As the sun climbed out of the eastern horizon, I engaged in the spring ritual of attempted murder. And as of yesterday morning I am once more guilty on all counts of not manslaughter but turkey slaughter.

The big male turkey that I shot was totally innocent of any wrongdoing. I took advantage of his greatest weakness, his intense desire to breed as many hens as he can while fending off other similarly wired gobblers. 

All birds have tricks of the trade to attract a receptive mate. For many it involves songs, vocalizations, feather display, dance and even subtle signals that are unseen by us.  

Wild turkey gobblers show off their availability and “best-of-the-best” status by  boisterously gobbling and literally strutting his stuff. They draw attention to themselves by fanning their impressive banded tail. They can even slowly twist and turn the tail creating a silent, impressive exclamation point of sorts. While strutting, his almost gaudy, iridescent body feathers are erect, fluffed out, giving him the appearance of being larger than he really is. He drags the tips of his wings on the ground, giving them a truncated appearance.  His featherless head is fleshy, wrinkled and colored red, white and blue making it beautiful and ugly at the same time. 

A healthy dominant male might have a long fleshy protuberance growing out of its head between its eyes and its upper beak. Called a snood, it signals dominance in the company of other breeding males and it serves to attract the lady turkeys. Generally, the longer the snood the more relaxed and confident is the bird. If he is alarmed or not trying to impress turkeys, the snood retracts and its quite short.

An hour before killing the bird, as night melted from dark to gray, I set out a single decoy that resembled a hen turkey and scrambled in my camouflage attire to hide among the bony limbs of a downed oak. With my fingers, I raked away dried leaves and sticks to try and make the ground more comfortable to sit on. 

I listened to three different gobblers declaring their availability and superiority over all other males. Using a mouth call I attempted to give voice to the decoy in front of me. I have learned through the years of hunting that less is better when it comes to calling. 

Three gobblers, or toms, strutted their way across the field and all of them paused in their pursuits about one hundred yards from me. The largest and loudest of the three was obviously trying to get my darling hen decoy to come out and meet him. Impatient or bored he drifted north out of sight. 

Shortly after he left, the other two toms turned and headed back south and out of sight. And just like that there were no turkeys in view. 

I decided to pack up my calls and hurry south to a woods where I could put myself in a good position to call to the duo that had departed the scene. Just as I was ready to untangle myself from the limbs, I heard a gobble from the direction that the big boy had departed. He wasn’t that far away. So I settled in my nest and made a couple of soft yelping calls followed by comforting clucks and the most seductive turkey purrs I could manage. 

Less than two minutes later, through the thick brush I spied the patriotic colored head moving slowly and regally towards me.  His wings were reaching down on each side of his puffed self, like a mythical gunslinger with his hands poised above his holstered pistols. Each barred wing was etching the ground in fine scratches as if to show off his artistic path. He was dressed to the nines, body feathers all erect and percussively thrumming.  His tail fanned out like a rising sun. He promenaded ever so slowly in a parade of one, towards the faux turkey, the femmes fatale.

In a loud instant I ended the parade. The drum major went from full strut to a crumpled, stilled carcass. I was responsible for stopping his excitedly beating heart and stealing his strut.  I insisted the bird practice coitus interruptus finalis. 

Immediately after he died,the world got dead quiet.I did not pump my fist in celebration, nor did I shout “Oh yeah!” Instead I found myself saying in a hushed whisper, “I’m sorry.”

There was a time in my life when I might have been more robustly jubilant in making a killing shot. However as I age, I have come to realize that I am moving closer to my own termination date. Consequently, the preciousness of life is more immediate. 

I walked over to the dead bird, bent down and stroked its feathers and whispered “thank you.” The lousy part of hunting is that it requires the responsibility of killing. The day went from morning to mourning.

Moments like this have me wishing there was such a thing as “catch and release” hunting. An option would be to engage more fully in photography. However, I still enjoy eating a food that I have a direct relationship with. It’s imperative that lives, meat or vegetable, are sacrificed so that I might eat. 

I also believe that I am a product of evolution where more than 10,000 generations of humans survived and thrived by hunting and gathering. It’s part of my DNA.

In 1921-24, Knud Rasmussen, a Danish-Greenlander arctic explorer and anthropologist, traveled across the Canadian Arctic visiting bands of the indigenous Inuit. He took copious notes about their lifestyles, songs and practices. One shaman he interviewed told him, “Life’s greatest danger lies in the fact that man’s food consists entirely of souls.”

I love that quote. All food is life or was life. Whether we pulled a living carrot from its nursery soil, tore embryonic peas from its mothering pod or bought a package of chicken, we are responsible for the death of our food. 

And so this morning Nancy and I sat down to our ritual post-hunt breakfast of heart, liver, and gizzard mixed into scrambled eggs with sautéed freshly gathered nettles from the garden.  And like an echo, we whispered, “thank you.”

*Note: Each of these excellent photos were provided by Chuck Kartak. Chuck enjoys the balance of capturing live images of wildlife as well as gracing his dinner table with their meat.

