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Summer 2010 ~

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 CleanUpTheRiver.com or the website of the Minnesota DNR, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

© 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.

The footsteps of winter

Very early autumn, 2010 ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Summer 2010 ~

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

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

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

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

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

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Until we meet again...

Summer 2010 ~

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

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

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

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

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

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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Hiding in plain sight

Spring, 2010 ~

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

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

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

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Cardinal Sunday

Late summer, 2009 ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a good day on the river.

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