A (Short) Bison Tale

In late September, I was headed along Slough Creek in Yellowstone's backcountry.  This hike follows an old wagon road--around the first turn, I came upon this guy.  He was hard to miss.

Meep.

People always ask me if I am afraid of wild animals, but since I can't think of any negative experiences I've had with them, I guess the answer is still no.  My strategy is to remain calm and...visit.

"Hey, so I just got going here.  I am not really ready for a rest yet."  Grunt, grunt.  "Ok, I'll sit down.  You realize that you freaked out those two people behind me, they went back to the car.  I know, right?  It's such a nice hike, too.  You have good taste in hikes."  Breathing.  Tongue sticking out.  "Do you have relatives in Medora?  I was just there a few days ago, maybe it was your cousin who put his head on my picnic table while I was cooking.  Nice guy, vegetarian.  Psst, you've got something by your right horn, above your eye, your OTHER right horn...never mind, it looks good on you.  I like the smell of pine needles in my hair, too."

This goes on for quite some time.  (Jon has fallen asleep by now if he is reading this.)

"Ok, well, I am going to make my way around since you are not going to move.  If I step on a bear, you had better gore him, because I'm detouring to be polite.  That's what friends do, they extend these courtesies to each other.  I detour, you gore. Remember your role."

I throw out a thumbs up, pick my way around, and continue hiking.  Two hours later, close to sunset, I head back. 

He's around a different bend, in a very tight spot, still on the trail.  The safest place for me is on the trail.  Scanning up one hill on the right and down one drop on the left, I figure I'm stuck for real this time.

"It's nice to see you!  I did have a great hike, thanks for asking.  There is an eagle down at the creek, and about a million chipmunks scurrying around.  How was your afternoon grazing?  Oh, good, I'm glad--you need to eat as much as you can before winter.  Say...it really is time for me to get back, it's not smart for me to be walking after the sun goes down."

Nothing.  I shift from foot to foot, thumbs hooked in the straps of my pack. 

"Since we are friends now, the nice thing to do would be to move aside, so I can pass.  Because friends take turns."

I shift again.  Incredibly, he steps up and off the trail.  We blink at each other, my face undoubtedly a mix of surprise and delight at this development.  I cinch my pack tight so the poles don't rattle, breathe evenly, and use my quietest steps to brush by.

When I am a safe distance away, I look over my shoulder; he is back on the trail, watching me.  While surely this is a coincidence, I can't help but grin.

:)

Unbound

Last spring, I decided to explore a new section of the Taconite Trail near our cabin, which sits just inside the boundary of the Chippewa National Forest.  Taconite runs 150ish miles between Grand Rapids and Ely--for a few miles north of Grand Rapids it is a paved surface for cycling or running, but beyond that it is primarily a snowmobile trail, with many sections crossing bogs or standing water.  I love to run some of the dry stretches early in the year before the vegetation is too high, but it is always a bit of a game as to when my feet will end up wet.  This day, I ended up with wet feet right out of the vehicle, and quickly found myself in a tamarack and black spruce bog.  The forest was just starting to wake after a cold winter.

Tiny tamarack needles.

Suddenly reminded of eating halibut and fiddlehead ferns at Blackbird Cafe in Minneapolis...

Hopping over obvious swamp pools, marsh marigolds, and wolf scat, I made my way across a mile or two of sphagnum, before coming to a road.  In the context of the national forest system, this was a very nice road.  It was built from a reddish gravel, although I don't know exactly which minerals give it that color (feel free to comment that it's taconite, or iron ore, or something else embarrassingly obvious.  Geology was never my area.)  Puzzled, I wondered who would build this road.  There was a choice to go left or right.  For no particular reason, I went left.  

I cropped out a really big spider.  You're welcome.

I followed the road through stands of aspen and birch, the new leaves dropping in a stiff breeze, until finally Taconite became a proper forest trail again.  After a few more (dry) miles, and three skittish deer, I arrived at a small shelter and a picnic table.  You know what this girl loves?  Picnic tables.  They are great to sit on, or for a nap.  I remember lying on this one, eyes closed, listening to the wind in the trees.  Listening to thoughts run through my mind.

