tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57038993502080755482024-03-24T18:33:27.667-05:00Footprints and PhotographsDevoted to the simple idea that conservation begins with appreciation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-56121353678000683592012-09-01T21:10:00.000-05:002012-08-19T21:16:02.627-05:00Dave's cabin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZhK_x48pBuFtczZNxwnsBPAr2HZAIfDk_QyyXDUXkBF8yClEF2CNmzSf1A6ff-1Ef6f9KARZmMPGlmq8Bz17N84xyZyGlrBVZnyOZFUKYt1MrDDOkyC2W3tB7o2ionQzMJopd4XqRQfq/s1600/Dave's+Cabin+-+rendered+(c)+small+copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490981339803311874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZhK_x48pBuFtczZNxwnsBPAr2HZAIfDk_QyyXDUXkBF8yClEF2CNmzSf1A6ff-1Ef6f9KARZmMPGlmq8Bz17N84xyZyGlrBVZnyOZFUKYt1MrDDOkyC2W3tB7o2ionQzMJopd4XqRQfq/s400/Dave's+Cabin+-+rendered+(c)+small+copy.jpg" style="float: left; height: 278px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 468px;" /></a><br />
Summer, 2010 ~<br />
<br />
It had been too long since my wife and I escaped the place we refer to as civilization. So when an old friend offered his Northwoods cabin to us for the Independence Day weekend, we gladly accepted. We have been acquainted with Dave since the mid-1980’s, when he and I worked together in broadcasting. He now lives in Texas, but keeps the cabin as a place to vacation, host family, and perhaps, eventually to be enjoyed in his retirement.<br />
<br />
His dad, James, originally bought this old three-room shack, situated on the western side of upper Sibley Lake. Later, when it was time to bring the place into a more habitable state, Dave was invited to buy-in. Together, they added a living space and office, updated the kitchen, and turned the previous living area into another bedroom. The exterior of the cabin was finished with the natural look of cedar siding, so as to feel at home in the woods.<br />
<br />
Standing in the center of the living area, it was not hard to envision the father and son working together on their project. Saving money. Planning the layout. Pitching-in on the jobs they could handle, and selecting the right craftsmen for jobs that required skills they, themselves, did not have. In picturing their work on the project, I did not see the muscles made sore by carrying lumber, nor the hammered knuckles or sliver-filled fingertips of the workmen. Only the vaulted pine ceiling, the sturdy deck overlooking the lake, and an eclectic variety of furniture, antiques and mementos gathered over the years. There is a pair of traditional snowshoes hanging on the lake-side wall, a pair of old wooden skis leaning in the corner, and a small pot-belly stove in the middle of the room. A sliding door faces both the lake and the sunrise; a combination that could only be made better by a very early morning and the aroma of fresh coffee.<br />
<br />
Once upon a time—and I suppose this could be said of any place—the Brainerd Lakes area was considered “wilderness.” While still very nice, it has become a popular vacation destination, heavily populated by tourists and cabin owners in the summer, hunters in the fall, and snowmobile owners during winter. Most of the lake-side dwellings could hardly be called cabins; many of them are massive structures, featuring numerous out-buildings to hold a menagerie of toys: Speed boats and the various accessories they might tow, pontoons, jet-skis and the like. (A man paddling across the lake in a kayak or canoe does so at high risk. Not related to waves, wind, or skill level, but because of the heavy traffic of motorized watercraft.) Of course, to make room for these personal theme parks, many trees were cleared, much wildlife was displaced, and briar and brush have been replaced by the sod of finely manicured lawns. Rocks placed on the shore by glaciers have been moved to the front yard to serve as ornaments, and in their place, sand has been trucked-in to create the perfect beach.<br />
<br />
Thousands of people have come to love their place at the lake; indeed, I only fear they might love it to death. In their quest to get "back to nature," they are instead beating nature back.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
In contrast to all of this, there is Dave’s cabin. It sits at the end of a dirt driveway that you might not see from the road if you hadn't known what to look for. A tool shed in the yard holds most of the essential goods; a mower for the relatively small part of the lawn that is cut (most of the land is left to its natural devices), a snow thrower, various tools for cabin repair, a set of golf clubs and a few fishing rods.<br />
<br />
From the back deck, the branches of birch and pine frame a breathtaking view of Sibley Lake. At this moment, there is no walkway down to the water; to reach the lake below, you must navigate through the thickets and down a very steep slope. Dave’s goal is to build a stairway down to the water, eventually, with a few landings where one might stop and enjoy the scenery. But he is compelled to leave the balance of the land as it is now, perfectly disorganized by nature. Near the base of the hill is a small storage shed that came with the property (it is showing its years), and a Grumman canoe that waits to serve Dave, his wife, and their visitors. Or, land-lovers can sit on the edge of the lake, listen for loons, and notice how much life there really is… swimming and blooming among the lily pads just off-shore.<br />
<br />
Julie and I enjoyed the weekend a great deal, playing cards, chatting, making meals together. She did some reading. I did some writing.<br />
<br />
It occurs to me that for some people, the lake is a place to enjoy all of the things that you have. For others, it is a great place to realize how little you need.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9zh5wRxo78pIWfOoNMv632znJSzmaUBIUdJydxdI0ivGvIkofZVyXuWID3a-1ECNQe9BzRDSENwLh_3fLqo2QuhIOiLvUmI9Trfgn-IgW1ePehryrg2rfDRr_3Kn4OZeILP9YkxN-HVR/s1600/Lily+pad+in+bloom+(c)+small+copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490981346865428786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9zh5wRxo78pIWfOoNMv632znJSzmaUBIUdJydxdI0ivGvIkofZVyXuWID3a-1ECNQe9BzRDSENwLh_3fLqo2QuhIOiLvUmI9Trfgn-IgW1ePehryrg2rfDRr_3Kn4OZeILP9YkxN-HVR/s400/Lily+pad+in+bloom+(c)+small+copy.jpg" style="float: left; height: 265px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 469px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-55988979195327971462012-08-04T20:58:00.000-05:002012-08-19T21:12:43.347-05:00A tree without family<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylbn97fYHJvWTmYXNRvpHnPoC-8NJZfqZWGGqsQRhwLbr6LRQZXiN8Ag-7L5CplJFm7IqF9nqUY0S9zD-q3aO3Uxl8LFGFA_LXUfkvELSkuVqnzY_w8fITR7BU6yLo1WNM4IHuk_uFW6E/s1600/Tree+without+a+family+-+7-9-10+copy+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492032493936471746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylbn97fYHJvWTmYXNRvpHnPoC-8NJZfqZWGGqsQRhwLbr6LRQZXiN8Ag-7L5CplJFm7IqF9nqUY0S9zD-q3aO3Uxl8LFGFA_LXUfkvELSkuVqnzY_w8fITR7BU6yLo1WNM4IHuk_uFW6E/s400/Tree+without+a+family+-+7-9-10+copy+small.jpg" style="float: left; height: 415px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 468px;" /></a><br />
<div>
Late summer 2008 ~</div>
<br />
<div>
I cannot know whether it was disease, insects, or the violence of the annual floods that drew the life out of the massive tree that was sitting on the west bank of the Red River. Perhaps it was simply age; it was a huge structure, after all.</div>
<div>
