Aligning With Nature

Now and only now can I unequivocally declare that spring has settled.

For some this fair season is declared when they hear the peal of the first spring peepers, for many it’s the clear notes of a robin and for others it might be the clamor of Canada geese. But this year, each of those harbingers was derailed by another dump of snow.

Yesterday morning I was washing the outside of the dining area windows when I heard the ecstatic pronouncement of spring back in the woods behind me. A male ovenbird was repeating his jubilant sounding phrases that are easily memorized if you think of them repeating the words, “teacher-teacher-teacher.”

Ovenbirds belong to a group of colorful, small birds known as woods warblers. Naturalists and biologists often refer to this group of birds as “neotropical migrants.” This group of small migrants spends the winter in a tropical destination and nest in northerly non-tropical settings.

The ovenbird I was listening to had just arrived, likely the night before, riding the steady south wind.  After spending weeks on a precarious migration from its wintering grounds in Central America and northern Venezuela, this singing territorial male sounded tireless.

I have a special fondness for ovenbirds because of an intimate relationship with one particular male. I first met him on May 30^th sometime in the mid-1990s. He had flown into the nearly invisible mist net that we had set up in the woods to capture songbirds so we could band them.

After carefully removing him from the tangled, fine net mesh, I tucked him in a small cloth bag and brought him to the table where we could process him. Process means to try and determine his age, sex, note the date, and then fit him with his tiny aluminum band and record the unique 8 or 9 digit number that gives this bird a one-of-a-kind identity. The bird is not kept captive long and is quickly released after processing it.

For over 100 years biologist have been banding birds with lightweight bands.  Bands range in size from those that resemble wide finger rings that are used in banding large birds like eagles and large waterfowl or tiny fragments of foil that are used for affixing to the wire like leg of a hummingbird. Each band has a unique 8 or 9 digit number along with an inscription that says CALL 1-800-327 BAND and WWW.REPORTBAND.GOV . Obtaining a federal permit is not easy and requires many skills and a mess of paperwork.

Of the many, many birds I’ve banded I honestly think I gave nearly all of them a subliminal “good luck” as I released them.

It’s pretty special to catch a bird that has been previously banded. But when I caught this same fellow the following year, on May 29^th in the very same mist net location it was like a happy reunion.

Songbirds are very lucky to survive to adulthood; most die before they are a year old. They are exceptionally lucky to make a long-distance round trip migration. In the case of my little ovenbird friend, he had likely flown over 6,000 miles just in its fall and spring migration!

Having caught my new found ovenbird friend twice, he had now logged over 12,000 miles on just his migrant flights.

The next year I didn’t catch him. It turned out he eluded the net because the fourth year I caught him again! It was May 30^th and yes, in the same net!

Feeling in the presence of a true Olympic champion, I was humbled at his timeliness and durability.

While I think I have a pretty good sense of direction when in the woods, mine pales in comparison to these songbirds when it comes to homing in to an exact spot. Their ability to hone in to an exact place makes the most expensive of GPS units look like junk. It amazes me to think that this little bird, weighing only a few grams, found its way into the same net, at the same swath in the woods on nearly the same date for three years.

I didn’t mourn the fact that I never caught him again because he had already outperformed the odds. And somehow I like to think the bird I heard the other day is genetically tied to my special little friend.

To listen to the song and learn more about ovenbirds and to listen to their song, click on to the link for the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology. It’s a great resource.

Happy spring.

Song: http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/ovenbird/id

A week ago I was still wading in snow. Nine days ago, we had been hit with a spring snowfall of 20 inches.

Today there are only a few snowballs worth of snow lurking in the shade. With the yard exposed,  I was cleaning up one of our wood sheds so we could stack a new load of split black cherry.

The tall tree had to be dropped as it was beginning to lean perilously towards our garage. So as disciples of the precautionary principle, we decided it had to come down while we had the ability to control its fall. It was thick of girth but the main trunk had a permanent wriggle to the sky so there was no straight log to salvage for lumber. Now the tree lies in a pile of split chunks awaiting their next home neatly stacked in our wood shed. There they will dry a year or two before we render the hardwood to BTUs in our kitchen woodburning stove.

Tidying up the woodshed is only one of the many jobs of sprucing up for spring .With the blanket of snow finally gone, this is the season where many of our embarrassments are revealed.

“Oh that’s where I left the rake last October.” And, I wondered where that extension chord had gone after I used it to deliver power to the Christmas lights in our snow cave.

I am not alone in my onerous task of seeking a spiffy spring. There is a male bluebird that is checking out the bluebird house I put up on the deer fence around our humble orchard. And the predictable phoebes are back swooping the yard’s perimeter, rising and lowering their tails as if in a slow motion wag at the arrival of another spring.

I called a time out and went to sit on the porch steps. As I sat there I noticed a wooly bear caterpillar slowly undulating its way towards the steps. This soon to be an Isabella moth,  seemed in a hurry. It was moving about a foot per minute.

Perhaps there is a distinct sensation of change in the insect’s innards.  This little bristly caterpillar will soon change its identity. Something will signal that this is enough undulating and it wall stop and pupate.

After it emerges from its pupa casing, it is a moth. But even then it’s not finished it has only a short time to find a mate to share genetic material and start the whole seasonal cycle over again.

I wondered where it had spent the winter. Perhaps under the leaves that had blown into the wood shed. Or maybe tucked under the loose bark of a piece of red oak. Silently it moves on with things. It could have cared less about the length or breadth of winter.

