like the sapling, must fight for their share of the moisture below and the sunlight above. Nature will choose only the most robust sprouts—planted perchance in the perfect places—to survive among all the contenders.

Then, even as it grows, the thin-needled spruce must fight with the birch, poplar, ash and elm… each of which are armed with wider leaves, making them able to drink faster those rays that pour down on the forest. The evergreen knows an advantage, too, however; one that will not be apparent until autumn. The change of seasons will send most of the forest into a state of dormancy. Leaves will be shed, grasses will turn brown and lie down… leaving a greater share of sunshine to the conifer, even though the days grow shorter and the nights longer with the approach of winter.

While other trees sleep, the evergreens make their move, which is one of the reasons Jack Pine, Blue Spruce and Douglas-fir trees so dominate many northern forests. Another reason is the sheer efficiency of these knotty pines. Once established, they waste little energy growing limbs at lower levels; little sunlight is to be had there. In a congested forest, they reserve green growth for the highest portion of their canopy, where sunlight is plentiful.

On a walk through the woods, you will see many small, lifeless trees… whose browned needles have withered in the shadow of more successful, mature, majestic trees. And, you will see giant pines whose branches have gone bare or broken. Birds that once used the tree as a nesting place now chop and peck at its trunk for sap, knowing insects will get caught in the sticky syrup and preserved until mealtime. Eventually, though, these injuries become a place for grubs and disease to enter, and the weakened tree can only wait for a strong wind to knock it over, where it can melt into the forest floor.

Again, nature has made her selection. But it is nothing to worry about... as the opening in the woods will be taken by one of a million sprouts, as another game begins.

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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Putting me in my place

Summer 2010 ~

I stepped outside, onto the deck, to start a fire on the grill. As I lifted the cover, something underneath jumped up—even hitting the side of my hand—and then leapt off the stove to the deck floor, rolled-over the side, onto the ground and down the hill… all before I could even tell what it was. Finally, the little fuzzball came to rest at the top of a small tree stump, glancing back at me to offer what seemed like a dirty look. The little speed demon was a chipmunk. The way he darted so quickly before looking back to sneer at me, it was obvious that he was no less startled than I.

What a gutsy little critter, I thought! Climbing up on the porch and into the grill, licking the grill pan where fat drippings are caught, snooping for something to eat… and then probably dozing-off beneath the vinyl cover of the stove, where he was protected himself from his enemies and the elements. What a courageous vermin!

At first, I thought how daring this little critter was to intrude on my space. But then, looking around at this secluded cabin, in the woods, near the lake… I realized the converse was true. It was I who was the intruder in his place.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Making do

Summer 2010 ~

The forest is a great competition, to be sure, but to suggest that only the strong survive would be to over-simplify the situation. As evidence, I offer the mushroom. Content to survive on the ruins of the fallen, mushrooms can survive—indeed, thrive—on little more than rotting leaves and tree limbs, moisture and soil. From this modest diet, they gain adequate strength to push their way clear of the pine cones and needles that concealed them as they sprouted. Very impressive.

And I don’t even like mushrooms.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Mutual impact

Summer 2009 ~

It had been difficult to find time to get out on the water, as I so enjoy; an afternoon on the river gives someone a chance to relax, and a refreshed perspective.

You notice things more, after a quiet day on the water.

Even turtles know that.

It’s funny. We spend voluminous time debating man’s impact on the environment. Perhaps things would be more clear if we considered nature’s impact on us.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Until we meet again...

Summer 2010 ~

I’ve spent the past few years admiring the Great Blue Heron… which has both an imposing presence when standing on the shoreline, and impressive aerodynamics in flight.

Recently, I have grown to admire another of the great fishing birds, the Pelican; while not as dignified in appearance when hanging-around near land, this fishing expert is every bit as graceful in the air.

I am working hard to appreciate them this season, in particular, because I know these amazing fowl to be among the migratory class that will head south this autumn, likely as far as the Gulf Coast. Given the oil spill tragedy that some fear will continue unabated for weeks to come, and given the harm brought on their cousins (brown pelicans and other seabirds) in the south...