The nine-year old boy was keen to show me his book The Ultimate Survival Handbook. We sat in the corner of a bustling living room and chatted about knots, pocket knives and eating bugs.  He had been steered over to me because of my experience in teaching kids about the natural world and how to coexist with it. 

By the time we had to leave his house and say our good byes to the gathered families, I felt the boy and I had become friends. I promised to send him a copy of my book Foraging in North America and some other appropriate books that would feed his interest.

I honestly felt I made a wee difference in his life and in that realization our meeting had been a gift to me.

Later in reflecting on the evening,  I recalled an article I wrote for Legacy magazine, a publication of The National Association of Interpretation, nearly 25  years ago. While the article was directed towards outdoor educators and interpretive naturalists, the general message was fitting for anyone who interfaces with youngsters.

Here is an excerpt of the article. Enjoy and make a difference to someone, especially a kid. 

Moments of Epiphany

“Am I really making a difference?” That is the anguishing question that we, as outdoor educators, often ask ourselves. Each of us has had periods when we are feeling burned out, uninspired or depressed. In the meta-view, we might ask, “Is my job, one which often involves hiking in the woods or across grasslands, purely a luxury, an extraneous or superfluous occupation?” 

In our profession the stage of interpretive delivery might be a snowy landscape where we use the mystery of a wandering fox track in the snow. Or it might be next to a wetland in the twilight of early May where we ponder the peals of spring’s frog music.  Admittedly we get to lay down in a soft field of grass or on a warm rock outcropping and consider the night sky and the stories of the ancients as told in the positions of the stars. Good interpreters form strong alliances with both creativity and knowledge to develop their skills in pulling a learner into a moment of discovery.

I suspect that each of us has had moments when we were straightened up, experienced the “aha” moment that reinforced our decision to choose interpretation as a career.

We might recall basking in the positive feedback provided by a teacher, parent or a child but for me the inspiration to carry on has mostly come during unscripted moments in the field. But the priceless response is when you hear a wide-eyed kid say, “ I’ll never forget this as long as I live.” 

If that line is uttered you can be sure that down the line, a decade, or even half a century or more, that once-kid will likely share that story with someone in their life. And to have helped script that memory into an honest-to-goodness story is a legacy.

One indelible moment for me happened in early May when the colors of the woods around the quiet lake were dominated by muted shades of green. All morning a dozen sixth-grade students and I had been moving along the lake shoreline trying to get a reading on a Blandings turtle that was outfitted with a pulsing radio transmitter. It was lunchtime as we settled down near the lake’s edge. Since there was a teacher and a couple additional adults, I decided I needed to recharge so I was looking forward to a break by eating 30 or so paces from the lively group. 

Looking for a quiet place to enjoy my lunch, I spied a redheaded boy in a bright yellow rain slicker sitting alone. Respecting his privacy, I kept a short distance from him. As I was finding a place to sit down, we made eye contact and I asked if he minded that I sit here. He quietly replied, “No problem.”

We each sat at opposite ends of a long aspen log and ate looking out over the motionless lake. A pair of Canada geese and their mirror images swam into view. Other than the lively banter coming from the lunching classmates off to our left it was very still and serene.

With the air sodden with mist, I did not dally in eating. As I chewed looking out over the lake, the boy quietly said, “It sure is a beautiful day.” Though most folks might not find it beautiful to eat a lunch amidst precipitation, I agreed. However, I thought that this was a bit unusual for a sixth-grade boy to utter the idea of “beautiful” amidst a soft rain. 

A minute passed of silent eating and staring at the pair of drifting geese, before he added, “The earth is so precious.” 

I stopped eating, humbled by his statement. All I could do was choke out a stumbling “It sure is.” There was nothing I could add to his pronouncement. 

And with perfect timing, he let a few seconds pass before he delivered the coup de grace, “If we could only learn to share.”

At this point I could not utter a single response. What could I possibly add? We finished our lunch silently watching the geese and I learned the grace of listening.

 I often reflect about that spring lakeside lunch and how it moved me. I learned that given the right surroundings we can release inhibitions and feed our hearts with love for wild places and wild things.

That moment defines my career as an interpreter. It was the best performance review I have ever had, yet it had little to do with my performance. The boy was responding to a blend of circumstances. He was at the edge of a lake surrounded by fresh soft colors, watching wildlife, feeling safe to openly speak in the company of me and likely had his favorite sandwich.

In the best selling book, The Tipping Point, author Malcolm Gladwell speaks of those individuals who are natural pollinators of new ideas and truths. He calls them “Connectors.” He refers to the Law of the Few in which there are exceptional people out there who are capable of initiating epidemics.

In serving as Connectors, we can create little moments that make a big difference.

I pushed the two inches of fluffy snow off our long driveway with our snow scoop. The powerful, almost-new, snowblower I inherited last summer sits in the garage, like a down-and-out pitcher relegated to the locker room. I honestly prefer the combined quiet and physical workout of shoveling snow.