Deliberately, but oh so slowly, the caterpillar approached our sidewalk. Would it cross the walk and climb our four steps?  I chuckled. It was as if the little bristle brush of a critter was reminding me of a long forgotten joke.

 So this guy is lying on the couch watching TV. There is a knock at the door so he gets up, walks to the door and opens it. No one is there.

 He looks down and there on the landing is a small snail. The guy bends down and picks it up. He momentarily looks it over and then flicks it with his finger out into the yard.

 Several  months later, the guys is once again watching his favorite show from his couch. The door knocks. He grumbles as he gets up to open the door. No one there. He looks down and there is a little snail.

 He bends down to pick it up but is met with an angry outburst from the snail.  

  “What the hell was that for?”

 The joke gives new meaning to slow. This is an attribute that most humans fail to grasp. Instead we multi-task, give kudos to those who seem to get so much done. We thrive on stress.

We could all stand to slow down a bit and not take life so seriously.

Tomorrow I’m going to practice slow when I walk through the predawn darkness to a spot in the woods. I will sit myself down with a thick tree for a backrest.  My job will be to remain motionless and pretend to be the tree trunk. I will tuck a call in my mouth and yelp, cut, cluck and purr, like a love struck hen turkey. And if a strutting gobbler turkey is fooled and makes its way towards me. It will be my job to breathe deeply. Slow down the racing heart and make a quick killing shot to garner a slow, humble feast.

Shell-shocked, I had shoveled another snowstorm off our sidewalk. This was a tardy April fool’s joke; winter’s nasty way of grinding its frozen heel into our tender spring hopes.

Overhead, I heard the guttural greeting of a raven. I took it as an uplifting message of Poe’s often quoted line:”Nevermore.”

Twenty four hours later, the sun has claimed the sky and is bearing down with a vengeance. Water is dripping and settling everywhere. I stepped outside to see if this was a cruel mirage. There were no raven calls today. Instead I grew a smile when I heard a pair of clamoring sandhill cranes to the south, back by the slough.

Muskrat houses there still resemble small  white igloos locked in the pond’s winter ice. I wonder if the quarantined muskrats rejoice in the rhythm of “drip, drip, drip.” And I hope from inside their walls of mud and plant stems they hear the ancient clarion calls of the cranes.

The first cranes heard in the spring stop me with greater power than the first slurry notes of a bluebird. It’s not the crane’s melody but their bold raucousness.  Hearing a single crane carries more hope than a grade school valentine. The prehistoric sounding outburst is the Taps of winters demise.

I am heartened that the promise of spring flows in the hormones of these birds. Blending their bugling with their pair bonding, high-stepping dance, males and females forge their connection.  They never miss the annual April dance.

According to biologists, these east-central Minnesota cranes winter in northern and central Florida. I would dance too knowing I am escaping not only the made-up vision of Disneyworld but also the insipid humidity of a spring and summer in Florida.

Over the past fifteen or so years cranes have established themselves firmly in our neighborhood. In August we get to watch the gangly crane colts walk stiffly with their parents over the rye stubble looking for food.

I’m getting ahead of myself with this summer talk. General Winter is taking severe losses today and I need to be in the present and celebrate.

Was the raven’s prophecy of “nevermore,” an assurance that there will be no more snow shoveling?  While I have put away the big snow scoop today, I am not hedging any bets. One snow shovel remains basking nearby in the sunlit wood shed.

Last week, I slid onto the bench behind the table at the evening Township Annual Meeting next to one of the Town Supervisors.

Looking out over the thirty-plus rural folks attending, I said, “Wow,” I said, “This is a good crowd.”

He nodded and lamented, “I wish we could get a third of this attendance at the monthly meetings. Folks should know they get to practice local government more than once a year.”

The meeting was called to order, we rose and with hands over hearts said the Pledge of Allegiance and a moderator was nominated, seconded and approved. The previous year’s annual meeting minutes read followed by the treasurer’s report.

We listened to appeals from representatives of various non-profits requesting continued support at equal or even with a slight increase. Most were approved. Most creative was the appeal made by the local 4-H group. By this time, over an hour had passed, and the young girl who was going to assist her 4-H leader and mother, in making the presentation was snoring as she slept sprawled across her father’s lap. The leader asked for a donation and promised that with the gift, the local group of young people would return to the town hall in the spring and give it a good cleaning. We voters could not resist the offer?

The discussion shifted to the role of the township in helping non-profits out with money. One middle-aged man wondered, “If the county is already contributing aren’t we paying twice? Is it the role of the township to subsidize these groups?”

A healthy, short discussion was had and it is clear that this issue will likely be brought up early in next year’s meeting Two primary agenda items were next: Fire District and Acquisition of County Parkland.

The Fire District issue is a hot (sorry) potato as it is an expensive line item in the township budget. A motion was made and passed to form a committee to look closely at the options and then report back to the township with recommendations.

But it was the discussion of increasing Anderson County Park acreage with the purchase of two willing sellers that touched the nerve of most of the back row of the meeting.

“Now we want to take more land off the tax roles?” barked one man.

This was followed by an almost orchestrated row of sneers and head nods.

That was the cue my Lovely Lady, my wife, Nancy, was waiting for.

She raised her hand and proceeded to deliver points about the ecological services wild lands provide to all of us at no cost to us. Calmly she added, “These ecological services, like clean water and air, provide far more to us than the burden of additional residential growth. Research has repeatedly shown that residential growth does not pay for itself unless the homes are million dollar plus homes.”