<span style="color: white;">.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Nor could I conclude whether the corpse was a sprawling American elm or a hardy red oak; I can usually call it from this distance, but the absence of leaves made identification difficult.</div>
<br />
<div>
Oak, I think.</div>
<div>
<br />
For one thing, oak is prone to a short, stubby trunk in this region... and wild, knarly branches. But there are other clues, too. Only oak could still appear so sturdy, even though its branches were so lifeless. </div>
<div>
<span style="color: white;">.</span></div>
<div>
And only oak could still stand so strong, even while standing alone.</div>
<div>
<br />
© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-7330034595819050022012-07-08T21:29:00.000-05:002012-07-10T09:33:42.156-05:00Staircase to the St. Croix<span style="color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKWe8WSbPbycocBtOlAq4MqE-p1lj5ROiAbpG4zfZykFMtAK4lJIn0tD3gPatesy7HWHqqIgoP-eYQEHaQaC6kSE0uTs3ivQqaEcNFUSgrKyJFTcaLIo3J8X4IRb5FOfZjd6nNqf5kx91/s1600/Steps+to+Saint+Croix+9-28-10+sm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522158065008229298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKWe8WSbPbycocBtOlAq4MqE-p1lj5ROiAbpG4zfZykFMtAK4lJIn0tD3gPatesy7HWHqqIgoP-eYQEHaQaC6kSE0uTs3ivQqaEcNFUSgrKyJFTcaLIo3J8X4IRb5FOfZjd6nNqf5kx91/s400/Steps+to+Saint+Croix+9-28-10+sm.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 362px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 241px;" /></a></span>Autumn, 2010 ~<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span>Whimsy had carried us east of the river, where we stopped at Chateau St. Croix to discover and buy some wonderful wines. Not yet ready to go home, we continued north and found ourselves exploring a gravel road that shadows Fox Creek through the woods.<br />
<br />
Usually not more than a bed of damp sand and rock, week-long rains had made the creek high and fast. It was as if the water was rushing down stone steps, eager to get to the bottom of the stairs where the St. Croix River was waiting.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-47601704772871633152012-06-02T08:44:00.000-05:002012-05-21T20:41:14.863-05:00A limited time offer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J_rjtI_MXzGTLcBIpatUok5UNjim6ucdbaB40Sqv94C0dC59v1KiQKe-ELqR4s2WI9Qp2ZT9z8B1Zi_lZcPtfk-_hZJvJrKqGkjkS3__2_s7XhSucBldvmDX52ooDRHhtdeSbgL2BIXM/s1600/D+-+The+Pod+-+small+-+cropped.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492834089011647026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J_rjtI_MXzGTLcBIpatUok5UNjim6ucdbaB40Sqv94C0dC59v1KiQKe-ELqR4s2WI9Qp2ZT9z8B1Zi_lZcPtfk-_hZJvJrKqGkjkS3__2_s7XhSucBldvmDX52ooDRHhtdeSbgL2BIXM/s400/D+-+The+Pod+-+small+-+cropped.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 464px;" /></a><br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
Summer 2010 ~<br />
<br />
<div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
There is a small body of water near our home in Saint Michael—Pelican Lake—which has, quite literally, been sentenced to death. You can read full details at <a href="http://cleanuptheriver.blogspot.com/2010/07/introducing-and-draining-pelican-lake.html">CleanUpTheRiver.com </a>or <a href="http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/areas/fisheries/montrose/pelican_lake_info.html">the website of the Minnesota DNR</a>, but to make a long story short, Pelican is a lake that was both artificially and unintentionally created, and one that is scheduled to be purposefully drawn down and returned to its wetland status. It is not my intention to re-hash the “how and why” of the situation in this posting. Simply to reflect on the act of experiencing a wonderful lake… that is about to be essentially erased from the map.</div>
<br />
<div>
There are at least two other “Pelican Lakes”—that I know of—in the state of Minnesota… one near Brainerd and another near Barnesville. But when a moniker was chosen for this young lake, the only obvious choice was to name it for the waterfowl that called it home. Because of the swampy shorelines, land-based predators were few. Because of the relatively warm, shallow waters, bluegills and other fish were plentiful and easy to catch… resulting in the perfect place for Pelicans to call home. </div>
<div>
<br />
At this writing, vivid pictures from a recent kayak trip on the lake are fresh in my minds-eye. As my boat cut through the water, a muskrat swam alongside me, as if to be scurrying home for dinner in another lane on the freeway. I was able to glide quietly toward a pod of the fowl for which this lake is named… until at once, they took graceful flight, just a few feet from my position on the water. </div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFGAjLUWjO2xFahUP8ktMzNkIEOBjtE_QTt0QIrHEZfiQMeRY-ngbA5dXKF2yvsCZDxAvH3bNMAti03uLHndi3KP4DDMv8Lq5Pa5AEbOSzx6DrsZ8LgnULIQek5CNDHeIXsfNOIC2nomD/s1600/A+-+Muskrat+-+small+-+cropped.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492834080416733666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFGAjLUWjO2xFahUP8ktMzNkIEOBjtE_QTt0QIrHEZfiQMeRY-ngbA5dXKF2yvsCZDxAvH3bNMAti03uLHndi3KP4DDMv8Lq5Pa5AEbOSzx6DrsZ8LgnULIQek5CNDHeIXsfNOIC2nomD/s400/A+-+Muskrat+-+small+-+cropped.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 183px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 466px;" /></a> <br />
<div>
As I paddled, I forced myself to reflect on the idea that I was seeing a place in a form that people who follow me might never see. As I mentioned before, this lake is scheduled to be drawn-down to little more than a slough. So, it was my chance to enjoy an environment that I knew would be erased within the next few years. When the lake is eventually drawn down, my kayak might be mired in mud or sitting on dry land... in the same place where it now moves fluidly through lily pads and cattails. The lake, as we know it now, will be gone. Relatively speaking, the end will come swiftly--within a two- or three-year period--which I think is a good thing. It will be a dramatic event for those of us who are familiar with this humble little lake; the change will be conspicuous. </div>
<br />
<div>
Other lakes, rivers and streams all over the world are losing their lives, too, but not as the result of intention, so much as the consequence of over-development, under-management, and outright abuse and pollution. What makes their impairment less dramatic but more tragic is that it is happening so gradually as to not be obvious; even the people who are causing it are unaware that it is happening, because it is happening so slowly.</div>
<br />
<div>
Kayaking over a lake that is about to vanish is a powerful experience, one that I will use to remind me that every place is, in a way, just that fragile. Absent due care, just as surely as if we drained or destroyed them on purpose… any lake, river, stream or ocean is at risk of a similar fate.</div>
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-pLwTRmGvBYX0epBH-hiXm9M9CVm3uPvyXImqm_9ei8X7Ol0kXn5_LAP8Dd4K71FpFemMRsc5qH905GIsBQVoTlAFU-pd6XFdviuxdPRbkaR6bCz6beWuCsDWeeTpGSEtfLEurK6eEo8/s1600/A+-+The+Squadron+-+small+-+cropped.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492834103103690962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-pLwTRmGvBYX0epBH-hiXm9M9CVm3uPvyXImqm_9ei8X7Ol0kXn5_LAP8Dd4K71FpFemMRsc5qH905GIsBQVoTlAFU-pd6XFdviuxdPRbkaR6bCz6beWuCsDWeeTpGSEtfLEurK6eEo8/s400/A+-+The+Squadron+-+small+-+cropped.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 309px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 466px;" /></a>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-37614186365729369552012-05-06T21:02:00.000-05:002012-05-14T22:40:46.739-05:00Shy child<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
