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.