Our township sits in a big bed of sand, courtesy of the outwash plains from the last glacial melting some 12,000 years ago. This region is a valuable water filter and water storage area with the many wetlands and lakes found here. Much of this water filters down and recharges the Mt. Simon Aquifer; the same aquifer that provides fresh water to the northern Twin Cities Region.

Another man, a friend who lets us pick cranberries on his lakeshore property, asked a question that drew looks of momentary puzzlement.

“I’m concerned about the New Americans that will come out here. Why I can’t even get out on the fishing pier up by Mora without being forced off by their numbers.”

There was a moment of silence and I detected several accommodating nods from the back row.

In an instant it was clear that the shadow of fear had pushed its way into the back row as well.

A retired woman sitting directly in front of the scorned fisherman turned and asked, “What do you mean. . . New Americans?”

“Well,” he replied with a smile, “They sure aren’t Swedes and Norwegians.” This got a back row laugh.

I remembered stories of how early immigrants to America coming from Scandinavia, Ireland and elsewhere were scorned.

Another woman, a former librarian declared, “Well I’m not afraid of new folks coming out to enjoy the park. After all, it is there for the public good.”

I was glad that the moderator sensed the energy shift in the room. So in order to minimize conflict he called for a vote on the motion.

“All in favor for the township to contribute $15,000 to be used as matching funds for a grant request for Anderson park land say “aye”.”

“AYE!”

“Opposed.”

“NAY”

It was too close to call so the moderator called for a show of hands.

“Nineteen to seventeen. The ayes win. The motion is passed.”

Although I was relieved, I wasn’t jubilant. Frankly I wanted to get out of there. It felt uncomfortable.

Now a week later, I am more committed than ever in saving wild lands.

Whether we like it or not the face of America is changing. The face of Minnesota is changing. Within ten years it is projected that the white population of America will go from being a majority to a minority. Nothing we can do about it nor is there anything we should do about it.

Change is inevitable and change can be scary. For some folks it is real scary. Some day soon, the vanilla face of this Township Meeting will change. Stay tuned.

If we do not encourage today’s minorities and immigrants  from engaging intimately in national, state, and even county parks, there is a greater likelihood that those areas will not be safeguarded. We have to create moments when people can fall in love with these remnants of wild lands. When you love something you will go to great lengths to care and protect it.

The irony is that we will only be protecting those systems that make it possible for us to live.

 “America has changed me, and I and hundreds of thousands like me dramatically changing America.”

-Novelist Sharati Mukherjee

I love wild places.

It’s altogether too easy to say one loves anything.  I fear such idle pronouncements diminish the real authenticity and power of love. Perhaps  the descriptor “love” has become as trite as describing something as “awesome” or “epic.” Words, like footwear, can be faddish. So let me try again.

I love wild places. No, I mean really love wild places. And while I stand in awe of rugged landscapes, it is the soft, sensual landscapes that most arrest my gaze. I wonder what role the Greek god, Eros, plays in my steadfast need for wild places?  As humans we are undeniably sexual beings. Capitalists have long known the secret that sex sells. If you don’t wash your hair with “Shampoo X” then you are made to feel unattractive and even unsexy. But use “Shampoo X” and you will be awash in mate-attracting pheromones.

I often wonder how is it that the raw and naked wildness of the natural world can arouse my senses and brings me pleasure as no mortal lover can? In my heated love for the land around my home, I  confess to numerous love affairs. Some are one-time trysts and others are relationships that I have carefully nurtured for years.  Short, but heated exotic and foreign relationships serve to add fire to the passion and commitment to protect and nurture the familiar homescape.

We live in a culture that is often in dilemma about the conflict of sex and beauty. If a mutually agreeable sex act is excellent and enhances the love between two individuals it is said to be beautiful. However, the message we often receive is that sex is something that we must only whisper about, rather than celebrate. How can we find peace in our knowing if we are taught conflicting messages that one  is “dirty” and  the other is a sacred and lovely act.

I believe there is an innate tension between an honest-to-goodness feeling of arousal in wild places  and our need to suppress that nature. If we succumb to the erotic, I believe can forge an intimate relationship with it.

We are motivated to change or act when something affects us personally. It might be a health issue or the change is inspired by the girth, or lack of it, of your wallet. I would argue there is a third powerful motivator to change. That catalyst would be “heart surge”  or an actual physical uplift when in the company of a favorite person or place. There is an undeniable jolt of pleasurable arousal.

When we awaken that arousal in ourselves we are fed the sticky syrups that anchor us in relationship. Think of how many times you might have been rendered mute when confronting a magical, still moment in the outdoors.  Perhaps it was a moment when the sun dipped into west horizon and offered us one last glowing moment of the day. Or maybe it’s the first light of day that caresses your skin in a subtle warm wash. Vistas, particularly from hills and mountains, have always inspired heart surges.  These moments are best described in the words of novelist, A. B. Guthrie, “that we really ain’t such a somebody.”

It’s a good thing to be humbled by the power and affections of the natural world. Visual amazements, heady blossom perfumes, essences of cedar and spruce, the tartness of a wood sorrel leaf on the tongue or the coolness of a soft day when earthbound clouds surround us with their mist can forge unforgettable foreplay.

I want to touch, to get “dirty” with the land. There is something so honest, innocent and playful about a child or worker who is smeared and smudged with banners of dirt. I would rather engage with the banker who wears a thin crescent of dirt under their fingernails than the one wearing flawless and smoothed fingertips.

Think about it, the best sex is when one surrenders to the moment losing all control. We are a species that has a difficult time in surrendering control and letting go.  Perhaps I find a surge in sexual energy when in wild places because in such places there is no control. It is sheer wildness.   Eros is a mentor in helping me connect intimately to wild places.  The more dissociated I am with natural communities, the more I feel the wellsprings of my passions seeping away.