Autumn, 2010 ~<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span>It was the first completely free weekend we had been granted in months, so my wife and I decided to explore the shorelines, hills and colors of the St. Croix valley. It was a meandering trip, with no particular destination in mind.<br />
<br />
Bright sunlight—softened by high clouds—brought even more contrast to changing foliage; on a single tree, the eye could absorb vivid greens, shimmering golds, and spirited reds.<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
Even on a lone branch, emerald leaves hung beside those which had already burst into their biggest fall colors, both held in place by stems of crimson. It was if the forest was beginning to blush... like a shy child, nervous that people might be staring at her.<br />
<br />
But then, they <em>were.</em><br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCboOYqwKYayFdo-rsbZJr0hhjb7uig8ZwdWV0xogq7nj3uXSGjL1ziZstj9xpv66OvvXJ1zeLjjqnrQcMHW08xBxw0kqewcs5oK6EdgsY39k2K5h6GVqjlFdTZWccqAE-Im9BoeFFKMkE/s1600/Blushing+Maple+9-25-10.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522755064114470402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCboOYqwKYayFdo-rsbZJr0hhjb7uig8ZwdWV0xogq7nj3uXSGjL1ziZstj9xpv66OvvXJ1zeLjjqnrQcMHW08xBxw0kqewcs5oK6EdgsY39k2K5h6GVqjlFdTZWccqAE-Im9BoeFFKMkE/s400/Blushing+Maple+9-25-10.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 352px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 483px;" /></a>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-77636614614225558602012-04-01T12:30:00.000-05:002012-04-07T22:14:01.595-05:00Lunch at Cattails<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<div><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigS-H22yeXUaokJDOZw5d4X8_xMrqa1cxP-REP6xqay09i7dk0aE6dBFPrjc3zuvZS7-ZKWjLqv2gQkEjX2NibbWRxy826VCbg4GPeD8FuONQbkyZEY9BZreth7mpHSAWcbruQabevpQ9P/s1600/Muskrat+close-up+9-6-10+cropped+-+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544791263504376690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigS-H22yeXUaokJDOZw5d4X8_xMrqa1cxP-REP6xqay09i7dk0aE6dBFPrjc3zuvZS7-ZKWjLqv2gQkEjX2NibbWRxy826VCbg4GPeD8FuONQbkyZEY9BZreth7mpHSAWcbruQabevpQ9P/s400/Muskrat+close-up+9-6-10+cropped+-+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 341px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 469px;" /></a></span><span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
<div><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="color: black;">Late summer through early winter 2010 ~</span></div><span style="color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<div></div><div>His appetite was voracious… to the point that he was only slightly interested in my presence, throwing me a glance only every few moments, and then returning his focus to his lunch. I was sitting quite still , having positioned my canoe deep in the reeds and away from the breeze. For perhaps forty minutes or more, I was able to observe him munching at the cattails, as if this was his favorite dish at his favorite restaurant; he attacked the meal as if this cafe would soon be closing for the season.</div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div>And he wasn’t too far off.</div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div>The Monday of Labor Day weekend signals an end to summer for humans (at least those of us in the north). But animals are sensing the changing season, too, as the daytime sun heats less completely, and the night air becomes crisp. The lakes and rivers become cool, then chilly, then cold… as summer and fall make way for winter. Animals adopt a sense of urgency in eating their fill, or stowing away provisions, or both; winter arrives here long before scheduled on any calendar, and often overstays its welcome in the spring.</div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div>For muskrats, that often means building a house of cattails. The typical structure has a foundation of mud and roots, and walls of mud, stems and stalks from the cattails that surround them. Their house can grow as high as five feet and as wide as eight, even though the cavern inside is relatively small. The thick walls serve two purposes: They will stop the worst of winter winds, and as food supplies run low toward spring, the homeowner can begin eating his residence. </div><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyUED6McACgepwQz2GtVUTB-_0Lb0aIwHYAqQWyBpfabPOM6WY8pEZe87U7DTp-tW3N_OfaXdLJOna7YAw64SWUosTRKuOxCe6yUuPLr1JEVPrKjG6lzkWGSAunBTHkUIg-hIOgXXBZOP/s1600/Swimming+young+muskrat+11-19-10+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544785790820415250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyUED6McACgepwQz2GtVUTB-_0Lb0aIwHYAqQWyBpfabPOM6WY8pEZe87U7DTp-tW3N_OfaXdLJOna7YAw64SWUosTRKuOxCe6yUuPLr1JEVPrKjG6lzkWGSAunBTHkUIg-hIOgXXBZOP/s400/Swimming+young+muskrat+11-19-10+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 170px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 274px;" /></a>The past few years, I’ve had the chance to observe many animals quite closely, including a variety of muskrats. Technically, they are large rodents… a label more often used to describe disease-carrying critters like rats and mice. And certainly, muskrats can make a nuisance of themselves by dining on crops or drilling holes in ditches, levees or dams. But these amazing little mammals have the remarkable ability to make something from nothing… taking lands and waters that few others have use for, and seeing them as habitable environs and sustainable food sources. </div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKRgeI3nDr_rFJkt5NA98xGO7OMOD6v-4o8CmBmcig9JUjA4_jhQM1utUD2fvOOQjA_XWz1d1_MjCRVWTDF8eVWfn0fIm7ugaeUngHYlTdOKMBXlsipMvMACmdOY45VsNQW0EAlz9hGOs/s1600/Feeding+platform+11-19-10+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544786503987750754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmKRgeI3nDr_rFJkt5NA98xGO7OMOD6v-4o8CmBmcig9JUjA4_jhQM1utUD2fvOOQjA_XWz1d1_MjCRVWTDF8eVWfn0fIm7ugaeUngHYlTdOKMBXlsipMvMACmdOY45VsNQW0EAlz9hGOs/s200/Feeding+platform+11-19-10+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 126px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>I became concerned that one young muskrat living in a pond near our home might freeze to death over the winter, as he had done a poor job of cutting enough cattail to build a house with. But a little research taught me that these little critters will also burrow into the banks of a creek or pond and build their home underground.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwT7_YjqQBHIneU2QinboNFXsRORTmxAjYunUFWdhxAxo8SowuOsggd9iBK9F93r-bHlKSSeHHRHhsJ8_fab4Ifv0T_NCeGskRVKkTrY1Rl7seur0-8sd-kZEqg6gNcN1dfsggQ9OrZVA/s1600/Winter+feeding+platform+11-24-10+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544786530886078882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwT7_YjqQBHIneU2QinboNFXsRORTmxAjYunUFWdhxAxo8SowuOsggd9iBK9F93r-bHlKSSeHHRHhsJ8_fab4Ifv0T_NCeGskRVKkTrY1Rl7seur0-8sd-kZEqg6gNcN1dfsggQ9OrZVA/s200/Winter+feeding+platform+11-24-10+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 140px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a> Often, these tunnels feature a single entryway above-ground and additional openings beneath the surface of the water… so as to have a means of escape if invaded, and to provide a safe, convenient route to food sources. The meager cattail clippings I saw were probably a feeding platform, as muskrats prefer to have a designated site for their dining room.