As I've gotten older, I've become mindful of the ways in which my personality is evolving, even somehow diverging.  This is reinforcing my belief that people can, and do, change over time, despite our societal cliches to the contrary.  In many ways, I have become more direct--more sure of myself and my wants, less anxious around strangers, more apt to ask someone a narrow question and swallow the answer.  But in another sense, I have become increasingly...vague.  And, I've decided this has everything to do with my attempts to unbind myself from a new nemesis: expectations.

This (imperfect) process started, largely, because of my photography hobby.  I have spent countless hours learning to be a better photographer--absorbing the technical aspects of shooting and editing, self-imposed projects, upgrading my equipment when I felt limited by what I already owned, attending workshops, inviting criticism.  There is no end to the attempt to fuse knowledge with the eye I was given.  This led me to scout areas and envision shots--I put myself in places with intention, craving to capture something I had already decided on.  Almost always, I would leave frustrated and disappointed, unable to comprehend how the world does not bend to meet my imagination.  These thoughts flowed through my mind on that picnic table--how expecting a place to look a certain way made it impossible for me to see it in reality.  The odd thing is that once I was able to begin to detach from expectations in one area of life, I allowed that thinking to slowly flow over into my career, or friendships, even my daily commute.  The struggle to accept life as it is, instead of how I think it should be, has been one of my quieter paths--the way a leaf floats away on a stream when no one is watching, or clouds drift from the sun.  The way a braid becomes loose in the wind.

I went back to this section of Taconite in October.  This trip, I came to the red road again, but went right instead of left.  Around a long and clever bend lay a wasteland of clearcut forest, marked by grayed tree stumps and large rocks torn from the ground.  When I left the region of my upbringing in west central Minnesota and lobbied for our cabin in the northeastern part of the state, that decision was largely to escape overdevelopment, and the influence of farming on lakes.  By doing so, I traded agriculture for logging, and I do not yet have an opinion on logging beyond the fact that it is ugly.  The road went all the way to a tree buffer and a locked gate, intended to conceal these scars from drivers passing on the highway.  I sat on a boulder to let my feet dry, detached and eerily neutral, as if watching this scene from a great distance.  I did not long for a nap on the picnic table, or the confetti of aspen leaves.  Because I had not expected turning right to mirror turning left, I was not disappointed.

After I stepped back into the sphagnum for the last stretch to the vehicle, I was instantly relieved and present again. When nature is whole, we have a chance to feel whole, too.  The wind was breathing the tamarack needles to the sky, the day only just beginning to think of sleep.  A tattletale raven called in the distance. There was no memory of the red road to nowhere. I did not travel intending to see the sun this low, or the tamaracks this golden, but they both existed this way.  Enveloped in privacy, I opened the shutter.

I will forever love this photograph, not for its technical merits, but because the image reflects back to me a most elusive subject: the emotion I felt in this place, in this moment.  There is a softness which speaks to the intimacy I find in nature when I am able to go to it with humility, empty of a desire to take part of it away for myself--watchful only for that which I could not anticipate.

Lulu Pass

I rolled into Yellowstone at 11:55am on a Tuesday, slightly delayed by a charming breakfast at Two Bears Inn in Red Lodge, the knockout Beartooth Highway, and the Beartooth Cafe's beer list sunny patio.  Ahem.  As I went through the gate, my eye caught the campground board.  There were an awful lot of "FULL" tags on it.

Like you wouldn't have stopped...

Cringing, because I know better than to get into Yellowstone at noon, I passed by my preferred campground...and my backup campground...and then a campground I hadn't even considered...before I pulled into the Tower Ranger Station.  Disregarding the "Ranger On Patrol" sign, I creaked the screen door and stepped in.  He was there after all, with a kind smile tucked under the brim of his quintessential hat.

Smiling Ranger: Can I help you with something?

Me: I got here late, I know--before I drive to any more campgrounds, can you tell me which ones are full?

SR: Humm.  It's not good--only Louis Lake is still open, and that's at least two hours more to drive.

Me: The Gallatin campgrounds were all closed when I came through, Shoshone had Beartooth Lake open, but--

SR: --Nah, that's too far back up the pass to go when you are already in Yellowstone.

Me: Well, I didn't come here for the Super 8 in Cooke City.