Just as we are genetically coded to have wild places in our lives, I believe there is an erotic calling for wildness in each and every one of us. Wide-eyed amazement at a moment of a new and astonishing discovery is unforgettable.  My creed for loving wild places is to surrender to wonder.

Certainly there are ethical and moral rules around sex, but imagine if we looked at the natural world with the same intensity as we do a remembered love?

On our drive north the sky transitioned from blue to the murkiness of dusk. The landscape of birch, spruce, pine and alder lost its detail. Yard lights illuminated the occasional house but mostly we passed boreal black.

The smell of a cooling  pizza, bought an hour earlier in Grand Rapids, was only faint now. It was slated to be  the following day’s lunch for a snowshoe trek.

We finally approached the small community of Northome, population 199, which is located just east of the massive Upper and Lower Red Lake. Up ahead, I spotted the small, isolated motel with an infinite wild backyard. We eased into tracked  parking lot. The snow had not been plowed and by the looks of the tire marks in the snow. Easing the truck  into the nose of  a snowdrift, I was glad we had driven our four-wheel drive Toyota Tundra, known fondly in our household as “Big Ass.” It’s really not such a big truck, but compared to our 10 year-old Prius, which we fondly call “Sipper” (sips gas), the truck is a big ass.

The porch where the Office entry was located was crowded with stored bicycles of various colors, a battery charger, coils of electrical cords and a winter-retired gas grill. While the place might have looked deserted or a little ominous like the famed Bates Motel in the Hitchcock classic thriller, Psycho, its owner, Mike, dispelled any moments of creepiness. His loquacious and pleasing manner was a relief.

“My Bobcat is broken down so I can’t clean up the parking area very well,” he explained.

As he registered us to a small but tidy room we made small talk. He wondered if we were going ice fishing over on Red Lake. “No,” I answered and then hesitated to admit, “we’re going snowshoeing up into the Red Lake Peatlands.” I noted the slight raise of Mike’s eyebrows. With a polite sneer, he said, “Well we don’t see many snowshoers. . . mostly ice fishing folks and snowmobilers.” Tearing my receipt from his book and handing it to me he queried, “Are you going to look for the Sasquillions?” Momentarily puzzled , I saw the twinkle in his eye and somehow quickly deduced that he was referring to a family unit of Sasquatch or Yetis. With an equally polite sneer, I answered, “That’s my hope. And one good photo . . . and move over Bill Gates!”

“Well, have a good night’s sleep,” he said as he handed me the room key. “And good luck up in the big bog!”

This Yeti fascination is a North American phenomenon. However, I suspect every culture has their bogie man that roams the wilds and is super shy of human encounters. But the fact that it is there adds to the mystique and dread of exploring wild, dark places. While Mike might have joked about our looking for the Sasquillions, some folks shudder at the thought of such critters.

We have a burly neighbor, up at our Yukon Territory Outpost, who is generally a nice guy but he can be brusque, mean, and isolated. One night he and his family of four kids and his wife had stopped by for an impromptu visit. We were just sitting down to eat a late supper. We explained that we had been out for almost 12 hours on a mountain biking exploration on an old mining exploratory road known to locals as the Alligator Lake Road. There are no gators or for that matter no reptiles in the Yukon and only a handful of amphibians. The lake, shaped like an alligator head, is in the midst of some very remote country.

Burly Neighbor looked startled upon learning where we had gone. “You went to Alligator Lake!?  Are you f—–g nuts!” Nancy and my vacant, puzzled looks only fueled more expletives that I would be hard pressed to use in front of manly miners. “Don’t you know there is a Yeti that lives back there?!” And just to be sure we understood he heaped even more searing expletives while his family looked as calm as a Sunday picnic. I wanted to calmly respond, “Cool,” but my ancient reptilian brain would not allow such an answer. Survival was paramount.

Ten minutes later, the conversation was successfully steered towards more urban matters and my digestion resumed. Less than two weeks later, I was talking with three of Burly Neighbor’s  oldest kids and they asked, “Tom do you believe in Yetis?”

“Well,” I enthused, “I hope they exist because I thing it would be really cool to see one.” That was not the answer they expected but I like to think that hearing a positive response might give them another perspective.

So now here we were again facing the ever-elusive phantom Yeti. The next morning we left the Northome Motel with fresh snow falling in the predawn blackness. In less than an hour we would be at the edges of both the Big Bog and the imagination. With luck, we would come across the Sasquillions and get a family portrait.

With the long Alaskan snowshoes strapped to my feet, I shuffled in the cold air and across the fallow field towards my lesson in the slough.

I am a student of Impressionism. Though I can be entranced with other Impressionistic masterpieces,such as Monet’s serene paintings of lilypads or the simple sensuality of Degas’ bathers, I have learned  far more from the teachings of Vulpes.

Vulpes demands my complete attention. A lapse of focus always results in the loss of valuable lessons. Vulpes is tireless and teaches me the value of perserverance. For the most part Vulpes’ teachings have been offered to me through a correspondence course in which I rarely ever saw the master teacher but instead had to decipher the lessons.

 Vulpes vulpes is the scientific name that the famed Swedish scientist, Carl Linnaeus, considered the “father of classification,”  penned  for the red fox in 1758. Little did the famed Swedish scientist, “father of classificiation,” realize that red foxes are the most widespread of all carnivores in the world.

