Staircase to the St. Croix

Autumn, 2010 ~
.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.

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.

.© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Shy child

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Autumn, 2010 ~
.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.

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.
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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.

But then, they were.
.© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Lunch at Cattails

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Late summer through early winter 2010 ~

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.

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And he wasn’t too far off.

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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.

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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.

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.

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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. 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.

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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.

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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Brilliant colors and hidden beauty

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Late autumn, 2010 ~
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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, blended in gradient shades all over his body and wings... with a crown of hunter green.

For all of his grand colors, though, the mallard hen 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 hers the more brilliant palette.

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 a pair 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?
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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

River of glass

Autumn 2007 ~

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.

Utterly quiet.  Totally pristine.  As if serenity herself had posed for my camera.


© 2007 - 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Reeds of red

Autumn, 2009 ~

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.

© 2009 – 2011, Mike 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.

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.