</div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div></div><div>Some of these little fellows began to recognize my canoe by early fall, I think. I have visited often without bringing harm or being too intrusive... and on each of four visits, they allowed me to get a little closer. Some folks might assert that muskrats are not smart enough to have figured that all out. But I bet those folks have never built a house, single-handedly, that is strong enough to survive a bitter northern winter. </div><div><span style="color: white;">.</span></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksAbFAuqDuZfIwIHTWIHCYwOMO0Tgpt37SnssoV2Q9OjxhkrYWHLpoBBWU43xA1EKD-YnE7DqdUQ3YWognZkYaZU76DjzmFoff74MC5NsazIcLUJEMiAPWVbxwUI7Ev1JFe7LRWWfAChY/s1600/Muskrat+Hut+3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547320545975003410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksAbFAuqDuZfIwIHTWIHCYwOMO0Tgpt37SnssoV2Q9OjxhkrYWHLpoBBWU43xA1EKD-YnE7DqdUQ3YWognZkYaZU76DjzmFoff74MC5NsazIcLUJEMiAPWVbxwUI7Ev1JFe7LRWWfAChY/s400/Muskrat+Hut+3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 311px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 468px;" /></a>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-20770419185495987792012-03-11T19:54:00.000-05:002012-03-11T21:31:59.143-05:00Cooling off in the Crow<span style="color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhNaRdmyNDhrSJJ1gAwwh1okVWluPJGlTsdue27MazdrrWQSGsQY4XnrpA_A9hQCoUFj6RF-mJYWd4haQZIs8WyJvNsYaIg_sX2hD3mV2sODbEWm1NRt4in3g2yzANX5BAE2pHn6rWp4J/s1600/Cooling+off+in+the+Crow+7-4-2009.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562978310951916802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhNaRdmyNDhrSJJ1gAwwh1okVWluPJGlTsdue27MazdrrWQSGsQY4XnrpA_A9hQCoUFj6RF-mJYWd4haQZIs8WyJvNsYaIg_sX2hD3mV2sODbEWm1NRt4in3g2yzANX5BAE2pHn6rWp4J/s400/Cooling+off+in+the+Crow+7-4-2009.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 368px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 472px;" /></a>.</span><br />
Summer 2009 ~<br />
<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
<div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Not long after putting-in on the Crow River, I allowed my kayak to get hung-up in the rocks of some shallow rapids. Usually, I would push my hands into the water, stiffen my arms, and lift my boat across the obstruction until finding myself in a floatable depth. But this day, I decided to sit there for a moment, lodged in the rocks, and soak-up my surroundings for a moment.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfNcltgsQGOGILI5zKN3oFLEuYkuGQtiEP1kMs0Q09bmdRDbkclePfaPDSV_veHDh3MXxU_eLLbLY1IXOn1McYJX-ATtP2Loa5JRrT8h7sHLouAsrw0GLpVe5EkYxNQS54CtAbkduEjIc/s1600/Drinking+in+the+River+7-4-2009.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562971252025004530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfNcltgsQGOGILI5zKN3oFLEuYkuGQtiEP1kMs0Q09bmdRDbkclePfaPDSV_veHDh3MXxU_eLLbLY1IXOn1McYJX-ATtP2Loa5JRrT8h7sHLouAsrw0GLpVe5EkYxNQS54CtAbkduEjIc/s400/Drinking+in+the+River+7-4-2009.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 153px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 182px;" /></a>The observation time paid off: Within a few moments, I noticed a small doe, perhaps 150 to 200 yards downstream. It occurred to me that the breeze was coming from her direction, covering my scent… and the noise of the rapids was covering the sound I may have made paddling toward her. So, I dismantled my paddle and tucked it into the kayak… and then quietly loosened myself from the rapids. Then, I ducked low in the boat and floated my way toward the doe. I put one hand into the water to act as my rudder, and used my other hand to start shooting photos.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyIm7SHN1VO-gm2tnignKsElLKV2f6dzziNXhorWEo26tSOxTA0QB63jf-SZi4TwKafQq5hxQ2ZaTPlR9vKeDFIHFlnzCMqSMJuBR991jy7fFzUybsyd2kcX7h8QHEafC6LZpmC8E7XN2/s1600/Doe+injuries+7-4-2009.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAcKXnxKQxdmkrynBCyz79QaA9Fo8iSlRmXdQTYLjaP29cHRjow_R5uWVkp6PoCaIyUA9m-gFUT_yj28yfG1voDRGMboQvdYTx7a-hn-92VRUUHopdZCHrg4KnPzrIJ_3SAptep0efP-2/s1600/stacked+does.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584852739006404786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAcKXnxKQxdmkrynBCyz79QaA9Fo8iSlRmXdQTYLjaP29cHRjow_R5uWVkp6PoCaIyUA9m-gFUT_yj28yfG1voDRGMboQvdYTx7a-hn-92VRUUHopdZCHrg4KnPzrIJ_3SAptep0efP-2/s400/stacked+does.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 411px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 139px;" /></a>This quiet approach allowed me to get within about ten or twelve feet of the deer, close enough to note that she had been injured… probably by an automobile. I say that because I could make out the grill marks on her left rib cage, and she had similar injuries near her <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDyGJVyDE2p-_OXFpBTZvHASkWwytpYvTmj_0gKqSs-hyePxg-FTLgge1qijqPH-jYqqiG9SaSK2jf5RV68VLy5DUMH8m12xcoxgqZdkg0ZGGBlsimtFJCqjXHx8arJL1yEF7G4TYEyC0/s1600/Doe+looking+back+7-4-2009.jpg"></a>left eye, as well as cuts on both her front and hind legs. (Click on any photo to enlarge.)<br />
<br />
Obviously, after the trauma she had already been through, the doe did not consider me to be much of threat. She continued to cool her wounds and drink her fill from the waters of the Crow, allowing me to shoot a number of photos. Eventually, she started toward shore—in no particular hurry—and wandered up the riverbank.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NvpnX536yFwLUOYWTXuavhWYfVDvKKAYqIPBsUl1ZWKP6EWJFSRlDfWRxrOLvQCLo3fUEmTiHYvDOZcS5SZgbkieTXjXnern1J4y1r62p5TkO1_aLGT1P83LfDLF5jb7K5_jh5pDimIG/s1600/Doe+winking+7-4-2009.jpg"></a>Early on, I realized what a unique wildlife encounter I had been granted. But as if to put an exclamation point on this once-in-a-lifetime photography experience, the doe turned around one more time before heading into the woods… and winked at me. The only thing more amazing is that my lens caught that final glance.</div><br />
<div>The next time I am delayed by some kind of inconvenience or obstruction, I must remember to stop for a moment, and look around. This could be nature's way of getting me to see something I otherwise may have missed.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: 85%;">[The lead photo in this story was selected as the winner in the wildlife category of the </span></em><a href="http://crowriver.org/photocontest09.html"><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">2009 Crow River photography contest</span></em></a><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">, sponsored by the Joint Powers board of the Crow River Organization of Water (C.R.O.W.). This story was originally posted in January 2010 at CleanUpTheRiver.com.]<br />
<span style="color: white;">.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukCYSdVSfwukAATrs1QdknjCD913uy9JwT7hZIBkOXZZ7MDl152GpeDX6pIu3eTG0O59KtDKHs3bUWAfaBx0LxdWmAA3MX0AjSMSBLzGwp1da8yIecC44amdlKplqiUJgAIhY7oWnUvLV/s1600/Doe+injuries+7-4-2009.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562977815447314738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukCYSdVSfwukAATrs1QdknjCD913uy9JwT7hZIBkOXZZ7MDl152GpeDX6pIu3eTG0O59KtDKHs3bUWAfaBx0LxdWmAA3MX0AjSMSBLzGwp1da8yIecC44amdlKplqiUJgAIhY7oWnUvLV/s400/Doe+injuries+7-4-2009.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 414px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 470px;" /></a></span></span></em></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div><em><span style="color: white; font-size: 85%;">.<br />