Of all the animals whose tracks, or impressions, I love to follow the most, it is the fox that tells the most interesting story. To follow the meanderings of a fox, or any other animal, is to gain silent access to their respective life story. By noting the pattern of the tracks, the distance between the impressions, the pauses and scratches, and stained snow from their prey’s blood or from their own urine, I can, with some imagination, unravel the story they leave behind. Tracking has all the elements of a good mystery in which I get the opportunity to deciphers clues.

Though foxes are in the dog family, their track is more straight-lined, like a cat. Foxes are more purposeful than most dogs who tend to frolic all over the place and leave a sloppy track. Cats, though more straight-lined in their trail are rounder in the foot and leave no claw marks because they can retract their claws. Each cat footprint tends to be more round in shape than a foxes.

The small band of French Impressionists broke away from the Romantic style of art that was popular in the mid-1800s. They believed in observing nature closely and to look with scientific interest in visual phenomena. It is no different if one wants to learn the art of reading the comings and goings of creatures over the landscape. It is simply observing their spoor.

In my early teens, I spent many winter Saturdays following fox tracks in the snow. My mother would drive me down to the “meadows,” located a couple miles northeast from town and drop me off. I carried my single shot .22 rifle and an old WWII rucksack bearing my lunch and an old white bed sheet that had been converted to a crude poncho so I might blend with the white landscape. With a wave goodbye, I left the road and set off hiking through the knee-deep snow across the meadows to find a fox track. I hiked a lot in those days. The fox tracks I followed  paid no heed to property lines. Nor did I.  In those days I don’t recall encountering “no trespassing” signs, or for that matter, many fences. Eventually, after trudging several miles and with the sun dropping to the west, I would break from tailing the fox and hike  for home. I never shot a fox on one of those winter treks, though I did see several as they glided like an October flaming leaf over the snow covered fields. They were usually at least 10 acres from me.

The meadows I hiked, no longer exist. In the span of thirty or so years, the ragged expanse of grasslands and willows that covered more than a section of land have been ditched, drained, and cleared for growing acres of carrots or potatoes. I suspect foxes might cross it but it would hardly be worthy of spending time to look for food.

In following foxes, I discovered that they were opportunistic in their diet. Mice, rabbits and even leftover cobs of field corn would provide needed calories. These solitary hunters have to maintain their weight of 10-12 pounds. Most biologists who have committed thousands of hours in following red fox find that they are not all that successful in catching birds and that in the summer months they eat a fair number of insects such as crickets and grasshoppers.

Late January and early February  is my favorite time to follow a fox because this is the time of the year that the usually solitary animal joins up with a second fox. Their tracks, born seemingly overnight on a canvas of snow, show me their tireless gait. January, to the fox, is like November to the deer and May for the scarlet tanager. It is the season to find a mate.

In following paired fox tracks, one can “see” here and there where they frolic and play with each other in the throes of courtship. At this time of the year one can almost predict where they will scent mark. In the winter, scent marking is easily found as snow grafitti where the fox urinates or defecates.   These frequent scent posts are like a Hallmark card that simply states, “Thinking of You!” or “Keep out!” Foxes typically scent mark or leave their droppings on  landscape bumps like a small hillock or even a gopher mound.

I recall snowshoeing with a small group of girl scouts and their two leaders. We came across a  fresh fox track. It was somewhat of a surprise, because in recent years with the  increase in coyotes, there has been a corresponding decrease in foxes. Coyotes consider foxes food; just as wolves consider coyotes supper.  Not many years ago, I followed a fox track crossing a frozen lake. Half way across the tracks turned into a scene of carnage. Several coyote tracks converged on the lake with the fox. All that remained was one black fox leg and tufts of orange fur scattered on the blood-stained snow.

The girl scouts and I followed the fox trail. The strand of tracks moved just offshore of the frozen lake and arced over towards the nearby shore where the fox must have inspected a dead branch sticking up through the snow. It was a perfect spot for scent marking. Sure enough, there on the tip of snow was the dribbled yellow/orange stain. I got down on my hands and knees and put my nose up close for a sniff. The girls wrinkled their noses and their leaders raised their eyebrows, but after my  coaxing about what an interesting smell it was, they each bowed to the pee. What might seem like a whisper of a smell to each of us is a loud proclamation of heated desire to a fox. The musky smell was similar to a skunk, very organic, and a welcome sensory note during a month when odors seem all locked up in winter.

The slender snout of the fox is tipped with a sharp, black nose, but encased in their long nasal passage, are approximately 200 million smell receptors. Us two-leggeds are equipped with a piddly 5-6 million olfactory receptors. But then most of us don’t have to hunt any further than our fridge for sustenance. Foxes accurately read and communicate with great selectivity through the soup of smells that make up a landscape.

I was warmed as we met the rest of the girl scout troop upon returning to the cars. The new converts to Impressionism excitedly told their comrades about their pee-sniffing session and why they did it. I hope the impression of the outing was strong enough to become a story to their children someday.

The slough is deep with snow and the cattails, hummocks and muskrat houses each are potential magnets for a fox. Now if only I can catch up the sinuous message of Vulpes, master Impressionistic.

Over the first week of January, while weather broadcasters urged the masses to huddle indoors next to the furnace, I decided it was time to break out. I layered myself with lots of wool. This included  a favorite boiled wool sweater that I had snagged at the “free shack” at the Mt. Lorne dump in the Yukon. Finally I donned my Swedish cotton pullover anorak (a jacketlike pullover parka), strapped on my WW II surplus Alaskan snowshoes and took off with a friend for a couple hour hike.