Suddenly I hear an unfamiliar, yet familiar, clamor. 

It’s dogs. I can hear a pack of them chorusing in the distance. These canine exclamations are not declaring, “Who are you!” Or “I’m hungry!” 

No, I know this is a cacophony of pure joy and an example of canine cheering.  I wonder. Yes, it has to be. The high-pitched yaps, yowls and yips have got to be sled dogs.

Over forty years ago, I was introduced to the world of handling a small sled dog team.  The lead dog in my team of three was a Siberian husky christened Klondike Kate. She and her two teammates whined and hopped impatiently in anticipation of going for a run. My friend John, a veteran dog musher and owner of at least a dozen dogs, gave me brief mushing instructions while his three-dog team also voiced their displeasure at dawdling.  John told me that once he took off, I needed to release the knot that was tethering my sled to the post.

We rocketed down snow covered roads and surged up sun bright slopes. When going uphill, I jumped off and pushed while the dogs strained. An hour later we stopped. The dogs’ tongues were hanging out of their big smiles and I was a ball of sweat. 

Suddenly, John was off. I gave the rope a yank and in an instant I was splayed on my belly in the snow watching the dogs racing away with my sled. Luckily the sled had tipped on its side, providing enough resistance that I was able to catch up, flip it upright and jump clumsily onto the tails of the runners.  

Thirty years after that first ride I was living for a time in the Yukon Territory. Dog mushing there is very much alive and thriving. Even the territorial flag is graced with a proud malamute sled dog. These dogs symbolize the loyalty, stamina and historical importance of early exploration in the Yukon.

A yard full of staked dogs can make a racket. One dog yard, about a quarter mile uphill from our Yukon Outpost was mostly quiet but you could set your watch to the loud ruckus unleashed at feeding time every day.

Another Yukon neighbor, Karen, lived with her family and 34 sled dogs nearly a half-mile from our place. One winter day she called and invited me over to try skijoring. We stepped into our skis and clipped the pulling harness around our waists.  

In February of that winter I volunteered at the 1000-mile Yukon Quest dog mushing race. This race involved the big names in dog mushing in both Canada and the United States. The 10-20 day event would start in Whitehorse, Yukon and end in Fairbanks, Alaska. It is generally considered  tougher than the more popular Iditarod in Alaska.

I was helping move teams to the on-deck area where they were sent off past the cheering crowd every three minutes. Behind me a musher sank to her knees in front of her lead dog. As if kissing a blessing to the dog’s forehead, she whispered “We can do this. Together, we can do this.” Somehow in the frigid air, I managed to swallow the lump in my throat.

This time I knew what to expect when I pulled the anchor rope. I made it about ten yards with my team of three dogs before I sprawled in the snow and got snarled in the dog traces.  

Minutes later the calm demeanor of the lead dog had vanished and the team of fourteen raucously raced away through the cloud of their own steaming breaths.

Later I learned that this musher was a seasoned racer and this was her very first Yukon Quest. For several days I followed her progress online. But she was among the third of the sleds that scratch from the race. 

With those pleasant mushing memories echoing in my mind, I finished clearing the driveway. The dog yapping had quieted. I decided to drive the half mile over to the county park and see if my read on dog excitement was correct.

When I arrived, two women were directing their dog teams up to the parking lot. Two teen girls were unhooking the dogs, and leading them towards their boxes in the back of the trucks. 

The mushers let me pet a couple of dogs. I was particularly smitten with Zissou, the nine year old Alaskan-born dog. He comes from a strong line of Iditarod racing dogs. His owner, Hannah, admired him and said, “He still loves getting out to pull as much as any of my younger dogs.” 

I can relate. Though some say I am getting long in the tooth, I can still push snow off my driveway. But I will admit I don’t yip excitedly or lunge at the prospect of taking to the task.

My peripheral vision caught a streak of blue shoot by outside the pantry window. The cerulean shard swooped from the treetops through the morning sunlight and pulled up to a quick stop at the bird feeder.  A blue jay. With coffee cup in hand, I rose from the small rocker in front of the kitchen wood fire to better observe the outside action on this below-zero morning.

This advance bird initiated a cascade of jays pouring in to the feeder.  In seconds, I was watching a feeding frenzy. The cold doesn’t stop them. It’s just another day of finding calories to feed their inner fires. 

They are jostling like shoppers on Black Friday, kicking and brushing sunflower seeds to the ground. The frenetic feeding helps the more demure cardinals who prefer to feed on the spilled seed on the ground. Squirrels and rabbits also enjoy the fallen spoils.

The jays have just spent the long night roosting in the black cold. I don’t know for sure where this flock roosts but I have my ideas when I think of thickets of red cedars or windbreaks of pines and spruce within a half mile of our house. And I wonder if the elder jays tell tales, like I do, of when winters were colder and had heaps of snow?

In the background of my bird feeder, I can see a jay disappear into the cavernous rib cage of the butchered deer carcass that I hung up in a bur oak back in November. Jays, chickadees, woodpeckers and even more shy crows have picked the entire skeleton nearly clean.

