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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.

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.

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.

A home on the St. Croix

Summer, 2007 ~

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.  

In the background--and strategically placed in the shade--a home for these amazing engineers.   

© 2007 – 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.

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.

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.