I catch myself wondering whether these beautiful creatures will survive their winter nesting grounds and return to us next year. Or whether their beauty will be conspicuously absent from our northern wetlands next summer.

This fall, I must remember to take one extra long, last glance as the kayaking season ends, and wish them safe passage. "Until we meet again, great fishers… may you find clean tidepools in your southern homes, and may your hunting yield an abundant catch."

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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

About roots

Autum 2009 ~

One of the pleasures of living in the Midwest is the chance to observe simplicity. Often, even the most complex items have very basic roots.

For example, we can look out our back door and see the authenticity of farms which are still run by families. Farms which show the character of their years; wrinkles and lines and graying wood that were earned through generations of hard work.

Agriculture has become a complex industry. It would be a shame to overlook the beauty, sweat, and simplicity of its origin.


© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Hiding in plain sight

Spring, 2010 ~

I am accustomed to seeing Great Blue Herons perched in trees, high above the riverside. This spring, I have seen several smaller Egrets near our house, as the unusually rapid thaw left the nearby wetland particularly saturated... and attractive to the long-legged birds.

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As the water from the snowmelt receded, it left behind islands of grass that seem particularly well suited to Egrets, both for nesting and for camoflauge. I have heard their distinct, muffled "croak," but until today, I had not actually seen the bird amidst the brush. Early this morning, after peering toward the wetland for a half hour or so, I finally spotted movement, and confirmed that two of the birds were living nearby.

In the picture above, if you look closely, you’ll find one of them hiding in plain sight. (If you wish, click on the photo to enlarge the image.)

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Meadow Lake

Early spring, 2010 ~

Usually, the open land adjacent to our home is part wetland and part meadow, depending on the season and the amount of rain we have received. But this spring, the snowmelt came with such swiftness that, for a time, the wetland became a full-fledge lake.

I am impressed with the way landscape, if allowed, will make its own contribution to flood control.

Dad would have enjoyed this view.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Veil of fog and frost

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Late Autumn 2010 ~
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We woke to winter this morning. Oh, the snow has been on the ground for a couple of days now, but this morning, it felt different… as if winter had decided to stay until spring.

The haze became less and less opague as my eyes moved deeper into the meadow, until fully cloaking those trees that are furthest afield. In their alliance, the fog and frost had blurred the lines between ground, horizon, and sky.
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Leaves made of ice

Late winter, 2009/2010 ~

I suppose that if I write anything further about frost, one might conclude I am a fan of the cold. Few things could be less true; I am eager for the spring sun to condemn all of this snow to a watery end, and chase it to the river where it will float my kayak.

This morning it seemed that the ice itself was longing for summer.

Again today, there was an icey fog on the meadow. And instead of lifting with the sunrise, some of it clung to the trees and shrubs... in such a manner that it seemed to mimmick the leaves that would sprout there in the spring. The flakes rose more than a quarter inch from some of the branches, using the twigs and even thorns as their anchors.

In its shape, in the way it clustered, and in the way it reached-out beyond each branch... it seemed like the flakes of ice wanted to be seen as leaves. When spring arrives and the frost melts to moisture for the trees and shrubs to drink, perhaps the ice will have its wish.

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© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

The moon is full tonight

Late winter, 2009/2010 ~

The owl has little visual advantage over the hare or field mouse this evening, as the full moon, clear skies and fresh snow have cast a light over the entire meadow. If he is to eat before sunrise, he will have to rely on his remaining three weapons: The stealth of his approach, the swiftness of his strike and the power of his talons.

The meadow does not photograph well at midnight, even under these conditions. Just picture a place that seems to be sleeping when given a fast glance. But watched slowly--the way it is watched by the owl--it fills with the movement of a nocturnal society. It is a contradiction, at once peaceful and vicious, depending only on your point of view.

© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Iced fog

Late winter 2009/2010 ~

It was an unusual sequence of weather. After weeks of below normal temperatures—the kind of deep cold that can make winter seem torturous and long—we had enjoyed a day of unseasonable warmth. The rays of sunlight actually felt warm… a sensation I had not felt since late fall. Melting snow dripped from the rooftops, and a few blades of grass could be seen peeking through the receding snow, in places where the wind had kept snowdrifts from forming.

