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.

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.

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.

A game of chance

Summer 2010 ~

As a whole, nature is a skilled architect, using an endless variety of elements and conditions to build forests which are both structurally sound and aesthetically beautiful. But for any animal or plant that lives there, the woods are little more than a game of chance.

Young pine saplings—those fortunate enough to have their seeds cast into a clearing by the forces of gravity and wind—must be aggressive in setting their roots and reaching for the sky. After all, competition is fierce, as the forest floor is covered with grass, ivy, burning brush and other broad-leaf shrubbery. These plants, like the sapling, must fight for their share of the moisture below and the sunlight above. Nature will choose only the most robust sprouts—planted perchance in the perfect places—to survive among all the contenders.

Then, even as it grows, the thin-needled spruce must fight with the birch, poplar, ash and elm… each of which are armed with wider leaves, making them able to drink faster those rays that pour down on the forest. The evergreen knows an advantage, too, however; one that will not be apparent until autumn. The change of seasons will send most of the forest into a state of dormancy. Leaves will be shed, grasses will turn brown and lie down… leaving a greater share of sunshine to the conifer, even though the days grow shorter and the nights longer with the approach of winter.

While other trees sleep, the evergreens make their move, which is one of the reasons Jack Pine, Blue Spruce and Douglas-fir trees so dominate many northern forests. Another reason is the sheer efficiency of these knotty pines. Once established, they waste little energy growing limbs at lower levels; little sunlight is to be had there. In a congested forest, they reserve green growth for the highest portion of their canopy, where sunlight is plentiful.

On a walk through the woods, you will see many small, lifeless trees… whose browned needles have withered in the shadow of more successful, mature, majestic trees. And, you will see giant pines whose branches have gone bare or broken. Birds that once used the tree as a nesting place now chop and peck at its trunk for sap, knowing insects will get caught in the sticky syrup and preserved until mealtime. Eventually, though, these injuries become a place for grubs and disease to enter, and the weakened tree can only wait for a strong wind to knock it over, where it can melt into the forest floor.

Again, nature has made her selection. But it is nothing to worry about... as the opening in the woods will be taken by one of a million sprouts, as another game begins.

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© 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.