</span></em>© 2010 - 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-62966803372443008372012-02-07T21:45:00.000-06:002012-03-11T21:26:35.401-05:00Brilliant colors and hidden beauty<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
Late autumn, 2010 ~<br />
<span style="color: white;">.<br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjZaOCv_cJdC-_kg_Pcm-b6GH8ck94R1uvd7b5F3fLVqefgO40SuGwASM9X0tg5h1ds6SIzMCMAhTdWqKi07fGaco6spf4d4F8t2YAQZH2rVLAMfsS5D9a9nO9e_XgkWbcBNuU5MaePbM/s1600/Drake+close-up+-+sm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535148646354270098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibjZaOCv_cJdC-_kg_Pcm-b6GH8ck94R1uvd7b5F3fLVqefgO40SuGwASM9X0tg5h1ds6SIzMCMAhTdWqKi07fGaco6spf4d4F8t2YAQZH2rVLAMfsS5D9a9nO9e_XgkWbcBNuU5MaePbM/s200/Drake+close-up+-+sm.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 110px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>It would be easy, at first glance, to consider the male mallard the more brilliant of the pair. After all, the color of his feathers range from light whites to deep charcoal, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8M06MKZK-CJrojEUalwknlx_WKXyHuSBL_GrkC-c64_7AULkMZsDlp94SYyqx1Mx2aLSMTFhaQS7E-xLdIaI6xSuTgiQPZ6nOUTHVzdgtRQJTxgnzEhxO8B-59OCe_nccpJAf_L2NMxi/s1600/Hen+close-up+-sm.jpg"></a>blended in gradient shades all over his body and wings... with a crown of hunter green.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ4TqlcIkF8nErBBKpiKmYTo_-IXOL7sZsvfrAj8P55t3ior_nzEEXJ4jcNzWK3A7DiGV8uZywwEUVjNsoF-wN5AzXatbsF9Gt_THtbiRnJxFHaLp4fMn_oghY-jFF8nakp29IKPJmmyiJ/s1600/Hen+close-up+-sm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535148641862819490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ4TqlcIkF8nErBBKpiKmYTo_-IXOL7sZsvfrAj8P55t3ior_nzEEXJ4jcNzWK3A7DiGV8uZywwEUVjNsoF-wN5AzXatbsF9Gt_THtbiRnJxFHaLp4fMn_oghY-jFF8nakp29IKPJmmyiJ/s200/Hen+close-up+-sm.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 112px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>For all of his grand colors, though, the mallard <em>hen</em> offers her own contrasting beauty. Her colors are more modest, perhaps, but they allow her to blend in, rather than stand out. For the sake of survival, perhaps that makes <em>hers </em>the more brilliant palette.<br />
<br />
The photograph below was taken during hunting season. At first glance, you might see only one duck swimming on this overcast day. But a second look will reveal that there are actually <em>a pair</em> of ducks in the picture. (Click on the image below, and see the hen swimming just inches in front of the drake.) So... with hunters or predators lurking nearby, is it the drake or the hen which makes the more brilliant use of color?<br />
<span style="color: white;">.<br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnp_5zAg-NyxoBWgCiKMIKXvSbwkcE1hpvFX05JtbsyEMaMmDT0gq3TbTkxA-N0ifoc2-w8ihVQYjqIA2PmnjnQysG5OTeHRZ10EcszPTm2VcOyCDY26PR2VlbBuv-gRzfQrfpTdoRKADp/s1600/Colorful+and+camoflaged+10-24-10+-+small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534396869345541218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnp_5zAg-NyxoBWgCiKMIKXvSbwkcE1hpvFX05JtbsyEMaMmDT0gq3TbTkxA-N0ifoc2-w8ihVQYjqIA2PmnjnQysG5OTeHRZ10EcszPTm2VcOyCDY26PR2VlbBuv-gRzfQrfpTdoRKADp/s400/Colorful+and+camoflaged+10-24-10+-+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 335px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 477px;" /></a><br />
© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-69556579890671540062012-01-06T20:18:00.000-06:002012-01-07T18:34:15.700-06:00Lift off<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJdFnUEitjxECituf4toDRCzoS5bhMLcurP6exahyphenhyphen_bsx_FndwZSS1qwvFx_MGA2fx8c7D-pIhWfTyi5C83WLBnfqv04zLCkld4ygDSjPUcOiUdg20cHTuThSNzcGYZebFGFMAV78F7MJ/s1600/stacked+cranes.jpg"><span style="color: #ffffcc;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584849179986768050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJdFnUEitjxECituf4toDRCzoS5bhMLcurP6exahyphenhyphen_bsx_FndwZSS1qwvFx_MGA2fx8c7D-pIhWfTyi5C83WLBnfqv04zLCkld4ygDSjPUcOiUdg20cHTuThSNzcGYZebFGFMAV78F7MJ/s400/stacked+cranes.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 91px;" /></span></a><span style="color: #ffffcc;">.</span></span><span style="color: #ffffcc;"><br />
</span><br />
<div><div><br />
<div>Summer, 2009 ~<br />
<br />
They spook quite easily, so I was delighted to approach the Great Blue Heron without disturbing it. Paddle folded and my camera in hand, I drifted along the shore within just a few yards of the great<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8FqlCKyqNYZ4c1Vrj5mBKEbVT_tZAfwj3BN762iwZdIbafu5Mv5vBNEIdXbP7_xCA_twmsaQFCu0lmu4YfiPWvfaCITF1pKSi5xbT0_Ox2NNqmq5i5Cy3j5CwfIdO_-wmL5MVfTl67Yv/s1600/DSC_0100+-+Copy.JPG"></a> fowl… until he moved toward lift-off.<br />
<span style="color: #ffff99;">.<br />
</span>It is amazing how such a tremendous bird can lift itself from the shore with only a single flap of his wings… and move several feet in a manner that seems effortless.<br />
<br />
I leaned back in my kayak, smiling, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFL_bwlU29qDtI37F1cRjv-SO9NKLkWvo7LExw2v9LtyqUkmr5E2wywtCH47euwsEBd_dFrgYz9romJI65bkjvmcoJpB4_mnfZqPXQHpoGmkIjRicjuDov_4eugNv7SofEAEjIr2u3m7eP/s1600/DSC_0099+-+Copy.JPG"></a>and reflecting on the fascinating sight I had just enjoyed.<br />
<br />
Just then, the Heron circled around to do the same, flying immediately overhead before disappearing over the trees.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexQJgWGQDhLSDNoiDD-3mdMCrv6qTLNJ-2VDuIlpjUMnEs_26ROL4vcFC1ZkJpEFXcb7Zgy9yQ72wKxsO4H_T-NveHXOeg200_uQYnyIq7t-sC15Kq7DcjU0kc7Ke6Qs2jhbBbiAwIrQN/s1600/Great+Blue+Wing+Span+-+Copy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579302787424744610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexQJgWGQDhLSDNoiDD-3mdMCrv6qTLNJ-2VDuIlpjUMnEs_26ROL4vcFC1ZkJpEFXcb7Zgy9yQ72wKxsO4H_T-NveHXOeg200_uQYnyIq7t-sC15Kq7DcjU0kc7Ke6Qs2jhbBbiAwIrQN/s400/Great+Blue+Wing+Span+-+Copy.jpg" style="float: left; height: 280px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 470px;" /></a>© 2009 - 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-51692966083523844702011-12-04T20:42:00.002-06:002011-12-04T20:42:00.385-06:00Dancing in the sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQke7kUN4E0qlnISTaCNfmuD5YM0etCGlPiatltTFl2LeL3l4NlvEwm3jdfERcm9ARM1aedFzdIEiHtRnNAsfRAiKv1vl0HJDBeTuxtE4Mr5u6bpfJ5Y-mssfmsijafEFeBrmtTwLe9Ef/s1600/Synchronized+Flight+%2528blog%2529+3-20-11+-+small.jpg"><span style="color: #ffffcc;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586344107345350226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQke7kUN4E0qlnISTaCNfmuD5YM0etCGlPiatltTFl2LeL3l4NlvEwm3jdfERcm9ARM1aedFzdIEiHtRnNAsfRAiKv1vl0HJDBeTuxtE4Mr5u6bpfJ5Y-mssfmsijafEFeBrmtTwLe9Ef/s400/Synchronized+Flight+%2528blog%2529+3-20-11+-+small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 246px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 467px;" /></span></a><span style="color: #ffffcc;">.<br />
</span>Late winter, 2011 ~<br />
<br />
The overcast sky was seamless, leaving no specific point of entry for the sun. But at the same time, the cloud cover was light, like a veil. The snow white sky was a perfect match for the linen of fresh snow that had fallen the night before.<br />
<br />
As if nature had painted this canvas to serve as a stage for their grand entrance, a pair of Trumpeter Swans broke over the horizon, toward the point where I sat on the river’s edge. They flew like well-choreographed dancers, so well synchronized that I if my imagination was at work.<br />
<br />