The woodshed thermometer read a few degrees below zero. . . not so very bad. The windchill made it nippy when we plodded across a frozen lake where there was no tree cover.  Over the first hour of trudging, the left half of my nose twice turned white as a bride’s gown. I only know this because my friend noticed and warned me of the color change. I unwrapped the long tartan scarf cinched around my waist to keep out the wind and coiled it around my neck and lower face. In a matter of a couple of minutes circulation was back and the nose had returned to a healthy ruddy complexion.

The left hemisphere of my nose doesn’t do well in bitter weather. I froze it back in the winter of 1974 during a winter camping outing when temps dipped to a nippy -38°. (See last blog post.) While no serious tissue damage occurred, several days after the freezing skin turned to parchment and then peeled off. Since freezing it, the nose is subject to turning snow white when it gets too cold. It’s my habit to inform my fellow winter travelers and have them keep on eye on any color change of my schnoz.

I love my anorak. I bought it a few years ago from Don Kevilus at Four Dog Stove.  Not only because it makes me feel like an arctic explorer but it is a garment that is easy to adjust my inner fires. The long scarf belt keeps the wind from blowing up my back and can be used to cover my face. With the copious hood pulled over my stocking capped head I feel snug and cozy and my head is in its personal tent. The loose fit of the anorak allows colder air to enter the bottom. The cinching belt is generally not needed when I am exerting. Once inside the parka or anorak, the air chimneys up over my warmed torso and funnels through the neck washing over my face before flowing out the hood opening.

Even with bitter cold temperatures our bodies constantly disseminate water vapor. This is easy to witness when we momentarily pull off gloves or hat during a winter outing after exerting ourselves.  The vapor becomes visible as a drift of steam. Work too hard when overdressed and you will sweat. Then you run the danger of getting your layers of clothing wet. Wet clothes in cold weather can kill you.

My favorite feature of my anorak is the lush ruff of coyote fur that encircles the hood opening. I rarely pull the hood up but if the wind is biting, particularly if I am standing still like when I’m ice fishing for lake trout up in the border country. The thick fur ring  is a wonderful feature and is a keen feature to control humidity and temperature.

This ring of dense fur is not from a roadrunner-chasing, scrawny, Arizona coyote. This plush ruff is from a north-dwelling, British Columbia, thick-pelaged coyote.

The best fur ruffs are made from long, durable, and uneven length hairs. Coyote, wolf and dog fur all make excellent ruffs. The best of ruffs are made from wolverine or a blend of wolverine and wolf. Whereas, softer furs like fox or lynx might look more fashionable, they are not an effective clothing item for cold weather hoods. Their soft hairs absorb moisture from your breath and turns it sodden.

On the other hand, a wolverine ruff, considered the best in cold environments, will hold hoarfrost but it is easily shaken free with a brush of your hand. No fur sheds frost better than wolverine.

In 1986, I found myself in the small Inuit community of Homan Island, located on Victoria Island in the Canadian Archipelago.  On the edge of the Arctic Ocean, with floating ice chunks clogging up their harbor, it was surrealistic as I heard distant rifle shots from Inuk seal hunters and nearby barking sled dogs staked out at the stony beach. I relished the moment thinking it could have been the same sounds heard a hundred years earlier.

It was August and I just finished a canoe trip with some friends down the Kuujjua River. I strolled into an Eskimo Cooperative to look over some of the native art that was for sale. While the soapstone carvings and the unique  silk screen prints were captivating, my eyes were riveted on the three or four full wolverine ruffs hanging over a stretched cord.

I had coveted a wolverine ruffed parka for a long time. Here was a chance to buy a strip of prime fur with a lovely span of buff colored hairs flanked by the more typical chocolate brown colors. Reverently, I approached the ruffs and leaned in to read the tiny handwritten price tags. One hundred seventy five dollars! I had no credit card then and the $30 or so cash I had would not come close to a sale. I’ve never forgotten those ruffs.

Today I am in a better fiscal position to buy one but a recent check on the internet informed me that the price has more than doubled since 1986 and I would be lucky to find a ruff, that’s just a ruff, under $375.

In the spring of 2009. Nancy and I had spent the winter in the Yukon and I was riding my road bike on the Alaska Highway with Yukon friend Gerry. It was May , warm and the days were getting long.  The ditches wore the spray of dirty snow and the adjacent woods were still white on the forest floor.

As we rode west in single file, I noticed a hunk of fur sticking out of the snow down in the ditch. My inner naturalist is always at the forefront and that means I have to check out dead things. This one was likely a road-killed something. But what?

“Hold it Gerry,” I called out as I braked, turned around and biked back to the small plume of fur.

I got off my bike and post-holed down the ditch in my cycling shoes to the tell-tale tuft of fur.  Gingerly, I gripped it and pulled it carefully out of the snow. Up out of the snow emerged a wrecked winter parka trimmed with a wolverine ruff!

I kid you not. Admittedly the parka was in really poor shape and covered in dust and gravel from winter snowplows blading debris over the parka but the ruff looked okay. We wondered how the garment ended up here as a piece of roadside flotsam. Had it blown out of the back of a pick up truck? Gerry loaned me his pocketknife and I cut the ruff off the muddy and worn parka. After shaking the sand and gravel out of it and swishing it through the wet snow, I tucked it into Gerry daypack.

Later, I repeatedly rinsed the gritty ruff off in the river that races by our Outpost. After drying, I shook it to a reasonable fluffiness.  It looked pretty good. The ruff still has not been sewn on a parka but it graces a thick caribou antler that hangs on our wall.

