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Aroused by the caress of sultry October weather, the stinkhorn rose up. This is the second consecutive fall that I have witnessed this species growing so late in the season. From ten feet I could smell the fetid fungus. It’s no surprise its common name elicits a drawn out “Pee-you!”

Miss Nancy could hardly believe such a rank species could sully her fenced orchard. I explained that the rotten smell is intended to attract flies who wade into the slime-covered fungus to feed on it. In garnering nourishment, the flies are unknowing agents of spore dispersal. Most species of fungus depend on wind to spread their millions of spores. 

“Now that is smart evolution,” declared Nancy while keeping her nose well away from this unlikely fruit. 

The 16th century Swedish botanist, Carl Linneaus, was the first scientist to create a universal language that would assign a scientific name to living flora and fauna found around the world. This binomial nomenclature mostly used Latin. 

Over his lifetime, Linneaus would assign over 8000 plants and animals a two part name: genus and species. Similar species would all be assigned the same genus name. For instance, we humans bear the genus name Homo and the species name sapiens.  Other members of our genus are now extinct. These included Homo erectus and Homo neanderthalensis. 

Linneaus christened stinkhorn with its scientific name in 1753. The genus name he gave it was Phallus. I suspect he chose that because. . . well, just look at it. 

The title “stinkhorn” does not encourage intimacy. If anything the name elicits repulsion. There are plenty of other plants and animals that have acquired vulgar titles. I rather like the flower “bastard toadflax.”  It marries the harsh word, bastard with a warty toad. A lovely yellow buttercup called “cursed crowsfoot” gets its nasty name from its skin irritating sap.  

“Mother lousewort” is an attractive Eurasion plant with a rich history in herbal medicine. It was named from the old European belief that this plant was linked to lice. While not a vulgar name, both parts of the word, “louse” and “wort” are not all that charming.

As my grandkids move through their childhood, I think I will introduce them to floral expletives when they are frustrated. Such sweet swearing would be far more acceptable than traditional curse words. 

When upset, just spit out an emphatic “Bastard toadflax!” 

Or when cursing your little brother simply growl, “You mother lousewort!” 

Puzzled over a math problem? Try mumbling, “Cursed crowsfoot.” 

Plants are not alone with odd and repulsive names. There are birds with tainted titles. Consider the migratory songbird called the dickcissel. 

Why it seems almost x-rated. 

I dare you to keep a straight face when you tell about your vacation to the tropical jungle in Peru and you glimpsed their national bird. “Hey mom, I saw a magnificent cock-of-the-rock!

 And it feels delightfully naughty to discuss the differences between the blue-footed booby, the brown-footed booby and the red-footed booby.

As long as we are seeking trashy common names among wildlife we can even find them under the cover of water. A common baitfish in Minnesota is the “fathead minnow.” Maybe we should be kinder and call it the “larger-headed minnow?”

Snorkeling over Caribbean coral and schools of colorful fish, we get to be amazed when we catch a glimpse of a “slippery dick.” This small fish is equipped with a mucus to avoid being eaten. According to the 1859 book, The Naturalist in Bermuda, the word “dick” is a foolish or peculiar fellow.

Even more repulsive is the “pigbutt worm.” This deep-sea bristle worm is also known as the “flying buttocks” because of its amazing resemblance to the rear end of a pig without the short curly tail.

Even we humans have foul names.  There are too many common names to list but they include idiot, dullard, scumbag, dumb shit and plenty more.

I found out that if you cut out the fly-loving slimy part of the stinkhorn, it is an edible mushroom. I don’t think so. I might be a dullard but I’m no idiot. 

The song was like a performance where the singer stumbles on the lyrics. I was sitting on the open porch of my log cabin admiring the fall colors when I heard the fumbled notes of what had to be an immature male white-throated sparrow. 

I smiled. It had me thinking of an adolescent boy whose voice teeters between Little League and the major leagues. His sentences squeak and break as if hatching from boyhood to a deeper manhood baritone.

So it is with male white-throated sparrows.

Next May there be no immature sparrow flying north to its boreal nesting grounds. All the males will be capable of breeding and all of them will sing the pure territorial notes that many of us have learned using the help of a mnemonic.  Mnemonics help us learn bird songs by putting the notes to words. In this case the sparrow seems to repeat “Oh sweet Canada. . . Canada. . . Canada.”  Or “Poor Sam Peabody. . . Peabody. . . Peabody.”

The bird I heard from the cabin porch hatched just months ago. It is called a juvenile or hatching year bird. The bird would fail the maturity audition as its song had awkward notes and was incomplete. “Oh sweet Cana. . .”

These sparrows will be around for a few weeks in the fall on their way south.  The autumnal migration is much slower than the northerly spring journey. 