As if to provide an encore, the duo made a wide circle over the treetops. From my vantage point, it looked as if they were flying arm-in-arm. I'm glad my camera lens saw it the same way, or surely no one would believe it.<br />
<span style="color: #ffffcc;">.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KfpItRVc57gcoB0CiHgDYMZHK_N2SltRQ_8y7cWiWZi3EhfzVcRoILTFV3PDGN_lucnY8J_yiYTzeRfE87F_Z2e54vU_cXEimPQEKu5LuYMajv8axt_R02BZIZeVG-KVZY510wvFzT_k/s1600/Trumpeters+arm+in+arm+-+small+color.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586343064065839746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KfpItRVc57gcoB0CiHgDYMZHK_N2SltRQ_8y7cWiWZi3EhfzVcRoILTFV3PDGN_lucnY8J_yiYTzeRfE87F_Z2e54vU_cXEimPQEKu5LuYMajv8axt_R02BZIZeVG-KVZY510wvFzT_k/s400/Trumpeters+arm+in+arm+-+small+color.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 279px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 468px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
© 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-61045892771774661662011-11-03T20:59:00.000-05:002011-11-15T20:37:55.506-06:00A home on the St. Croix<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssuiBFmgVJ6YEoyeCHzJ7CIKs8ernJnBJIjFiGm2-wkuiWFTfsD81rKbrlu4JUx0R-J6yCE_YW-ufluqvXb4gUcl-ap3csDPAGgvHRP81VFWUPGMX86l89G_1PuuALoq06gQC9XIdmz4F/s1600/Beaver+Dam+and+Hut+-+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssuiBFmgVJ6YEoyeCHzJ7CIKs8ernJnBJIjFiGm2-wkuiWFTfsD81rKbrlu4JUx0R-J6yCE_YW-ufluqvXb4gUcl-ap3csDPAGgvHRP81VFWUPGMX86l89G_1PuuALoq06gQC9XIdmz4F/s400/Beaver+Dam+and+Hut+-+small.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Summer, 2007 ~</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The collection of branches were too well organized to be placed there accidentally by the wind or water, so I paddled over for a closer look. As the details came into view, it occurred to me that I had happened across a well-built development. What seemed like a row of well-placed sticks was actually a beaver dam, held together by mud and tree limbs of various sizes. It was holding back a considerable pond of water from rains that had fallen earlier in the week. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the background--and strategically placed in the shade--a home for these amazing engineers. <span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">© 2007 – 2011, Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-61797399224053945602011-10-10T21:48:00.000-05:002011-11-15T20:34:43.836-06:00River of glass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQEQ0QN-kX3l3yp1l-AaszxyDfGG4PF4R3rfzz5nL5y2zw_SQWISgXZiK-47MAMN7HZAF_tNY1QNPZqCk6IjSKYNFhhfwicEAHzEx_ghyphenhyphenLDCki1fZKe2NZ76x6rzRi_lESHIEGsTWZPAU/s1600/Glass+River+1+-+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQEQ0QN-kX3l3yp1l-AaszxyDfGG4PF4R3rfzz5nL5y2zw_SQWISgXZiK-47MAMN7HZAF_tNY1QNPZqCk6IjSKYNFhhfwicEAHzEx_ghyphenhyphenLDCki1fZKe2NZ76x6rzRi_lESHIEGsTWZPAU/s400/Glass+River+1+-+small.jpg" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div>Autumn 2007 ~<br />
<br />
I had paddled my kayak across a wide expanse on the flooded St. Croix River. Pausing for a break on the other side, I had a moment to look back… where it seemed as if the path I had just taken was covered in glass. <br />
<br />
Utterly quiet. Totally pristine. As if serenity herself had posed for my camera.<br />
<br />
<br />
© 2007 - 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-35944442579192825732011-09-04T21:36:00.000-05:002011-11-15T20:35:25.839-06:00Staring into sunrise<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqt5zpzSTa8wBpOqsbaSY7niqmcEHGnRL19SvwdDD3KJZuM6BcZxhyNkevu7bTKMNsWNP7XX214MwnCnB3ihTI17d5lRdhtxyg157y5KNX1RRf0dPAqh9BdYKaCWrH6YvP0-l7KkTfZhxW/s1600/Crane+on+StCroix+at+Interstate+-+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqt5zpzSTa8wBpOqsbaSY7niqmcEHGnRL19SvwdDD3KJZuM6BcZxhyNkevu7bTKMNsWNP7XX214MwnCnB3ihTI17d5lRdhtxyg157y5KNX1RRf0dPAqh9BdYKaCWrH6YvP0-l7KkTfZhxW/s400/Crane+on+StCroix+at+Interstate+-+small.jpg" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Summer 2007 ~</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The morning chill was my wake-up call; able to get dressed and grab my camera without waking Julie, I headed for the river. The sun was just rising, and I wanted to meet it.</div><br />
There is an island on the St. Croix River near Interstate Park. With rapids in the foreground and geese in the distance, it was the perfect place for a Great Blue Heron to join me… staring into sunrise.<br />
<br />
<i>(Click any image to enlarge it.)</i><br />
<br />
© 2007 - 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-20136950122862053892011-08-10T20:55:00.000-05:002011-11-15T20:34:11.179-06:00Minnehaha Falls<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep7of1S4GYiYYN2SGUW-LHL8IFQwQGsSx_PR2gNoKoaQC3sBIkleOJ2jbs6APf_R7yN4ALQyakCncwqqgaGqz8Tq2Z6hPdo6zDHl9kr1x8g6I9MRHhyphenhyphenMO92XgXywNOl2EtJLls27IXvL4/s1600/DSC_0252+cropped+copy-+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep7of1S4GYiYYN2SGUW-LHL8IFQwQGsSx_PR2gNoKoaQC3sBIkleOJ2jbs6APf_R7yN4ALQyakCncwqqgaGqz8Tq2Z6hPdo6zDHl9kr1x8g6I9MRHhyphenhyphenMO92XgXywNOl2EtJLls27IXvL4/s400/DSC_0252+cropped+copy-+small.jpg" t$="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Summer, 2011 ~</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The water dropped over Minnehaha Falls with such power that clouds of vapor were forced upward; it was a heavy, hair-lifting breeze that you could actually <em>see,</em> because of the moisture it carried.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">They call it a creek… but I think it much more powerful than that.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">© 2011 Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-87125217140259634152011-07-01T20:04:00.000-05:002011-07-01T14:12:57.654-05:00Visit from a deer friend<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TJWWIYn7m_RH9b57bv02y4PCpkNBSKT62zWH6aJEpVhC6pgV_4-Wsmj3Db9dQytDmR39DFWUG6iU-C2OZ03-QgZBIE2ODWQtiFIKsnd7tpQmq8oxtrO5_S31pWcStoHhTHcmSpIgBAE5/s1600/DEER+FROM+DECK+-+CROPPED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TJWWIYn7m_RH9b57bv02y4PCpkNBSKT62zWH6aJEpVhC6pgV_4-Wsmj3Db9dQytDmR39DFWUG6iU-C2OZ03-QgZBIE2ODWQtiFIKsnd7tpQmq8oxtrO5_S31pWcStoHhTHcmSpIgBAE5/s400/DEER+FROM+DECK+-+CROPPED.jpg" t8="true" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Summer 2011 ~</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Finding the time to get onto the river or into the woods has been difficult this year. So, Sunday afternoon, I was most pleased when something moving made me look up from my computer, and out the office window. Something had moved through the tall grass in the meadow. I grabbed my camera and went up to the deck to wait for the critter to surface. I didn’t wait long, as a doe came into the clearing near a tree, and lifted her head above the brush.</div><br />
When you haven’t had time to go visit old friends, it is nice when they come to visit you.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>© 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-12468342869900493942011-06-03T21:15:00.000-05:002011-11-15T20:37:16.197-06:00Reeds of red<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGaFrG24-p7faiYP-Wyf780XqdcqMMFSn4sxjzyhRz8K-pZIhZ5CQPNKtlKj7X6JS-wihu8bmpjFVZ6GmvtpVL5nPQmNiw_IB0EBd3CZHMNserU9DMcVm8_Ku-Og1SlYt3TIRJV3oOVhF/s1600/Red+Reeds+2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGaFrG24-p7faiYP-Wyf780XqdcqMMFSn4sxjzyhRz8K-pZIhZ5CQPNKtlKj7X6JS-wihu8bmpjFVZ6GmvtpVL5nPQmNiw_IB0EBd3CZHMNserU9DMcVm8_Ku-Og1SlYt3TIRJV3oOVhF/s400/Red+Reeds+2009.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div>Autumn, 2009 ~<br />