I could create what is called a sunburst ruff by simply sewing the wolverine ruff just inside my coyote ruff. Now that would be the ultimate.

“Talk of your cold through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”

Few lines of poetry are as memorable as that line Robert Service penned in The Cremation of Sam McGee. I recall trying to memorize that poem and I loved growling that line with a steaming hiss delivered in enunciating “sssssssstabbed like a driven nail.”

A Yukon friend recently called to wish us a good new year. While chatting, I told him that our state governor had called for the closing of schools for two days due to extreme cold.

“Really? How cold is it down there?”

I told him that temps were in the mid -20°s. “You know just another mild Yukon day.”

When Nancy and I overwintered in 2008-09 at our Yukon Territory Outpost in northern Canada, air temperatures lingered around -30°F for two solid weeks in mid December. School buses kept picking up and dropping off bundled kids every day. . . in the dark. During that spell of weather the sun wasn’t rising until nearly 10AM and then setting around 3:15PM.

I know this might be too graphic, but I have vivid memories of  finishing my morning constitution in the outhouse and standing and staring in amazement at the pronounced geyser of steam that flowed out of the one-holer. Daily I stood shivering in witness to that sub-arctic volcano.  It always filled me with gratitude for a body that was not only regular, but it managed to keep its internal thermostat at nearly 100°F while the outside world cracked and popped in the bitter cold.

Maybe that’s the problem.  As our society has become more urbanized we also isolate ourselves in altered environments and there is a cultural softening. It seems miraculous that we can create a heated environment by finger-punching a thermostat touch pad  or turning the thermostat dial. These are the conditions necessary to stare into the hypnotic dance of colorful pixels dancing across our television screens. While outdoors, quiet smoke shadows swirl over the snowy landscape and chickadees cluster in balls of fluffed feathers bent on making it through the bitter night.

Two dear friends of ours live perched on a high forested bank of the Yukon River eight hours north of our Yukon Outpost and that doesn’t include the twenty-five mile boat ride downriver.  They live contentedly in their remote, off-gid cabin. Last winter, for nearly a full week, their outdoor thermometer bottomed out at -50°.

During the cold spell, they would work on their art while sitting next to the roaring wood burning stove alternately turning their chairs 180°, like a rotisserie, so as to warm up the side that faced the cabin wall. With a robust wood pile, small flock of familiar Canada jays that visited their door step daily and an evening show of pulsating northern lights illuminating the night sky, they never felt threatened by the elements.

And so it bothers me that recently the media and for that matter, Governor Dayton, the CEO of  Minnesota, have painted the recent cold snap in apocalyptic terms. I know I’m getting older and consequently there is a feeling of smugness of accumulating scores of winters under my belt, but truly this recent cold stretch used to be fairly common over the winter. I can hardly stand the whimpering of newscasters when the temperature goes below zero. But then again, most of them are younger and have only experienced a spate of more modern, milder winters. Their definition of winter is based on what they have observed and experienced. So the menace of a polar vortex sliding in over the region, it is like spotting a yeti.  The weather people on the news are too young and their new normal for basing a cold winter day is far tamer than mine is. Over the past decade our winters have been for the most part wimpier when it comes to cold.

Bear with me as I squeak through cold snow steps of winter’s past.

“Talk of your cold through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”

During my public school years, I don’t remember any days where the school superintendent or state governor called off school. Back in the 1980s, Governor Arne Carlson closed schools three times due to cold temperatures and stout winds. But prior to that no school closings due to cold.

Admittedly we had school closings due to snow days. There was simply too much snow for buses or any vehicles to deal with. During bitter cold days our school dress code was relaxed when temps went below zero and the girls could wear slacks under their dress. Bear in mind, girls were not allowed to wear pants, jeans or slacks.

“Talk of your cold through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”

It was Christmas Eve in the late 1960s and the mercury dropped to about -30°. Did that stop us from driving out to my grandparents farm for the annual feast of lutefisk? Did it prevent folks from nearly filling the 11 PM Candlelight Service at Trinity Lutheran Church? Did it stop Santa from making his rounds? No! No! and No!

“Talk of your cold through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”

January, 1977. I was housesitting a hobby farm south of the village of Sunrise. While the homeowners were in Florida, some of my duties included feeding and watering a few livestock. On two consecutive mornings, the temps hit -44° and I had to use a heavy pry bar to break open their water hole. I remember wondering what the homeowner would think if I herded his two horses and eight or so beef cattle into the house each night. Another memory was that after doing the early morning chores, I would unplug the electrical cord that connected to the block heater on my truck, and drive away each morning with the clunking sounds of squared frozen tires.

One of my most memorable winter camping nights was on Dec. 30, 1974. With packs on our backs my good friend, Glen, and I had snowshoed into the bush somewhere in Itasca State Park. Without a tent, we laid our sleeping pads and high loft down bags on a stomped bed of snow beneath a stand of tall red pines. I distinctly recall finishing our campfire cooked canned stew, standing close to the fire, surrounded by a cold black night.

“Well now what do we do?” I wondered aloud.

It was 6:30 PM. It proved to be a very long night in the sleeping bag where assuming a fully dressed fetal position was necessary. At first light, more than twelve fitful hours after crawling into the bag, we emerged to -38°F. Glen got a dose of frostbite on his fingers simply from slipping off his mitts to stuff his sleeping bag into a stuff sack. Super refrigerated nylon can burn the fingers.

Ironically, the cold winter camping incident did not stop us from future excursions.  After a long successful teaching career, including being selected as Minnesota Teacher of the Year in 2005, Glen has birthed a business, Snow Journeys in guiding folks on winter camping excursions into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

“Talk of your cold through parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail!”