I slipped off the porch and eased towards a dogwood thicket where the incomplete song had been attempted.  I heard several robins in the thicket. Like the sparrows, the robins are gathering into migratory flocks. Though I couldn’t see them, they sounded like they were softly chuckling in their contact calls. 

Suddenly, I heard a staccato of squeaky chinks, the alarm calls from the ground feeding sparrows, followed by a sudden swoosh as they flushed and left me alone. 

During the years when I banded birds at the Warner Nature Center, I became very familiar with their alarm chirps. The fine mesh of the forty-foot long, seven-foot high nets could be empty one minute and full of birds the next. Sometimes the alarm calls of the ensnared birds would attract others to the net. 

When we tallied over forty years of banding data we discovered that of all the thousands of birds banded at the nature center, white throated sparrows and yellow-rumped warblers were caught more than any other songbird. 

I cannot hear the white-throats’ alarm call without a smile. After all it was the alarm call that helped us find a beloved cat that had gone astray. 

Over thirty years ago, my two young daughters had pleaded that our cat, Whitey, join us on a day trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area to pick blueberries.  I recall expressing the absurdity of such a request. But this was a case where the squeaky wheel wins the day and little girls are hard to say no to.  Reluctantly I surrendered to their joined appeals. 

Paddling across the first lake it was as if the cat was purposely goading me by tightroping along the wooden gunwale of the canoe. I gritted my teeth and considered giving the canoe an exaggerated shiver just to test the cat’s nimbleness or swimming skills.  

We scattered into the bush and picked blueberries all day. By midafternoon, we started gathering up our day packs and buckets of berries for the return paddle and the long drive home. Where was the cat?

We called and called. We combed the nearby jack pine, spruce and birch forest pleading for it to come out. My daughters were on the edge of tears. What can we do? 

After an hour of searching we sulked to the loaded canoe. We had to go and now there were tears. It was then that I heard the nearby alarm call of the white throat. I turned my head to listen more keenly. The upset bird was vocalizing from a thicket of spruce not twenty yards from our loaded canoe. I lifted a thick lower spruce limb and there was a very content cat splayed out, looking at me through partially open eyes as if it was wondering why I was bothering it. It was the perfect model of cat independence. 

Bubbles of boreal joy emitted through the forest as we celebrated the reunion.  The cat was scooped up and hugged constantly on the return paddle. 

With the cat removed, the quietude of the boreal forest settled and I suspect the sparrow felt victorious in driving the feline away.

Whether fully voiced or incomplete in their notes, I can never see sparrows as little brown birds not worthy of a second look.

“I like mountains because they make me feel small and

help me sort out what’s important in life.“

-Author, Mark Obmascik

Smiling, I accepted and donned the homemade crown from my daughter Maren. The jagged perimeter of the royal headpiece mirrored the mountains where we were heading. The number “75” scribbled with a Sharpie on the crown’s front made this a royal birthday headpiece. 

This crown had no brilliance. It had been forged from a cardboard box and netted with twine to affix pieces of the natural world. 

In the absence of a sword, I raised my hiking pole to the sky and both of my daughters, Princess Britta and Princess Maren lifted theirs to form a steeple of alliance before our royal procession headed up the trail.

Over the course of the next four-days, the crown was adorned with fern fronds, tendrils of old man’s beard lichen, sprigs of colorful flowers and twigs of aromatic subalpine fir. During some of the long, steep climbs the sweat from my forehead threatened the structural integrity of the crown so it mostly hung on my pack. 

This hike had been hatched months earlier. The intention was to honor my 75th summer birthday with a daughters-and-father backpacking trip hiking the 42-mile Grand Loop in the Olympic Mountains in Washington state.

By mid-afternoon we grew less chatty. I found myself feeling such gratitude for being able to do this hike. Like a short song, I whispered to myself, “Thank you feet. Thank you knees, Thank you hips. Thank you back.”

By late afternoon our feet were tired and some blisters were birthed. It always takes a day to adjust to the bulk and weight of the pack and we relished soaking our feet in the stream flowing next to our tents at day’s end.

The following morning we climbed out of the timber and into the alpine sunshine as we crested Grey Wolf Pass. During the following long descent I was made painfully aware of my compromised toes. 

I had made the wrong shoe choice for this trip. Over the past few backpacking trips, I have eschewed my sturdy hiking boots and opted for the lighter trail running tennis shoe. I should have worn my sturdier hiking boots.

By late afternoon we slid our packs off at our second camp. The first order was to shed our footwear and revel again in soaking our wounded feet in another cold stream that flowed next to our tents.  The nails on both of my big toes looked like someone had applied a gothic black nail polish on them. I was fairly certain I would lose them after the trip. 

With spirits renewed, we set up our tents. A voice behind us was unexpected.

“Do you mind if I access the stream here to filter water? It’s easier to get to the water.”

We looked up and welcomed the tall, white-haired man to help himself. 