<br />
Both the land and water are wonderful artists; when they collaborate, though, their works can be amazing. This day, I came across a large patch of willow branches that had been bleached of their color by the receding water... and Mother Nature adds yet another fine work to her gallery.<br />
<div><br />
© 2009 – 2011, Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-45023398633214860132011-05-21T20:31:00.000-05:002011-05-27T14:43:08.776-05:00Turtle-saurus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1yEV_1hG7KP_X6gSsyTjgvZkHrw59yIA6Nu96pGio7fe2zyOgRPQuK_7cbuUd18u-PnQEs9iZDl-9iKSIiTOFOj9rrWbOZOWqiMusLDgrKGztpL2vvUyb4vuYc9G3_gGtw2QskbKf6NT/s1600/Turtle-saurus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho1yEV_1hG7KP_X6gSsyTjgvZkHrw59yIA6Nu96pGio7fe2zyOgRPQuK_7cbuUd18u-PnQEs9iZDl-9iKSIiTOFOj9rrWbOZOWqiMusLDgrKGztpL2vvUyb4vuYc9G3_gGtw2QskbKf6NT/s400/Turtle-saurus.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Summer, 2009 ~<br />
<br />
In this part of the country, I'm told a snapping turtle can grow to thirty or forty pounds. This one was sunning himself on a rock in the middle of the Crow River. It looked as if he was outgrowing even his impressively large shell. That, along with his long tail and threatening claws, made it easy to imagine that his lineage could be traced directly to the age of dinosaurs. <br />
<br />
© 2009 – 2011, Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-20016507831638441052011-04-10T19:49:00.005-05:002011-04-25T10:10:24.569-05:00Final approach<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2h1x8zfcMpsGYi6FQXiyaxuB1HJa3OS8u_8Ht6ysYkL45EVXkfQNoCZgBxfTQsNt0QT4ca_4eH17i3j-VWJScsHjecEtBPPQEhY2tVoHEFfXQ6rn-TcUtTsDpz918ICnaWzGpRqTI4Da/s1600/Trumpeter+-+tail+feather+landing+-+small.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594118553617411330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2h1x8zfcMpsGYi6FQXiyaxuB1HJa3OS8u_8Ht6ysYkL45EVXkfQNoCZgBxfTQsNt0QT4ca_4eH17i3j-VWJScsHjecEtBPPQEhY2tVoHEFfXQ6rn-TcUtTsDpz918ICnaWzGpRqTI4Da/s400/Trumpeter+-+tail+feather+landing+-+small.jpg" style="float: left; height: 360px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 469px;" /></a></div>Late winter, 2011 ~ <br />
<br />
In mid-flight, Trumpeter Swans soar with grace. But their landings appear less choreographed and more... well, <i>clumsy</i>.<br />
<br />
After circling their landing pad several times to make sure no predators are waiting nearby, they glide toward the water that will serve as their runway. Their wings are fully extended, so as to create the maximum surface area; the wind resistance will serve to place the giant bird gently into the water.<br />
<br />
If you look closely (click to enlarge), you'll notice that this Swan's tail feathers actually touch before its webbed feet... as if to <em>feel</em> the surface just before impact, and sense the precise moment to tuck into a floating position. <br />
<br />
© 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-77847824120683719522011-03-20T17:27:00.006-05:002011-03-20T21:03:39.483-05:00Spring blues<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunaYIA0JokbKoWBWGkqm-hGFV7A6FT9AEM1Xl5o7UNARyzQTO9tVp6aFRiLKA-Ypbg4jHe-mnEoVSsWDG1g8PUQb_bYvf2Yl7hYSCM8GEQXyI-Ipi4qSUfjzH4q4M_-dA4vCtxLLe9aAr/s1600/BlueSpring+3-20-11.jpg"><span style="color:#ffff99;"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 470px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 349px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586334486078334978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunaYIA0JokbKoWBWGkqm-hGFV7A6FT9AEM1Xl5o7UNARyzQTO9tVp6aFRiLKA-Ypbg4jHe-mnEoVSsWDG1g8PUQb_bYvf2Yl7hYSCM8GEQXyI-Ipi4qSUfjzH4q4M_-dA4vCtxLLe9aAr/s400/BlueSpring+3-20-11.jpg" /></span></a><span style="color:#ffff99;">.<br /></span><div>Spring, 2011 ~</div><br /><div></div><div>Some of the waterfowl we see in Minnesota spends part of its winter in the areas most affected by the BP oil spill of last year. When the herons and egrets left last fall, I worried their nesting places would be filled with toxins, and that few might survive to return. </div><div> </div><div>Apparently, my worry was ill-founded; at various times this afternoon, there were groups of three to five Great Blue Herons gathering the wetland behind our house. </div><br /><div>It is good to see you, blue.</div><br /><div>Mike</div><div><br />© 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-11530502207199969542011-02-19T20:58:00.005-06:002011-03-14T11:38:05.526-05:00Here's looking at you<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxdaGDxdhuUJk0NP0JYhj1TdjBSd0HppYGE34KlMyUKvla8ek74GVUikhV24FiDcHouIRkA8BKd-aUzlntgbMISRMdH6dgCzNlTfgGntxkeNE6lFRMyfXiOqkf1b-n3YLGY6fvTgYDdk9/s1600/IMG_1738+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 473px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 362px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579312062150634114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxdaGDxdhuUJk0NP0JYhj1TdjBSd0HppYGE34KlMyUKvla8ek74GVUikhV24FiDcHouIRkA8BKd-aUzlntgbMISRMdH6dgCzNlTfgGntxkeNE6lFRMyfXiOqkf1b-n3YLGY6fvTgYDdk9/s400/IMG_1738+-+Copy.JPG" /></a><span style="color:#ffff99;">.</span><br />Summer, 2007 ~<br /><br /><div>As fun as it is to study the wildlife one sees while paddling the Mississippi River, it is just as fun when that wildlife studies <em>you</em>. </div><div><span style="color:#ffff99;">.</span></div><div>One hot July afternoon, I passed a gaggle of geese, the younger of which found me an interesting critter to be floating along the river.</div><br /><div>© 2007 - 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-36061485884962948652011-01-01T10:12:00.003-06:002011-01-02T13:42:19.702-06:00Spreading his wings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPiWjAHWBk4ApJDUJa12PU976K70jN7aSGmTdnpUV93Jr05EZBa8MYmHAmL1JM-BDRvsQhivsqF53C7C0cxcfnAPbijhEJx8kKNzQZRQWhxb2dAxKIlZQxa_7CRkYGQvDSgJAUTaULgix/s1600/0179+Spreading+his+wings+%2528close-up%2529.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 471px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 335px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555851297750564466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPiWjAHWBk4ApJDUJa12PU976K70jN7aSGmTdnpUV93Jr05EZBa8MYmHAmL1JM-BDRvsQhivsqF53C7C0cxcfnAPbijhEJx8kKNzQZRQWhxb2dAxKIlZQxa_7CRkYGQvDSgJAUTaULgix/s400/0179+Spreading+his+wings+%2528close-up%2529.jpg" /></a><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Midwinter, 2009-2010 ~<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />It is amazing how swiftly the water can move, even on a channel as narrow as the Crow River, and even though the water is cov<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCU8hhHPXAns5MQYjHEgYjXa5OPRKdqbZU5U6Iim9NOrZDRFpMbrx_-IX050a9PrWlBWTFg6GKEaXMrEBBlc48TITGF6g_N_RJWtvmweHcseqBujRYcTIFlCDgytU-IEB31fDO1KxQc_Mp/s1600/Spreading+His+Wings.jpg"></a>ered with ice. But the webbed feet of a Trumpeter Swan are equal to the fast current, allowing the birds swim in place in the open water beneath the bluff just east of town.<br /><br />They gather in this spot because of the open water, and because a friend of mine, Curt Oien, helps them survive the harsh winter with handfuls of dried corn. (Fact is, Curt can go through hundreds of pounds of corn each winter, lugging it down to the riverbank in five-gallon painter’s pails.)