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.

.

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.

Meadow Lake

Early spring, 2010 ~

Usually, the open land adjacent to our home is part wetland and part meadow, depending on the season and the amount of rain we have received. But this spring, the snowmelt came with such swiftness that, for a time, the wetland became a full-fledge lake.

I am impressed with the way landscape, if allowed, will make its own contribution to flood control.

Dad would have enjoyed this view.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Veil of fog and frost

.
Late Autumn 2010 ~
.
We woke to winter this morning. Oh, the snow has been on the ground for a couple of days now, but this morning, it felt different… as if winter had decided to stay until spring.

The haze became less and less opague as my eyes moved deeper into the meadow, until fully cloaking those trees that are furthest afield. In their alliance, the fog and frost had blurred the lines between ground, horizon, and sky.
.
© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Leaves made of ice

Late winter, 2009/2010 ~

I suppose that if I write anything further about frost, one might conclude I am a fan of the cold. Few things could be less true; I am eager for the spring sun to condemn all of this snow to a watery end, and chase it to the river where it will float my kayak.

This morning it seemed that the ice itself was longing for summer.

Again today, there was an icey fog on the meadow. And instead of lifting with the sunrise, some of it clung to the trees and shrubs... in such a manner that it seemed to mimmick the leaves that would sprout there in the spring. The flakes rose more than a quarter inch from some of the branches, using the twigs and even thorns as their anchors.

In its shape, in the way it clustered, and in the way it reached-out beyond each branch... it seemed like the flakes of ice wanted to be seen as leaves. When spring arrives and the frost melts to moisture for the trees and shrubs to drink, perhaps the ice will have its wish.

.

© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

The moon is full tonight

Late winter, 2009/2010 ~

The owl has little visual advantage over the hare or field mouse this evening, as the full moon, clear skies and fresh snow have cast a light over the entire meadow. If he is to eat before sunrise, he will have to rely on his remaining three weapons: The stealth of his approach, the swiftness of his strike and the power of his talons.

The meadow does not photograph well at midnight, even under these conditions. Just picture a place that seems to be sleeping when given a fast glance. But watched slowly--the way it is watched by the owl--it fills with the movement of a nocturnal society. It is a contradiction, at once peaceful and vicious, depending only on your point of view.

© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Iced fog

Late winter 2009/2010 ~

It was an unusual sequence of weather. After weeks of below normal temperatures—the kind of deep cold that can make winter seem torturous and long—we had enjoyed a day of unseasonable warmth. The rays of sunlight actually felt warm… a sensation I had not felt since late fall. Melting snow dripped from the rooftops, and a few blades of grass could be seen peeking through the receding snow, in places where the wind had kept snowdrifts from forming.

That evening, just as the sun was sinking into the west, a low bank of clouds moved in, cloaking the sky for as far as the eye could see. That kind of cloud cover has the effect of a blanket, sealing in whatever warmth was created by the day. But it wouldn’t last. The clouds would be pushed quickly through the area by a high pressure system, like a snow-plow shoving snow from a highway. Behind it, the sky would clear and temperatures would once again plummet, as often happens when a weather system comes to call from the far north.

The next morning, the view from our back door was near stunning… a result of the dramatic swing in temperatures. The day before, the sun’s warmth created pools of water from the melting snow; puddles that had now been frozen in their tracks, before they had a chance to run for the river. Overnight, the warm water that had turned to steam sought to climb back into the sky and rejoin its fellow clouds. But the suppressive cold of early morning kept the fog from rising more than twenty or thirty feet into the air. It was if the haze was hitting an invisible ceiling that covered the meadow, and did not have the strength to break through. Never before had I seen such a well-defined patch of fog, allowing a crystal-clear view of the meadow in the foreground, and easy sight of the treetops in the distant background, perhaps a half-mile away. It was as if the energy of the fog had been sapped by the chill... suspending it somewhere between ground and sky. Eventually, the haze would fall back to the ground as frost.

Winter, you have won this battle, but you will not win the war. Spring is not far away, and it will bring a sun which rises higher and longer, delivering a more direct, radiant beam. Eventually, the moisture that has been confined as ice and snow will be warmed to the point that it will be freed… to become the river, lake or cloud it aspires to be.

© 2010 Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

A walk in the meadow

Autumn, 2009 ~

I believe that conservation begins with appreciation. Once a place has made an impression on you--when it becomes significant to you--you tend to take care of it. That place need not be distant, or exotic, or even amazing. It need only be… a place you appreciate.

Our residence sits on a lot in such a manner that its front faces the North/Northwest, leaving the back door facing toward the South/Southeast. The rear step overlooks an odd parcel of land which is partially meadow, partly brush, and partially wetland. As recently as a few years ago it was a hay field, as evidenced by the handful of tall round bales that remain scattered about the area. The conversion from field to wetland has occurred only over the past few years, as the surrounding neighborhood has been developed, and as an increasing amount of water has been released from Pelican Lake, a few miles to our west, flowing slowly toward the Crow River, which sits a few miles to our east.

Even though our home is no more than two hundred feet from the meadow, the appearance of the land belies its more rugged nature; from the house, it looks like a gentle field, covered with a variety of grasses and flowers in the summertime. But if you walk up to the edge of the parcel, you realize that the blades of grass can reach far over your head, perhaps six to seven feet tall in some places. Deer will appear—and disappear—out of nowhere… because of the way the grass provides complete cover.