God bless this guy--he never flinched.  He never asked me if I knew how to camp in bear country, if I felt safe traveling alone, why I wasn't scared of strangers, how did I plan to tell my husband where I was going to spend the night with zero cell service for 70 miles--none of that.  His expression lit up, and he rolled forward with a solution to my problem.

SR: Did you see the sign for Lulu Pass?

Me: I did.

SR:  That's where you want to go, your vehicle will handle the road just fine, so don't be put off by it. There might be hunting parties up there, but you can camp wherever you want because it's Forest Service land.  Just pull off when you find a place you like.

Screen door creaks, and another guy comes in.  "Are you telling her about Lulu?  Yeah, it's beautiful up there.  When you think you've driven far enough, go a little farther, and then enjoy the view."

So, I did just that.

View from my cookstove.

At 8800', it was chilly.  And blissfully silent.  Twelve hours of silence, and moonglow, and everything good in this world.

Lulu Pass as dawn approaches.  I shared this one with six mule deer.

I got the first open campsite in Pebble Creek early the next morning.  In grizzly country, you do trade privacy (and $15) for security: a bear box, a safe place to pour out wash water, and a way to dispose of trash.  Admittedly, I was a little sad to have scored that campsite in the park, because I realized what I was missing outside of it.

Loon Count Weekend!

Had a really awesome morning this past Saturday completing the annual loon count on Wabana Lake with my dad--this is a volunteer program through the Minnesota DNR, called the Minnesota Loon Monitoring Program (MLMP.)  When I was growing up, I would do this count in Otter Tail County, although I was assigned a much smaller lake, so was easily able to survey from the vehicle. 

2014 was my first year surveying in Itasca County.  The past few years, Wabana Lake has been surveyed by the DNR coordinator of the MLMP for this region, but she graciously entrusted the count to me.  I surveyed by kayak and motorized boat last year, under iffy weather conditions, and remember being exhausted by the time I was done.  This year, the cavalry arrived on Friday night, and by cavalry I mean my dad, and his (way more comfortable) boat.

We had stunning weather.  The lake was so calm, the lighting perfect.  Wabana is a big lake, 2222 acres, with many bays, islands, and a northern cove that is wilderness. 

I grew up on a lake.  We always had loons.  I saw them all the time, nature is my gig, etc.  When we bought our cabin on Wabana, I thought I knew quite a bit about loons.  In reality, I didn't know squat about loons.  I never had the chance to see them in such a big space, where they exist in overlapping territories, or where they clash repeatedly with predators.  I have learned more about loons from sitting in a kayak for two summers than I could possibly have imagined, and all of this helped us complete the count this year with accuracy and efficiency.

Buckman Cove

Last year, I only found one, tiny chick.  It was a late spring--the cold weather delayed nesting, and negatively impacted chick survival.  When drifted in to be sure of the number, the parents became very agitated--they were concealing the chick under their wings, calling and swimming rapidly.  I immediately back paddled, assuming I was the cause of their distress.  That's when a shadow passed over the water, and I turned to see an eagle inspecting this fragile family.  We saw that particular chick many times last summer, and into the fall.  It felt almost like a victory to know that the chick almost certainly survived long enough to migrate.

Hello!

The chicks stole the show again this year.  We counted 39 adult loons and three chicks, so our map was looking pretty full!  The parent pictured above had no problem showing off his/her chick, and brought it right up to our boat.  Loon chicks are very entertaining, because they display so many adult characteristics from such a young age (they are semi-precocial.)  This chick could do short dives, wag back feet, and stretch up to flap his/her wings...just like mom and dad.

MLMP is often recruiting volunteers for certain Minnesota counties--follow the link at the top of this entry if you are interested in learning more!

Spring!

Happy 8th birthday to Mac!  We are celebrating at the cabin, today was beautiful!  My heart just soars when I see him here, he is so full of joy and life.  The boys spent today zooming around the yard and went for a few quick swims (the ice just went off this week, and it is COLD.)  Jon and I always joke that the cabin was Mac's birthday present two years ago--when we came to see it, he was with.  All we could hear were his happy feet running on the dock before splashing into the water, over and over.  Mac has taught me so much about happiness, I could not be more grateful for today with him here.

Photography aside: I've been thinking of a place to do a mini-star trail shot as a test for a future project...who knew the perfect location was outside the cabin door?  I wish this photograph could convey the sounds at 1:15am.  There were three pair of loons setting up territory--and two Barred owls, and many frogs, doing the same.  Last night was one of those magical moments where the wind is still enough to reveal how very alive the darkness can be.

