Dave's cabin

Summer, 2010 ~

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But I digress.

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.

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.

Julie and I enjoyed the weekend a great deal, playing cards, chatting, making meals together. She did some reading. I did some writing.

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.





© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A tree without family

Late summer 2008 ~

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.

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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.

Oak, I think.

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.

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And only oak could still stand so strong, even while standing alone.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A limited time offer

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.

Cooling off in the Crow

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Summer 2009 ~
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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.

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.

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 left eye, as well as cuts on both her front and hind legs. (Click on any photo to enlarge.)

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.

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.

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.

[The lead photo in this story was selected as the winner in the wildlife category of the 2009 Crow River photography contest, 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.]
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© 2010 - 2011 Mike Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.

Minnehaha Falls

Summer, 2011 ~

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 see, because of the moisture it carried.

They call it a creek… but I think it much more powerful than that.

© 2011 Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.

Visit from a deer friend

Summer 2011 ~

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.

When you haven’t had time to go visit old friends, it is nice when they come to visit you.

© 2011 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Turtle-saurus

Summer, 2009 ~

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. 

© 2009 – 2011, Mike Anderson. All rights reserved.

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

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

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

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.

Putting me in my place

Summer 2010 ~

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

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

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

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Making do

Summer 2010 ~

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

And I don’t even like mushrooms.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Mutual impact

Summer 2009 ~

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

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

Even turtles know that.

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

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Until we meet again...

Summer 2010 ~

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

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

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

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

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

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© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

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.