Winter flocks of blue jays are assemblages of all ages. Together, they are more likely to survive. More birds mean more eyes looking for food and watching for predators, like a Coopers hawk. Jays will not tolerate this kind of chumminess in the spring.

Some jays snatch seeds and in one motion angle their beaks skyward as if they were drinking them. Through the steam of my coffee, I could watch their throats swell with the baggage of seeds. 

Like their Corvid cousins, the crow and the Clark’s Nutcracker, blue jays have an expandable gular pouch for storing food like seeds and acorns in their throat.

I watched one jay pick at least a dozen sunflower seeds before flying off with its treasures. When acorns are available they can easily carry five acorns at once; two or three in the pouch, one in the back of their mouth and one in their beak.

The jay then hurries away to eat in quiet and to stash seeds in different hiding places for future eating. Corvids are known for their great memories so food storage is a good strategy.

Another means for surviving a cold and snowy winter is to migrate to more southerly regions. Based solely on my own observations, this winter seems to be a bumper blue jay winter. I don’t recall seeing such flocks lingering during a Minnesota January.

Data from bird banding records from across North America show that survival rates are higher for those blue jays that do not migrate. I’m not surprised. Migration is a dangerous business and most migratory birds born last spring do not live to be a year old.

As I watched, I tried to pick out physical differences. At this time of the year, even those jays born last spring resemble adults. Try as I might there is no way to distinguish female from male at this time of the year. 

As a former bird bander, if I captured a spring blue jay in the finely meshed nets, I would blow on its belly to ascertain if their was a brood patch, indicating a female, or cloacal protuberance found on the breeding season male. 

Only the female jay incubates the eggs. The brood patch is a featherless area of skin on the belly where her blood warmed skin comes in direct contact with the eggs. 

The breeding male’s seminal vesicles enlarge, creating a bulge at his cloacal (genital) opening.

The sun has just set, leaving an apricot sky. It’s dead still and  -11°F.  A trio of shy cardinals have the feeder to themselves. And somewhere sated jays are settling themselves into a clump of limbs for the night.

I lower the quilted window shades and step out to the wood box in the porch. Time to feed more oak chunks into the insatiable stoves and start plundering the fridge for my daily caloric intake. 

Sulfurous geyser clouds steamed over the fresh snow-covered boardwalk. With chilly high elevation winds pushing us along we discovered a small backpacking chair clipped to a stuffed day pack on the walkway. Up ahead, a couple hundred yards, we could see a bundled form standing overlooking one of Yellowstone’s many geysers. We continued on and passed him. Why the vigilance?

The next day we returned to the boardwalk. Once more we found the silent sentinel. This time he was bundled and sitting on his small chair next to a geyser titled Grand. We paused and then dared to ask what he was doing.

“We saw your pack and chair yesterday. Are you a photographer or researcher?” 

“No,” he answered.  “I love to watch geysers and have only seventeen days to sit out here and observe them.”

His name is Corbin and he is the first geyser geek I have ever met. We peppered  him with questions. He gushed about the timing, the personalities and the sequences of what he called the “gauntlet of geysers.”

At one point we apologized for asking so many questions but he shushed our guilt away and assured us that he enjoyed sharing what he knew. And he knew a lot. I really doubt than any of the staff at the National Park Service Visitor Center at Old Faithful knows as much as Corbin.

He shared that he has has harbored a 19-year passion for  geysers.  Oh, and Corbin is 18 years old. With a wry smile, he told us that his parents met as college students during a summer of working at Old Faithful Lodge in Yellowstone National Park. Corbin was conceived in the neighborhood of thermals. Sounds hot.

“I’ve been coming here from my home in Denver every year since I was eleven,” he shared. “This is the first time I have come alone to focus for over two weeks on observations and submitting data.” Nodding at a sudden burp of steam, he added, “Besides, watching the geysers in winter is far more dramatic. The steaming water hits the cold air making for an explosive looking event. And there are way, way fewer tourists out on the boardwalk.”

Staring at the roiling cauldron, Corbin calmly noted, “There, the thermal pool around the geyser is filling slightly.” 

He was amazingly dexterous with his bare thumbs typing the observations and time into his mobile phone. He also carried a radio for transmitting observations back to someone at the Visitor’s Center next to Old Faithful. 

Corbin closely watched the Grand geyser and informed us that this geyser would be erupting within the next hour and a half. “This geyser erupts every 6-8 hours.  Each eruption can last ten to twelve minutes.”

“Old Faithful is the signature glacier in the park and get all the press. But no geyser in the world can send an eruption as high as Grand. It can sometimes reach 200 feet in the sky.”

With that tease, we tugged our parkas tighter and hunkered down in the cold to wait.  Some of the smaller nearby pools looked inviting to slip into for a warming soak. Not a good idea.