Happy spring!

Always Say Yes To Adventure

"Every time I look at Lake Superior, he will be there.  Every time nature presents itself with something spectacular, he will be there.  Each time I question myself, he will be there, coaching and supporting me from wherever he is now.  I hope that each and every one of you can look upon life through Jim’s eyes...with passion, with love, and with supreme joy.  Get outside, take pictures, love your friends, tell your family that they are amazing, do random things for people, spread your love to anyone who will soak it up, and take Jim’s legacy to the fullest."

-Heather Mishefske, at Jim Mishefske's funeral, 4/10/14

The most beautiful moonrise I have ever seen...from the Mishefske family motorhome, in 2005, over Lake Superior.

On April 9th last year, I left work early and started driving to Chippewa Falls.  The Twins were playing the A's, I was listening to it on the radio.  Baseball on the radio is normally something I enjoy, it feels familiar to me, especially while traveling.  I was down that afternoon.  The Twins were down, too.  They were defeated in the 11th, but the extra two innings were welcome.  It was as if I had company in the car with me for just a bit longer.

My friend, Heather, had recently lost her brother, Jim.  When I found out, I felt like the wind had been knocked clear out of me.  Jim was my age--he was young, he was vibrant, he was an athlete.  He had only been married a few years, he had a baby girl.  He was Heather's best friend.  She always mentioned him, or had a funny story about him to share.  Heather and I got into Flat-Coated Retrievers about the same time; when we were together, usually we were doing "dog stuff," and my path didn't cross Jim's very often.  I didn't need to know him well to feel his loss--I knew him through Heather, which was enough.  I was driving to Chippewa Falls because my heart was broken for my friend, and I needed to hold her in my arms.

When I turned on Columbia Street, there were people lined up back to the stoplight waiting to enter the funeral home.  It was a nice day, the first nice day in an otherwise cold spring.  The line moved slowly down the street, up the front steps, and through the doors.  I wasn't really prepared for what was inside: photographs.  Hundreds of them.  Photographs on boards, playing as slideshows, in books.  Yes, all funerals have photographs, but these were an unfolding, visual testament to an incredible life.  The line of people snaked around, cleverly filling every possible space, and we were treated to all these wonderful memories.  Jim with a frosty beard from skiing the Birkie, backpacking, the whole family at his beautiful wedding to Julie.  Jim with his daughter, Jim on a tandem bike with his wife, the BWCA, snowshoeing with family, sharing a beer with friends, Whistlestop, cycling during a triathlon.  Jim in a canoe he built--his dog Boston riding along.  Heather had spotted Boston's picture on Petfinder, she told me she didn't even bother to read the description, she just said, "Jim, this is your dog!  Go get him."  After I had been inside for about an hour, Boston walked slowly through the foyer; you could almost hear hearts collectively breaking as people patted him, or put an arm over him.  Our society is inundated with images--advertising, Instagram, the onslaught of Internet news media, billboards cluttering every major highway--yet we stood mesmerized by those photographs.  When the pictures of Jim would pass on the projector, people couldn't help but smile and laugh.  I remember coming home and telling Jon, "Heather's brother lived more in 36 years than most people could in 100."

The funeral program, and several photos, bore the phrase, "Always say yes to adventure!"  Never can I remember having been so sad, yet so inspired, at the same time.  When I reached Heather, I knew she would carry this ache forever.  I could see it in her eyes, her pain the inevitable byproduct of love and loss.

How do we clearly delineate change in our lives, is it possible to do?  Did being there--the drive, the pictures, the moments I shared with Heather and her mom--did that change me?  Absolutely.  Maybe it is too simple to say there can be an instant when we decide to live differently.  It is probably more likely that there are moments where we begin to change, or where we are propelled faster along a current path of change.  This was one of those moments for me. It was the day "adventure" became a regular part of my vocabulary, it became an intention.  I doubt I was alone.