I often pause to look out over the meadow, toward a particular round bale that sits in a clearing near the middle of the pasture, close to a small clump of trees. At times, I have seen it used as a lookout tower by a pheasant; these hay bales are perhaps five feet in height, allowing the relatively short bird to survey the immediate area as if it were his domain. On a cool autumn morning, I saw that same bale serve as a bed for a coyote; a warm alternative to sleeping on the cold, wet ground. Close by, I have seen a doe and her fawn nibble on the tender grass.

One Saturday afternoon, we were paid a visit by Caitlyn and Lydia, our granddaughters. Being an infant, Lydia stayed home with grandma Julie… but Caitlyn and I decided to venture out to the meadow, with the goal of making it all the way to that bale of hay in the middle of the field.

Early on, we realized how wet a wetland can be (our shoes were often under two to six inches of water at the base of the grass). And we learned just how pokey a swarm of thistle plants can be. And we re-discovered how clingy cockleburs can be. But Caitlyn smiled through it all. With cat tails and blade-grass reaching high over her head, we stayed close together… and if we ventured away from each other, we spoke in loud voices to make sure neither of us wandered too far. It was a great adventure… one of those days when you could lose track of who was the grandparent, and who was the child.

On the way home, we came across an area of open meadow where a number of furry caterpillars seemed to be having a hearty lunch as they prepared for winter. Caitlyn was fascinated by how big and soft they were... and I was fascinated by my granddaughter's expression. Careful to not disturb the little critter, she held-up a blade of grass that one particularly fluffy crawler had clung to... and spent a few moments admiring the creature.

I spent those same moments admiring the look on Caitlyn's face.

She was in awe, for a time, fascinated by the way the caterpillar moved, the way it held-on to the grass, and the thickness of the fur coat it wore... as if it knew the cold season was fast approaching. As she studied the caterpillar, it was clear that this landscape had become an escape; a place to enjoy, observe, and imagine. Her smile provided evidence... of appreciation.

No one person will ever be capable of saving the planet. But connected to it through a series of small experiences, Caitlyn is the kind of person who will grow up to save parts of it. Nobody will need to ask her or tell her to do it. The decision was her own, inspired by a caterpillar.

What a smart kid.

© 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.

Frost Covered Morning

Midwinter, 2009/2010 ~

Nature provides a reliable navigation tool that will guide you through almost any forest here in the northern latitudes; it is the collection of green, gold or brown lichen that collects on the northern edge of a tree trunk, branch or log... or the soft green moss that gathers on the ground in the shade of the same.

During the winter, nature covers her warm weather clues with snow. But today, I noticed a similar occurance, if only a temporary one, created by coincidence and a southern breeze.

On this crisp January morning, I stepped outside before sunrise to see that the landscape had been painted with a fresh coat of snow and frost. Even above the ground, white crystals clung to nearly every surface in sight; the stairsteps, the side of the house, even the trees and shrubs. But when I looked across the way toward our neighbor's house, to the north, it seemed as if their trees had been overlooked by the frost... but with a closer look, I realized that only the southern face of any surface was frost-free. My first thought was that the winter ice had taken the same approach as the summer moss... using the shadow of the tree to hide from the the sun that would rise shortly. But stepping around to the side of the house, I was caught by a steady southern breeze; it occurred to me that these millions of miniature icicles were the product of a light but steady wind... causing moisture to cling to the northern side of any surface.

I checked later, about nine o'clock. The ice was still hanging in there, probably because the sun hangs so low in the southern sky this time of year.

John Burroughs (1837-1921) was, among other things, a naturalist. His writings include this simple bit of wisdom:

"The best place to observe nature is where you are; the walk to take today is the walk you took yesterday. You will not find just the same things, for both the observed and the observer have changed."

This morning, again, I was provided evidence that he was right.


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

+

About the author

.

In his career, Mike Anderson works for the Center for Sales Strategy, a consulting firm based in Tampa, Florida with media, marketing, and business-to-business clients across the U.S., Canada and Australia. In his free time, he enjoys canoeing, camping and conservation.

His first river clean-up happened back in 1994, when he helped organize a community effort to remove trash and debris from the first 125 miles of the Mississippi River, starting right at the headwaters at Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota. In 2007, he launched CleanUpTheRiver.com to document the progress made and lessons he learned while cleaning debris from more than 54 miles of adopted shoreline on both the St. Croix and Mississippi rivers. The goal of the site is to remind people that anyone, on any given day, has the power to improve a place.
In 2009, Mike was persuaded by his wife (and by his doctor) to start acting his age… and pursue his conservation ambitions in ways that involve less heavy lifting. So, he started another blog, known as FootprintsAndPhotographs.com. The idea behind this site is that conservation starts with appreciation. In other words, when people are connected to a place through hunting, fishing, hiking, paddling or any other outdoor activity… they are simply more likely to take care of those natural places. So, through colorful writing and vivid photography, FootprintsAndPhotographs.com seeks to help people notice and admire the outside world.

In 2011, he started another blog, designed to serve as a gallery for his non-wildlife photography, and to share stories about people who are doing something interesting... and of human service.  That effort is called, "A Kind Eye," and it is found at http://akindeye.com/.

Mike was named one of the “Heroes of Conservation” by Field and Stream magazine in July, 2009. His efforts have been covered in articles by Minnesota Waters (a lake and river advocacy group) and in Minnesota Trails magazine. Locally, he has been interviewed by WLTE Radio, and was the subject of a short feature about conservation that was produced by KARE-11 News in 2008, and re-broadcast for Earth Day in 2009. He is an award-winning amateur photographer and an associate member of the International League of Conservation Writers.

Mike lives with his wife, Julie, in St. Michael, Minnesota. The two have been married for more than thirty years, and share three adult children and three amazing granddaughters.  What more could a couple ask for?

Return to main blog.
.