In the late fall of 2016, a 23 year-old man was visiting Yellowstone with his sister. They both thought it would be fun to “hot pot” with a warm soak. They left the boardwalk and were in a prohibited area. It is against the law to vandalize or go into the hot springs. The brother stretched to test the water with his fingers and ended up falling into the thermal pool. His sister, unable to pull him out and without phone connection, had to run for help.  The rescuers hurried back but found her brother had died. It was late in the day and they could not get his body out so decided to return the following day with more resources.  The next morning all they found was his wallet and a pair of flip flops. The acidic, boiling hot water had dissolved him.

Yellowstone’s hot springs have injured or killed more people than any other natural feature, including falling and wild animal encounters such as bison or bears.

While we waited, I asked, “Are you pursuing studies that involve geysers?”

“I’m a freshman at the Colorado School of Mines, majoring in Petroleum Engineering. That way I can study seismic activity.  I want to get a job where I can make a lot of money in a few years and then kick back and pursue my real dream of seismic mapping the fractured bedrock of thermal areas.”  

“So any thoughts when the next “big one” is going to explode?” I asked. Corbin smiled and said, “Well if you believe the conspiracy theories, rather than the science, it could blow any day. But I tend to agree with the seismologists and other experts. It’s likely that the great-great grandparents of your great-great grandchildren will never see it.”

And yet, I have to admit I felt a wee bit like I was walking on broken glass knowing that super-heated molten rock or magma roiled less than two and a half miles beneath my feet.

Suddenly Corbin matter-of-factly declared, “See that vent just to the left of Grand’s steam? That’s called “Turban” and Turban is starting to show signs of erupting.”  

“How soon will Grand erupt?”I asked.

Assessing the thermal pool rising and Turban hissing, Corbin confidently answered, “Now .  . . and Now.” With his second “now,” Grand sent a loud, noisy plume of steam high into the sky. 

Corbin radioed in the eruption time and began typing observations on his phone. For several minutes we watched spellbound as the geyser surged like a steamy fountain of fireworks. And Turban, Grand’s little sidekick, shot its own thermal celebration.

Ten minutes later, the eruption subsided. Corbin folded up his small chair and donned his daypack. He wanted to catch the eruption of Daisy Geyser and Riverside Geyser before he headed to his cabin for an afternoon nap. He was planning to return to the steaming landscape to resume his vigil in the evening. 

I found myself inspired by Corbin. Rarely do I encounter such unfettered passion. I wondered what percentage of humans follow their calling? Is it a luxury to have the time to channel so much of your energy into a passion? 

Joseph Campbell was a noted 20th century thinker, mythologist and author. His advice to people is to “follow your bliss.” 

It’s safe to say that Corbin is following his bliss. . . .and hiss.

I was sitting in a deer stand 16 feet off the ground. It was November and I had my recurve bow with its quiver of arrows in my lap. Waiting for a deer to pass by in range gives me time to look over this woods from my perch and ponder change. 

A jagged, snapped trunk sits directly in front of me. Tattered, tangled and torn trees remind me of the August blow that resulted in whole trees swaying and crashing down. 

The night of that storm we donned headlamps when the power went out.  When the winds became more fierce we headed to the basement.

The following morning unveiled the storm’s power. We found many mature oaks, red maples and black cherry trees violently snapped, twisted or simply levered to the ground. Luckily our house remained unscathed. For days, we and our neighbors ran chain saws to unblock driveways and clean yards. 

I heard neighbors and others talk about the “mess” and “destruction” left in the wake of the storm. But is this tattered woods a scene of carnage?

Now, months later, sitting quietly in the woods gives me ample time to consider this beautiful mess in front of me. I am amazed at how the complexion of the woods can change in a matter of minutes. It’s easy to see that this woods is now morphing into a different type of woods. 

For the past few years, oak wilt has whittled away some of the big oaks. In their absence more red maples and a scattering of small white pines are showing up. I continue to pull buckthorn, but this invasive alien perseveres beyond my feeble attempts to hold it in check.

I wonder what this woods is becoming.  

I simply need to accept that unless humans come in and eliminate the woods through cutting, excavating and chemical warfare, the woods will always be some sort of woods, even long after I disappear.  How many times over the last 10,000 years the landscape here has been severely altered by weather events?

How many forests, woods and thickets have emerged, grown, died and melded back into the earth through the miracle of decomposition right here?

How many forests lie underneath my footsteps? Here the only constant is change. Always has been and always will be.

If I was to “clean up this mess,” I would be removing one of the critical cogs in this native ecosystem.  To remove a windfall tree would be taking away the very nutrients that allowed this piece of woods to thrive. Decomposition allows the recycling of nutrients. 

I am reminded of a wise passage written by the late Aldo Leopold in his book: A Sand County Almanac. If I were the “Czar of Well Being,” I would require all North Americans to read Leopold’s classic.

Leopold wrote, ‘To keep every cog and wheel of the machine of life turning, we need the whole intricate machinery of nature, and not just a few selected parts.” 