Heather at Arch Cape, Oregon, summer 2014

This was also when I came to fully realize both the value, and the limitation, of a photograph.  Those snapshots will never be Jim.  They can't capture the timbre of his words, the smell of his shirt, or his laughter.  The elements we most love about those closest to us cannot be preserved in a two dimensional image, and that image can never tell all the intricacies of the instant it was made.  What a photograph can do is act as a key, to unlock the most fragile of memories.  We are less afraid of forgetting if we hold that small key.  It is easy to become camera shy--we age, we change, and we don't always wish to embrace what the camera reveals.  Those changes are happening whether we record them or not.  Please, let someone take your photo.

The fold marks are from  being carried in my purse all year.  :)

You didn't need to know Jim to read this far.  We all know a Jim.  Someone who is driven, and passionate, and kind--someone who inspires not by telling others how to live, but by showing them.  When I asked Heather's permission to begin writing this blog entry almost a year ago, it started with one question: How can we find meaning in the loss of someone who brought such happiness to others?  The only answer I could accept is that when one very brilliant light leaves this world, the rest of us must strive to shine a little brighter.  We must give others the courage they need to be brighter, too.  Only together can we fill this dark space, and foster a legacy.

In pursuit of shining brighter this past year, I changed.  When I quieted my own thoughts and words, it became easier to listen.  I became more vulnerable with my husband, because he deserves it.  Most people I know have a segment of life they are living with urgency, so I began trying to discover what they hunger for, because that is where they need an encouraging word.  I stopped looking for remorse where there is none--in others, and in myself--since that desperate search seems to only end in negativity.  Instead of visiting someone's Facebook page, I visited them.  I said yes to adventure.  In so many ways, this was the best year of my life, because I chose to live it with a different perspective and a new intention.  

Thank you, Jim, for being Heather's brother.  And thank you, Heather, for being my friend.

Eclipsed

This is a photo I never got around to sharing last spring, of the lunar eclipse that occurred on April 15, 2014.

It's not the greatest photo I've ever taken.  Which is ok, that wasn't the point of taking it.

Some people take photographs as a hobby--challenging, but so rewarding.  Some very talented people I know take photos, and then they use them to pay bills.  :)  But, I suspect most people take photos simply to capture a memory.  We want, very badly at times, to freeze a moment forever.  To always have a way to hold an event or place in our minds.

When I look at this photo, what strikes me most is not what it captured--but all the things it could never capture.  I had a lot on my mind that night.  (I usually do.)  My heart was so very, very heavy.  (It usually isn't.)  It was 3:05 am, and our neighborhood was eerily still.  I expect stillness at the lake, or in the country, but it is a rare occurrence in the city.  The blood-orange crept across the moon until it was muted, and stunning.  The photo can't tell you it was only 17 degrees.  Jon and Mac were fast asleep.  Apolo was awake!  Hellloooo!  I'm a puppy still, and I'm awake!  I let him come out with me, and his paws left marks on the frosty grass as he raced silently around the yard.  The photo can't capture how we could see our breath, or how he eventually came to sit as close to me as possible, leaning against my leg with his head on my hip.  It can't capture the sigh as he closed his eyes.  The only sound after that was the steady, intermittent click of the shutter as I released it remotely.  This image is precious to me for reasons unapparent to anyone who wasn't present when it was taken.  In truth, aren't most photos like that?

I'm cheating a bit with this blog entry, because it is a preface to one that will follow later this month, one that has been in draft for almost a year.  It was too difficult to connect the two themes, but they are related, I promise.  Until then!

On Following, and Being Followed

Sunday was my favorite type of Minnesota day.  Below zero temps with clear, blue sky, and a fresh coat of overnight snow.  The kind of snow where the flakes are perfectly discernible, and they glitter in the sun like diamonds.

Remember the sun?  Yeah, I almost forgot what it looked like during December, too.

We were at the cabin, so after Jon's Latte Delivery Service returned from town with some espresso-milk-maple syrup heaven, I decided to walk across the bay to the eagle's nest.  There were no eaglets this year, so not much hope of finding feathers (or the remains of whatever unfortunate animals became eaglet breakfast,) but it is a pretty destination.  The nest is in a giant red pine surrounded by cedars.  An eagle will often coast over to inspect my trespass (it did,) and, with binoculars, I spotted a lonely raven outside an even lonelier fishing house.  Otherwise, it was incredibly still.

New snow on Northern White Cedar

When cold from sitting, I followed my tracks back for lunch.