That evening, just as the sun was sinking into the west, a low bank of clouds moved in, cloaking the sky for as far as the eye could see. That kind of cloud cover has the effect of a blanket, sealing in whatever warmth was created by the day. But it wouldn’t last. The clouds would be pushed quickly through the area by a high pressure system, like a snow-plow shoving snow from a highway. Behind it, the sky would clear and temperatures would once again plummet, as often happens when a weather system comes to call from the far north.

The next morning, the view from our back door was near stunning… a result of the dramatic swing in temperatures. The day before, the sun’s warmth created pools of water from the melting snow; puddles that had now been frozen in their tracks, before they had a chance to run for the river. Overnight, the warm water that had turned to steam sought to climb back into the sky and rejoin its fellow clouds. But the suppressive cold of early morning kept the fog from rising more than twenty or thirty feet into the air. It was if the haze was hitting an invisible ceiling that covered the meadow, and did not have the strength to break through. Never before had I seen such a well-defined patch of fog, allowing a crystal-clear view of the meadow in the foreground, and easy sight of the treetops in the distant background, perhaps a half-mile away. It was as if the energy of the fog had been sapped by the chill... suspending it somewhere between ground and sky. Eventually, the haze would fall back to the ground as frost.

Winter, you have won this battle, but you will not win the war. Spring is not far away, and it will bring a sun which rises higher and longer, delivering a more direct, radiant beam. Eventually, the moisture that has been confined as ice and snow will be warmed to the point that it will be freed… to become the river, lake or cloud it aspires to be.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A walk in the meadow

Autumn, 2009 ~

I believe that conservation begins with appreciation. Once a place has made an impression on you--when it becomes significant to you--you tend to take care of it. That place need not be distant, or exotic, or even amazing. It need only be… a place you appreciate.

Our residence sits on a lot in such a manner that its front faces the North/Northwest, leaving the back door facing toward the South/Southeast. The rear step overlooks an odd parcel of land which is partially meadow, partly brush, and partially wetland. As recently as a few years ago it was a hay field, as evidenced by the handful of tall round bales that remain scattered about the area. The conversion from field to wetland has occurred only over the past few years, as the surrounding neighborhood has been developed, and as an increasing amount of water has been released from Pelican Lake, a few miles to our west, flowing slowly toward the Crow River, which sits a few miles to our east.

Even though our home is no more than two hundred feet from the meadow, the appearance of the land belies its more rugged nature; from the house, it looks like a gentle field, covered with a variety of grasses and flowers in the summertime. But if you walk up to the edge of the parcel, you realize that the blades of grass can reach far over your head, perhaps six to seven feet tall in some places. Deer will appear—and disappear—out of nowhere… because of the way the grass provides complete cover.

I often pause to look out over the meadow, toward a particular round bale that sits in a clearing near the middle of the pasture, close to a small clump of trees. At times, I have seen it used as a lookout tower by a pheasant; these hay bales are perhaps five feet in height, allowing the relatively short bird to survey the immediate area as if it were his domain. On a cool autumn morning, I saw that same bale serve as a bed for a coyote; a warm alternative to sleeping on the cold, wet ground. Close by, I have seen a doe and her fawn nibble on the tender grass.

One Saturday afternoon, we were paid a visit by Caitlyn and Lydia, our granddaughters. Being an infant, Lydia stayed home with grandma Julie… but Caitlyn and I decided to venture out to the meadow, with the goal of making it all the way to that bale of hay in the middle of the field.

Early on, we realized how wet a wetland can be (our shoes were often under two to six inches of water at the base of the grass). And we learned just how pokey a swarm of thistle plants can be. And we re-discovered how clingy cockleburs can be. But Caitlyn smiled through it all. With cat tails and blade-grass reaching high over her head, we stayed close together… and if we ventured away from each other, we spoke in loud voices to make sure neither of us wandered too far. It was a great adventure… one of those days when you could lose track of who was the grandparent, and who was the child.

On the way home, we came across an area of open meadow where a number of furry caterpillars seemed to be having a hearty lunch as they prepared for winter. Caitlyn was fascinated by how big and soft they were... and I was fascinated by my granddaughter's expression. Careful to not disturb the little critter, she held-up a blade of grass that one particularly fluffy crawler had clung to... and spent a few moments admiring the creature.