The only real complaining about the cold weather should be from the emerald ash borers. This invasive insect, wintering beneath the bark of ash trees, is taking a big hit. For the more than 900 million ash trees growing in Minnesota the slowing of the beetle’s invasion is a good thing. Will the cold kill them off entirely? Not likely, but the frigid weather does buy time as forestry folks are trying to find a better way to control the destructive insect. As an ambassador for swamps full of black ash trees, I sing out a mighty “Hurrah!” for our ally, Polar Votex.

So who or what is this critter called polar vortex?

Recently, On all Things Considered, Washington Post weather editor Jason Samenow described the polar vortex this way: “We’re talking about a huge sprawling area of circulating cold air originating from the North Pole. It’s a low-pressure center, and typically during the winter months it resides up there. At times, some tentacles of it will slip southward and bring cold air outbreaks into the U.S., but this year, we’re seeing a huge chunk of it, most of it descending into the U.S.”

Before hanging up from my holiday phone chat with my Yukon friend I asked what the temperature was there. He laughed and gave me a reading that was 30° warmer than here at Basecamp in Minnesota. And if you factored in the windchill it was a full 50° warmer!

In Huck Finn’s words, “I reckon it’s time to light out for the territories.”

UPDATE:

Full disclosure is needed. I wrote this less than a week ago but forgot to post it. Today the bizarre weather continues. The air temps are well above freezing, in the low 40s, and we have swung from polar to nearly tepid.  In less than a week we have seen a swing of 60 degrees! I’m wondering if we shouldn’t close schools for just plain wackiness.

So Huck, I reckon it ain’t time to light out for the territories after all.

When I was growing up, trudging through snow to find a Christmas tree was not a family affair. The annual December fetching of the tree was their unique and special bonding period for my sister and my dad.   My brother and I didn’t mind because we got dad’s attention during the summer through Boy Scouts, by shagging fly balls after supper and going fishing and hunting with him.

Years later, I recall a similar tree-harvesting venture. My now adult daughter, Britta, was around eight years old. She followed my trail as I broke trail through the snow to a grove of young spruce trees that I had  planted years before. We finally chose one.  Before easing the sharp teeth of the buck saw into the tree’s base, I explained that we needed to properly thank this tree for giving itself to us. I told her of the practice that many native cultures practice  in leaving an offering when plants or animals were killed for their use.

In less than a minute the tree was cut. I urged Britta to put her nose close to the fresh cut and take a deep smell. She let out a hearty childlike “Ahhhhhh!” And then she stood up, standing directly over the stump and let a long trail of spittle drop from her mouth to the stump. “There,” she said, “I am giving the tree some of myself.”

“Perfect” I said through my smile.

With both daughters married and living on the West Coast, the tree gathering has changed. Now my Lovely Lady and I don’t even cut or buy a conifer any more. Instead, we stroll through the woods behind the house with our eyes scanning the underbrush for our target Tannenbaum. The Christmas tree requirements have changed as we incorporate artistic expression. Now we seek three saplings of the deciduous alien and pariah, buckthorn.

Millions of dollars have been spent in the Upper Midwest on controlling the spread of buckthorn. In Minnesota there are two species of this “noxious” outcast: Common and Glossy. Like most of us, this plant is not indigenous to North America. It was brought here from European Continent back in the mid-1800s. It was a very popular shrub for planting hedges. Not only did is shear easily but it held on to its summer green well into November when the rest of the world is moving towards shades of gray.

While buckthorn berries are not a top choice for birds to feed on, they often have no choice in food availability when other native species have a poor bearing year. Birds are effective agents for moving plants around. They eat the berries, digest the pulpy fruit and spread the hard seeds across the countryside in their droppings.

Without any native limiting factors that might impede their spread, the buckthorn has spread like a wildfire across the landscape. It has out-competed many of the native species and has changed the look of both wild and urban areas.

By elevating them to Christmas tree status, I am trying to find love for them. Sooner or later a limiting factor will likely evolve and retard their expansive  days of having their way with the landscape.

Ideally, we are looking for three similar lengths, approximately 5-6 feet in length. All branches and spines are cut off. It might not be a bad idea to treat the fresh cut stump with a buckthorn killing agent such as Garlon 4 or Pathfinder .  We are practicing a zero tolerance for any toxins on our fragile sandy soils that filter our shallow water table.

After the buckthorn is cut, we scan the naked canopy of the trees that grow at  the sunlit edge of the woods for wild grape vines that climb high into the red oaks and black cherrys. We don’t want the thick Tarzan swinging vines; instead we are looking for those that are no thicker than our little finger and then taper to a boot-lace size.  The lopping shears easily cuts them and then they are gently pulled from the upper limbs.  Once we have two or three vines, we start the actual job of fetching. The tangle of vines are far more unwieldy than the three buckthorn lengths.

Once back in our yard, we construct a simple tripod with the three rigid poles and a piece of baling twine.  Then, starting at the base, we begin wrapping the vine around and around the structure. In no time, we have a very earthy structure that is easily set in living room bay window. Strings of colorful lights are wrapped around our little Christmas tipi. These are followed by the decorations. All are easily hung by hooking them to the swirl of grape vines.

While there is no nostalgic essence of fir emanating from the non-existence boughs, there is also no need to water the tree. This is one totally organic, free range decomposable tree.  And if we are gentle with the skeletal structure, we can be assured of a number of years with this alien sitting front and center on the Yule stage.