The narrative would have ended here, uneventfully, had I been able to let go of how annoyed I was about the night before.  I really wanted to photograph the cabin.  The first quarter moon was setting early--providing a great opportunity for some winter shots with the stars as a backdrop.  Cold temperatures mean less particulate matter in the atmosphere, and therefore a sharper sky, but two nights in a row, I was shut out by clouds.  These clouds brought the gift of new snow, which ultimately writes the end of this story--snow so light, so beautiful.  Such a perfect canvas.

Tracks fascinate me.  They always have.  It probably doesn't surprise anyone that I was a really nerdy kid--very into nature, photography, learning, random outdoor projects.  I once sewed a small owl, and then rigged it with fishing line (so it would flap when I tugged the line from a distance) in an attempt to lure in other owls.  I convinced my dad to build me a bat house that must have weighed 40 pounds when it was done.  We always had a bird feeder.  I spent an entire summer journaling a beaver family that lived a mile away, riding my bike down to their lodge every night.  My mom managed to get us to Maplewood the day two pair of Trumpeter Swans were released as part of their reintroduction to Minnesota.  And, for awhile, I was really into plaster casting tracks.  (Fortunately, I had parents who put up with all of this.)  My whole life--no matter where I have lived, or what I have done to earn money--all I've every really been at heart is a naturalist.

I saw my first wolf tracks when I was 11 years old.  We were hiking at Itasca, and came down to an open part of the shore on Allen Lake.  There was a mess of tracks in the soft mud.  Every size and age. This was back when the park wouldn't tell you there were wolves there--people would ALWAYS ask, at the end of the little interpretative programs, and the answer was, "No, there are no wolves in the park."  But, at this point, it was becoming increasingly hard to convince people of that.  I plaster casted a track of a younger wolf.  A copy of it was accepted into the Itasca State Park time capsule, to be opened at the bicentennial in 2091.  Please, go if you're around.  I'm not planning to be.

While running this summer, I followed a set of wolf tracks down our access road, to the end of our driveway.  That was almost a magic moment for me--after that day, I started seeing wolf tracks everywhere.  Not because there really were more sets, just because my intuition for finding them was better.  Soon, I was finding them on every hike.

Look out, Bambi!

Much to my dismay, no matter how many tracks I followed, they did not lead me to any actual wolves. I was always too late.  Sunday, however, I was too early.

Notice Bambi in the very top left.  And by my arch.  And straight out from my toe.

Photography is kind of grueling.  You spend so much time scouting areas, and thinking about how you would set up a shot, getting into position, and then it often falls apart.  Like my starry night backdrop fell apart.  You have to adapt, look for something else, be an optimist.  So, cold day...bright sky, west facing cabin?  Never hurts to hang around after the game, head home a few hours later than normal--stay just long enough to see if there might be some parhelia to photograph.  The trees were blocking the sun as it dropped lower, so I bundled up for one last trip down the slope to the lake.

I was about half way down the steps when I saw the tracks.  The unmistakable, easy, single track of a wolf coming from the south.  When you tell someone you saw wolf tracks, they often brush it off--if not to your face, on the inside.  "Probably just a big dog."  In reality, wolf tracks are super easy to identify.  The track is laid with purpose, with a literal hunger.  Dogs meander, they gallop, they turn around and make big circles.  Dogs snuffle around in the snow, they are curious little time wasters, because their lives do not depend on where they are headed.  The energy radiating off a wolf track is electric: graceful, wild, driven to survive.

I froze.  I looked around.  Nothing.  Once on the ice to inspect, the tracks came from as far away as I could see, from around the south point.  They slowed, with a careful dip of the nose, as the track intersected my own path from earlier.  The wolf casually followed me, as if we walked together to the eagle's nest every day.  Eventually, it turned north and went to the part of our beach that is easiest to climb.  Apolo and Mac boost up in that same spot all summer.  Then the tracks headed down the bank to the north point, and vanished.

We missed the entire thing while microwaving lunch and watching the Vikings.  What do you do?  I never would have seen the tracks had it not been cloudy, had I not missed the photo I wanted, and been forced to "settle for" what I found instead.  The wolves of northern Minnesota are some of our most elusive neighbors.  They do not live among us, but us among them--happy to offer a lesson of patience and flexibility.