<br /><br /><div>On this morning, the winter cold had its usual bitterness, but the air was tolerable for lack of wind. We watched the birds for nearly an hour, long enough to see the abundant grace and elegance that Trumpeters are known for. </div><br /><div>Just as we were about to depart, the Trumpeter’s too, began to take flight… blasting their trademark salutes as if to say, “Thanks for breakfast, Curt. See you tomorrow?” I glanced back—camera at the ready—to take one more look before heading up the hill. A light snow had fallen the night before, covering the rocks and ice chunks on the opposing bank, and creating the illusion of clouds in the background. Just then, the dominant Trumpeter spread his wings in one final display of pageantry.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Mike</div><div><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>[Editor’s note: This photo is the winner in the wildlife category of the 2010 </em></span><a href="http://www.crowriver.org/"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Crow River Organization of Water</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em> photography contest. To see other winners and runners-up, visit the C.R.O.W. website </em></span><a href="http://www.crowriver.org/2010_photo_contest.htm"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>by clicking here</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>. It is the second consecutive year that one of our photographs has been so recognized; last year’s winner was our shot of a deer, </em></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZ6Qz1_4PkBZl1P7IVW9CMt2JvvizQCuDjbzjyjALhs9OJAiRxcrmKlrRewcZ-cJfJrHh_jfUdZLrva1mDvOeX_doYy1HnEjpHQyl-qhrV3tuGXhU_NpqQWrp7pIAotvyMa589yLsUdPT/s1600-h/Cooling+Off+in+the+Crow+River+(c)+small.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>“Cooling Off in the Crow River.”</em></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>]<br /><br /></em></span>© 2010-2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-46553249714921183632010-12-01T20:05:00.007-06:002011-01-16T20:39:32.230-06:00It's not a big place, but it's all mine<span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_uUCeZUN_h2-b41KYcFhq5Hx5dWM5P2LF5GPLf-Ey2QsLsm_sf12z4f30KImWniHpcQSW8aXayMm1RxRTCzNSKr8i2fAFcJZOBxLuWbayBV6QgL2F252-IifNA-lJB0x3majYNBlj-Xd/s1600/It%2527s+not+a+big+place%252C+but+it%2527s+all+mine+-+small.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 469px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539592439133568914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_uUCeZUN_h2-b41KYcFhq5Hx5dWM5P2LF5GPLf-Ey2QsLsm_sf12z4f30KImWniHpcQSW8aXayMm1RxRTCzNSKr8i2fAFcJZOBxLuWbayBV6QgL2F252-IifNA-lJB0x3majYNBlj-Xd/s400/It%2527s+not+a+big+place%252C+but+it%2527s+all+mine+-+small.jpg" /></a>Summer 2010 ~<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>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 <em>that</em> 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. </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>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… <em>resting.</em><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-22489793677212309112010-11-01T20:20:00.002-05:002010-11-15T16:12:52.835-06:00Beads of glass on blades of grass<span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5F45fnWZOlOxdD2vI-O4wT6RkQ170-vcfTU38Kd0qGkxuqH_NkJljGXrqWULFKcVLU4Cenly348r4bcduw_RnpkZnCcfe351iHuXnWbYVZo8KAODUaPHJYdhU7U92qyB70zt2LKLIJdh/s1600/Droplets+on+blades+of+grass+-+cutout.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534389186982089378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 165px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 155px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5F45fnWZOlOxdD2vI-O4wT6RkQ170-vcfTU38Kd0qGkxuqH_NkJljGXrqWULFKcVLU4Cenly348r4bcduw_RnpkZnCcfe351iHuXnWbYVZo8KAODUaPHJYdhU7U92qyB70zt2LKLIJdh/s320/Droplets+on+blades+of+grass+-+cutout.jpg" border="0" /></a>Autumn, 2010 ~<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>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.<br /><br />Within weeks, the precipitation will almost certainly be less kind.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscWDSX06hyphenhyphenxSCXlb62joAep78PcV9Icq37YeuNvUJzLts3MzjtSBBIBsq_VM7GapPkov-dRhgYWvuaSF2VMlygUIFOXRTWt0C0Z4xnjk8cmnTRE8QzXNPY8buW1Yw9ExaCOHHeqEo0h5U/s1600/Droplets+on+blades+of+grass+-+cutout.jpg"></a>But for now, this moisture is the meadow’s refreshment; like the drink of water one might sip before going to bed.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirg57y8u1yLQ2ocR3zM3Qpv6uEpoxtm8ZUm7SstB2C2h7g7ByqG_ol7x8pUtlBdW6NB0UzYHh7rsZgwmQr9iunQavaHvpY5UpIMkHKImIoAk88JAg5tMN9Pkmc2L8xmZm8heBZPSUQC2Zx/s1600/Droplets+on+blades+of+grass+-+small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534386040346199970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 486px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 326px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirg57y8u1yLQ2ocR3zM3Qpv6uEpoxtm8ZUm7SstB2C2h7g7ByqG_ol7x8pUtlBdW6NB0UzYHh7rsZgwmQr9iunQavaHvpY5UpIMkHKImIoAk88JAg5tMN9Pkmc2L8xmZm8heBZPSUQC2Zx/s400/Droplets+on+blades+of+grass+-+small.jpg" border="0" /></a>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-88358272625894167322010-10-12T21:04:00.003-05:002010-11-15T16:12:31.469-06:00Tea time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbIHO1cJ8mrDMsWEtOX1L2iYqPV3HQsgEiZL51Nc3pe3wL6rVPoKbMtazrmDTZDTKVDw8V7LCuVTfybETny3OoaB3I97cX8fEm-UqyvkpGs26ioBtk76X1Au3r2QyuZKz7PaNha03cy15/s1600/Boiling+Tea+9-30-10.jpg"><span style="color:#ffffff;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527717581628986882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 495px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 308px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEbIHO1cJ8mrDMsWEtOX1L2iYqPV3HQsgEiZL51Nc3pe3wL6rVPoKbMtazrmDTZDTKVDw8V7LCuVTfybETny3OoaB3I97cX8fEm-UqyvkpGs26ioBtk76X1Au3r2QyuZKz7PaNha03cy15/s400/Boiling+Tea+9-30-10.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Autumn, 2010 ~<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5703899350208075548.post-92230017709939647702010-09-12T20:06:00.017-05:002010-11-15T16:11:26.452-06:00The footsteps of winter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAeZQCqBF9D-zdxhVzoEUbmHibPVhsQzE60BCKxkWg_vqbAdXsWmu1YKtDZdu1i2G4RQGKQDPt_5W28PozA_vaut_5trgenFUzOEUCMvF5vq7s5HpIbnFMf8pjMQzH9rTjh3Tc-A8bzId/s1600/Green+to+Gold+9-12-10.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521569834751155298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 474px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 177px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAeZQCqBF9D-zdxhVzoEUbmHibPVhsQzE60BCKxkWg_vqbAdXsWmu1YKtDZdu1i2G4RQGKQDPt_5W28PozA_vaut_5trgenFUzOEUCMvF5vq7s5HpIbnFMf8pjMQzH9rTjh3Tc-A8bzId/s400/Green+to+Gold+9-12-10.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Very early autumn, 2010 ~<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <em>Anything</em> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38St2QlSgKl5VjtfxHA4X5AjcvdSyTAi85eY3go-VRLxJ6OidNa6gJinCnZv0TfqchDsUePkT3FFH0cPAbFewNf4zOufgyoIMyNcVb6paCn-5sfeQOFe-beEYINyXHFh0bZb8uPuC4J4C/s1600/Eagle+Silhouette+3+9-26-10.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521395348810995186" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 159px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 445px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38St2QlSgKl5VjtfxHA4X5AjcvdSyTAi85eY3go-VRLxJ6OidNa6gJinCnZv0TfqchDsUePkT3FFH0cPAbFewNf4zOufgyoIMyNcVb6paCn-5sfeQOFe-beEYINyXHFh0bZb8uPuC4J4C/s400/Eagle+Silhouette+3+9-26-10.jpg" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Look long and listen closely, my friend. Winter’s footsteps are not far behind.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0