This means that to preserve the integrity of a natural environment we need to protect all of its components, the cogs and wheels, and not just the ones we find useful or pleasing. We need to shift our perspectives of what is beautiful. 

We are only now learning of the complicated and necessary braiding together of microbes, worms, insects, bacteria and more that contribute to soil health. And soil health is directly related to our own health. 

Torn limbs and fallen trees contribute as cover, habitat and food for seen and unseen life. A messy woods is far more rich in species diversity than a tidy, “cleaned up” woods. It’s similar to the richness of the unkempt, scruffy, flower-strewn lawn compared to the sterile, monotonous lawn that folks work so hard and spend obscene amounts of money to maintain. 

With another hour remaining before sunset, I heard a rustle and spotted a doe emerging from a tangle where the canopies of two fallen oak trees had crashed together.  She snuffled briefly in the leaf litter, likely finding acorns to chew. Not far behind her, a fine, mature buck followed. His attention was not on acorns but rather on her. Slowly, she kept coming towards me, trolling the buck behind her. 

How I killed that buck is another story. In securing the venison, I am  included among the countless species of life forms that are nourished by these glorious ruins of a woods.

Be sure you are right, then go ahead.

-Daniel Boone–

“Shall we go for a walk?” 

I hadn’t heard that invitation from Nels since we both hiked a one-hundred mile section of the Arizona Trail last March.

And so with barely a month of planning and making the necessary reservations, we decided it was time for an autumn hike on the 37.5 mile Pukaskwa National Park, Coastal Hiking Trail on the north shore of Lake Superior in Ontario. 

We were fully aware that the trail was rated “Difficult” and that the elevation roller coastered up and down.

The park requires an orientation for this trail. Due to the fall park hours being curtailed, the orientation was done over the phone. After a cordial greeting, the employee, who now had all our registration information in front of him, including our senior citizen ages, hesitantly said,“You two have given yourselves a rather aggressive itinerary.” 

He went on to repeatedly remind me that if we were not at North Swallow River after four days we needed to turn back or they would send out search and rescue folks. “Use your trail sense.” 

Nels and I are no longer young men, having camped, canoed, hunted, and fished together for over six decades. But we are very fortunate to have our health and each other for support. I like to think that in those passing of years we have embraced common sense in what we can and cannot do.

Our moods matched the gray skies when we began the fall hike fully adorned in rain gear. Rain or not, we had four days to get to our turnaround point so there was no waiting for sunshine. 

Luckily the shower stopped in the first hour or so but the trail was slippery in places. Even though I had hiked this section more than 25 years ago, I had forgotten the ups and downs and the rugged nature of the trail. 

For all the wisdom we have gathered through the years, you would think that we would learn that we shouldn’t put in our longest mileage day on the first day; especially with less-than-ideal weather conditions and when our packs are heaviest. 

As we crossed the high suspension bridge over the roiling White River, we met three guys heading in the direction we had just come. They were at least ten years younger than us. During our brief chat, they soberly shared, “Be very careful. You have the toughest part of the trail ahead of you. There are some technical sections. Some involve climbing almost vertically. And there are fields of boulders.”

That night, after setting up our tarp and laying out our bags, we relaxed by the serene shore of Lake Superior. No other people, boats or even aircraft pimpled the setting. No distant highway traffic noises, just the quiet lap of a stilled giant lake. 

Shortly after supper, we decided to hit the sack. And thus began one of the worst camping nights I’ve ever experienced. 

The unseasonably warm fall had yet to yield a killing frost so the mosquitos were still very ambitious. 

In the past when we have hiked sections of the Lake Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota, we have done it in late September and early October. We have always used an open tarp as our shelter as it is easy to set up, protects us and our gear from the weather and is lightweight to carry.

But on this mild and slightly humid night, there was absolutely no escaping the bugs. For hours we retreated deep into our bags for relief, only to emerge gasping and growling from our self-imposed saunas.  We were living, ill-tempered cafeterias for the skeeters. 

Our only recourse was to curse. Loudly and repeatedly. Finally I must have fallen asleep because I woke up, glanced over for the lump of Nels. He wasn’t there. I looked closer. Was his husk of a body all that remained after his blood was drained? 

I sat up in the dark and realized he had escaped to the sand beach where there was no underbrush to harbor mosquitoes. Here, any slight breeze might help get some bug-free sleep. I grabbed my sleeping bag and pad and hauled it to the beach. I plunked down near Nels and we both managed to get a bit of needed sleep.

At first gray light, I heard Nels say, “Andy, it’s misting.” So we both emerged and grabbed all our stuff and returned to the tarp.

Breakfast included a coming-to-Jesus talk. With a poor night of sleep and the more rugged stretch of trail ahead of us, we had to weigh the wisdom of trying to maintain  our “aggressive itinerary.”

We know each other well. And we both knew that we did not want this to be a forced march.

We could continue on or we might simply turn around and hike back to the car. We decided to give it one more night with the hopes that the weather would cool down and we could orient the tarp into any breeze to help discourage the mosquitoes. 