I spent those same moments admiring the look on Caitlyn's face.

She was in awe, for a time, fascinated by the way the caterpillar moved, the way it held-on to the grass, and the thickness of the fur coat it wore... as if it knew the cold season was fast approaching. As she studied the caterpillar, it was clear that this landscape had become an escape; a place to enjoy, observe, and imagine. Her smile provided evidence... of appreciation.

No one person will ever be capable of saving the planet. But connected to it through a series of small experiences, Caitlyn is the kind of person who will grow up to save parts of it. Nobody will need to ask her or tell her to do it. The decision was her own, inspired by a caterpillar.

What a smart kid.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Cardinal Sunday

Late summer, 2009 ~

My goal for the day was an hour or two of quiet reflection on the river; I accomplished that and more.

It was August 23rd, a Sunday. Thunderstorms earlier in the week had driven the water level high, and the river was moving swiftly. The logs and rocks that frequently serve as "sunning spots" for turtles were now submerged.

The shoreline, usually navigable by foot or hoof, was also under water; the edge of the river was reaching far up the bank, deep into the tall grasses and brush. Thus, the usually visible wildlife was either rare... or perhaps just more difficult to see.

I was particularly interested, then, by a female cardinal that began to study me as I made my way down the river. She would fly ahead perhaps forty yards, land on a branch, and look back in my direction. Then, as if I wasn’t going fast enough to keep up, she would fly back toward me and hover near my kayak, looking me over.

This sequence happened maybe six or seven times, until she was accompanied by another three or four cardinals that she had summoned to see her discovery. Like her, they hovered over my boat for a time, then moved up stream to sit on a branch and rest. Then, they would return to continue their close-up, birds-eye observation.

Unlike the showy, bright red males, the female cardinal has softer, earth-tone feathers. Not as dark as brown, but not as light as tan… I would almost call her color a deep shade of lambswool, with accents of red on the edges of her wings and beak. I have never physically touched one to know for sure, but their feathers look remarkably soft when touched by the eye.

I have studied many types of wildlife from my boat. And I am sure that many forms of wildlife have studied me as I passed by; many more creatures, no doubt, than I even knew were watching. But I have never been so intensely examined as I was that Sunday, by that single cardinal, and then her classmates, doing their best to study who or what I was, and why I was passing through.

My camera stayed packed-away for most of this trip; that a few pictures were captured in my mindseye was merely a bonus.

It was a good day on the river.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.

Frost Covered Morning

Midwinter, 2009/2010 ~

Nature provides a reliable navigation tool that will guide you through almost any forest here in the northern latitudes; it is the collection of green, gold or brown lichen that collects on the northern edge of a tree trunk, branch or log... or the soft green moss that gathers on the ground in the shade of the same.

During the winter, nature covers her warm weather clues with snow. But today, I noticed a similar occurance, if only a temporary one, created by coincidence and a southern breeze.

On this crisp January morning, I stepped outside before sunrise to see that the landscape had been painted with a fresh coat of snow and frost. Even above the ground, white crystals clung to nearly every surface in sight; the stairsteps, the side of the house, even the trees and shrubs. But when I looked across the way toward our neighbor's house, to the north, it seemed as if their trees had been overlooked by the frost... but with a closer look, I realized that only the southern face of any surface was frost-free. My first thought was that the winter ice had taken the same approach as the summer moss... using the shadow of the tree to hide from the the sun that would rise shortly. But stepping around to the side of the house, I was caught by a steady southern breeze; it occurred to me that these millions of miniature icicles were the product of a light but steady wind... causing moisture to cling to the northern side of any surface.

I checked later, about nine o'clock. The ice was still hanging in there, probably because the sun hangs so low in the southern sky this time of year.

John Burroughs (1837-1921) was, among other things, a naturalist. His writings include this simple bit of wisdom:

"The best place to observe nature is where you are; the walk to take today is the walk you took yesterday. You will not find just the same things, for both the observed and the observer have changed."

This morning, again, I was provided evidence that he was right.


© 2010 Mike D. Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.

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