With the plan in hand and breakfast in our bellies, Nels mumbled, “Let’s go for a walk.”

The second night was mosquito-free and we slept well. It was during our second trail breakfast that we pushed our egos aside and decided to change our trip to a more enjoyable pace. We would not go to North Swallow River. 

The slower pace allowed us to forage among the profusion of fall fungi. The boletes and honey mushrooms we harvested augmented our dehydrated meals. We were able to stop and consider various stories left in the tracks of otter, shorebirds and moose. 

We paused to listen to the high pitched whispers of golden crowned kinglets. And even a male ruffed grouse seemed to command attention as he strutted his stuff for us.  

For seven more mornings and nearly thirty-one miles of hiking, Nels predictably queried, “Shall we go for a walk?” 

And best of all there was no Search and Rescue crew involved.

In a raucous world swirling with disinformation, ringtones, screen time, polls, screaming, cursing, grousing, finger pointing, inflated egos, election projections and slumping jack-o-lanterns, I find diversion necessary. 

One enjoyable way is to take some quiet time up in a November oak tree. Ironically, the practice of of becoming one with a sturdy oak tree from 15- 20 feet off the ground with my bow and arrow, helps ground me. 

Here in my sylvan bully pulpit I am the Master and Commander of this rather small platform that I have hung on the tree. Once my safety harness is fastened and I’m settled in the predawn graying of the morning, I generally smile like I did when I was thirteen and my father ushered me into my first deer hunting tree. It’s so good to be here.

My focus here, in the nearby faraway, is not on today’s election day. Instead it’s aimed at the possibility of spying and maybe killing a passing deer. 

Ironically I am bombarded by all sorts of distractions while hunting.

Squirrels commonly steal my focus.  Oh so many squirrels! Today there was a feisty red squirrel wrestling with its treasure of a cob of corn discovered from a nearby picked cornfield. 

And suddenly the focus is diverted by trumpeter swans, passing overhead, softly bugling their morning chatter. 

Then there was the disturbance made by a reddish-hued fox sparrow raking and rustling the fallen leaves with its long toes. A scrounged seed was the prize to help  fuel this stout sparrow on its southward passage.  

The most lingering of distractions were the scores of crows that filtered into the bare oak canopy just east from my arboreal hide. They were mostly quiet with only an occasional caw. Most of the vocalizing were subdued short bursts of clicks, clacks and rattles. What were they communicating to each other?

Watching these corvids finally drift away, almost buoyantly. in their seemingly carefree flight, I silently thanked them for grabbing my attention and presenting me with questions. 

Less than a half hour later, with the midday approaching, I found myself wondering how that red squirrels prize of field corn might taste if I gnawed on it?

The rain began to fall and soon I was reminded of the wise words of a late Yukon friend who often declared, “Any fool can be uncomfortable.” 

Prodded by a growing hunger and a now dampened enthusiasm, I climbed down and headed northwest, the same direction as the crows, back to our house.

As I approached the house I could see smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney and I felt a gratitude in knowing that Nancy had a lively fire burning in the kitchen. And there would be coffee, and a lunch of scrambled eggs with spuds, kale and onions.

Soon I was sitting down in front of the fire and I asked, “Nancy what is keeping your attention on this election day?” 

Casually she answered, “Oh I’m going to make a skirt out of bra cups today.”*

“Of course you are.”

Like I said, my attention is constantly hijacked.

Like every day, this day demanded attention and to think that it is barely noon. 

* An explanation might be useful here. Miss Nancy is embracing her enhanced role of being an artist and  has been selected to exhibit her visual art called Skirting the Issues It is a collection of creations that poignantly portray various topical issues in our society. The show will be in the fall of 2025 at the Hallberg Art Center in Wyoming, Minnesota.

“Come and get it!” Ma Kettle

It was a morning to remember. No wind. A sunrise climbing through the pines with elegant purpose, like royalty entering the court of a new day.  I was in a canoe creating my own mirror image.  And all too quickly I had a nice walleye and a good eater pike on the fish stringer. The pair was easily enough for a feast of fish for supper.

Then I spotted the floating corpse.

I paddled closer. It was a walleye, larger than the one on my stringer. Its snow-white belly shone like a beacon.

I leaned over and hefted it out of the water to assess its freshness. Rigor mortis was setting in so I slipped it back into the water. I nodded a “lucky you” to the lone herring gull standing at attention on a rocky outcropping in the lake.

By the time I paddled the hundred yards back to our campsite, Nancy was up. She was pleased that my visit to the fish market had been successful. 

While we settled on the rocks with our morning coffee and breakfast, the belly-up fish drifted closer in the day’s first breeze.  

By now an adult bald eagle had been attracted to the possible fish meal. It perched high in a white pine a couple of hundred yards from us. Neither the gull nor the eagle seemed willing to take the initiative to claim the fish.

Transfixed by the promise of drama, we stayed still and quiet. 

Suddenly the gull launched into the air. It passed over the fish, flying a hundred yards beyond the prize before it banked and returned to its rock.

The scavenging skills of both the eagle and the gull far surpass their hunting skills. Minutes passed with no action. What were they waiting for?

I glanced over at the fish, now floating only ten yards off our shore. A shadow appeared beneath the carcass and a snapping turtle eased into view.

I marveled at how this ancient reptile had honed in on the prize by sniffing fish-tainted molecules of fresh death. How far away could it pick up the bouquet of demise?

I edged closer to the water for a better view of the turtle. Obviously I was not discreet enough because the water swirled as the turtle hurried to the depths.

I returned uphill to settle with my cup of coffee and wait. And wait. None of the scavengers were willing to make the move towards the fish.

Nancy and I puzzled over the inaction. We sat for two hours watching and waiting for a move on the floating walleye. How could any scavenger show such restraint? I would think that most wildlife feel a constant gnaw of hunger and with such an easy offering why not seize the moment?

Finally, with the sun almost overhead, the eagle swooped in, extended its talons and grabbed the fish. It labored slightly as it flew with its prize and landed a couple hundred yards away on a point of bare bedrock. 

The gull seemed nonplussed. And no sign of the turtle. 

Turns out that the turtle, unseen to us, was already moving stealthily towards my stringer of fish that I had clasped to a shaded shoreline bush. In late afternoon, I walked down to fillet the pair of fish for our supper. It was then that I discovered that we had a walleye and a half of a pike.

Was it a turtle’s revenge? Or simply a public fish market open to anyone?

“A friend is one soul abiding in two bodies.” — Aristotle

As the breeze drifted our canoe towards a small rock island, I noticed an unlikely grove, a trio of white cedars growing impossibly out of the isle.  As we got closer, I stopped paying attention to the tip of my fishing rod. I was drawn to the miracle of trees growing out of a barren, whale-shaped rock backlit by a hazy sunset.

The huddle of trees was no taller than the length of our canoe, yet the girth of the co-joined cedars was thicker than my waist. Walleyes be damned, at least for a few minutes. I reeled in my jig and we paddled to the edge of this most ancient garden for a closer look.

For roughly 10,000 years this small island of solid rock has felt the wrath and wash  of the seesaw of seasons. Water expands when it freezes, so a minute fracture will expand into a larger and larger crack over time. This fissure of fertility catches any organic material that drifts or falls into it. Such a fracture exists on this rounded rock. It was the anchor point for these pals. 

The crack, about eight inches wide, zig-zagged below the cedars. Here the tree roots were thickest and wedged tightly into the dirt-filled crack. It was no wonder these trees were unshakeable from this mostly barren outcrop.

This example is not all that unique in canoe country. There are many rock outcroppings on water bodies that host a small collection of trees and other flora. It always amazes me that nicks, cracks and pockets on the rock can become the most humble of vessels to collect dust, dead leaves, conifer needles, dead insects and even gull or otter feces.  Miraculously, grasses, trees and blooming flowers like harebell, pale corydalis, ox-eye daisy can take root in these most humble and scant of seed beds.  In the case of this pair of cedars, two seeds washed in and managed to take hold.

Lichens are my favorite beacons that illuminate the bare rocks. I am partial to the dazzling common orange lichen. This nitrophilous (nitrogen-loving)  lichen, often called a sunburst lichen (Xanthoria sp.)is often found on exposed boulders, especially where gulls or raptors perch and defecate. I prefer the descriptive name that some Innuit in the far north use: sunian anak or “excrement of the sun.” A perfect name. 

Judging by the size and stature of the stoic grove of trees anchored here they have known good times and tough times. Shearing wind, snow and ice crystals have limited the height of these island-bound trees. Instead of growing high, their energies were put into the thick trunks that have allowed the two cedar pals to form a common base. The thick exposed roots encircle each other like a muscular python. I can’t help but think this strategy of entangled tree bases is a partnered act in solidity. 

I wondered if the roots, with their hairlike rootlets were both absorbing nutrients and sharing communications. Several years ago, I was mesmorized by Suzanne Simard, Professor of Forest Ecology at the University of British Columbia and author of the highly acclaimed book Finding the Mother Tree:Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest. She was a speaker at the annual Nobel Conference at Gustavus Adolphus College. Her work has pioneered the relatively new arena of plant communication and intelligence. Through her technical and innovative research she has discovered that some trees share their excess carbon and nitrogen through the mycorrhizal network. In other words, trees can actually take care of their own kind in ways that increase their survival. 

We drifted away to resume the quest for walleyes. But it was hard to concentrate as the sun dropped into the jagged  spruce and pine horizon line. I kept glancing over at the embracing cedars in the waning golden light. I wanted to engage in their communication and listen to rustling tales of past seasons. What have the psalms of summer silence taught them? And how did those frigid northwest winds hone their inner toughness?  

I left those questions to simmer. We paddled quietly back in the twilight to our campsite with an empty stringer. I glanced back to acknowledge the mid lake monument of pals. 

 “Hold tight friends, don’t let that love knot loosen its hold.”