We learned his name was Larry and that he lived about 30 miles away in Sequim. His love of backpacking and trail running explained his gazelle like figure.

After a pause, he added, “Say you folks don’t happen to have any dental floss you could spare?”

Noting our puzzled looks he quickly explained,  “My valve on my sleeping pad is leaking and since I had a lousy night sleeping on the hard ground, I thought I might be able to MacGyver it by wrapping dental floss around the valve threads.”

“Sorry,” we answered.  “The only teeth hygiene tools we have are tooth brushes.”

He shook his head, “No problem. I really should have checked it out before I left home. Stupid.”

As long as it was confession time, I shared my mistake of choosing the wrong footwear for this hike and that my feet were protesting the decision. 

Larry nodded knowingly and suggested, “Maybe you and I should write The Dummies Guide for Getting Old.”

I chuckled and then asked, “Larry do you mind if I ask how old you are? 

“Eighty one.”  

Smiling I responded,  “I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Larry said. “Over the past few years, I have become more aware to do that Buddhist thing when I’m out exerting myself and to be in the moment.” 

We chatted awhile and Larry asked about our route and timeframe. We shared that we planned on hiking the three passes to our Grand Lake campsite the following day. 

Larry’s eyes widened.“Oh wow! Is that a good idea?” 

We had been a bit apprehensive about our plan to climb over three passes totaling over 4,200 feet and trek nearly ten and a half miles each day.  Now we really wondered.We had two more days to finish. Was this reasonable? Clearly, if our feet had a say in the matter, the six of them would have given us a thumbs down.

The following morning we waved a “good morning” to Larry as we headed out at 8 AM. Almost immediately we began zigzagging up the trail for the one-mile, 1000-foot climb. We were fresh and we expressed gratitude for the cool and overcast day. An hour later we reached the top. The descent on the back side was more gentle and took us through some lovely slightly forested meadows. 

An hour later we reached the second pass. Climbing Cameron Pass required more pauses to catch our breath. We were glad for the continued overcast skies. Now a light mist made the continual climbing more tolerable. By midday we celebrated getting to the summit of this pass by lunching on a handful of nuts.  Then we began the long descent into the Cameron River Basin.

During the long descent we flanked the lively stream edged by frequent purple patches of mountain bog gentian. It was serene and lovely.

I was following Maren and Britta when I looked up at the two of them.  Suddenly I visualized them as two youngsters. Their sisterly banter carried me back decades before. I recalled high spirited canoe trips on the St. Croix River and into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. I smiled at the memories of teaching them whitewater canoeing skills in an open canoe on the Brule River in Wisconsin. 

Then there was the winter when we hollowed out piled snow to make a “snow castle” to spend the night in. They delighted in the magic of candlelight reflected off the crystalline walls. There had been shared tree climbing and a tree house of sorts.

Like a splash of cold water on my face, I suddenly realized that I might never do something like this with them ever again. Ever. Again. 

Tears welled up in my eyes. I stifled a sob. Maren heard it and turned to look back, “Dad, are you all right?”

I paused and nodded. Then the floodgates opened. I blubbered, “I’m good. . . I’m really good.” I expressed that I was so thankful that they chose to suggest and make the time to do this hike with me. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and shared that it was an immense privilege to be here with them.

Through puddled eyes, I choked, “This. . . this. . . is the best birthday I’ve ever had. Thank you so much!”

We moved on, two daughters, now seasoned parents themselves and a crowned father, finding a joined rhythm as we began the final, highest pass of the day. And I thought of Larry’s hiking mantra, the Buddhist mantra. . . “Being here now.”  

“Thank you feet. Thank you knees. Thank you hips. Thank you back.  Thank you lovely daughters.”

“I like to explore,” I declared. Do you suppose we should go explore a spot you’ve never been?”

With wide eyes, Thomas, my five year-old grandson slowly nodded.

“We are going to walk to a jungle.”

Wrinkling his forehead in confusion, he asked, “What? A jungle? Here?”

Thomas was visiting Minnesota from his home in Tacoma, Washington for the annual summer Opa and Nana Camp. 

Earlier in the day, he had climbed down the ladder from the loft  in our little log cabin. Both he and his sister fondly refer to the loft as “the nest.” 

At breakfast, he wondered how I came to be called “Opa.” I shared that it was a title my own father had owned when he was a grandfather. So it only made sense that I should follow suit when I became a grandpa.

I asked him if he would like to grow up and be like Opa. 

Very matter-of-factly he replied, “I have to be. He is walking inside my mind. He is in me.”

Then, with a wry smile, I asked him “Do you think one of your first words spoken as a baby was Opa?”

“No.”

“Oh I suppose it was Mama or Dada?”

“Nope.”

He looked right at me and in all seriousness reminded me of his first words.

“Flower in my heart so bright.”

As matter-of-factly as I could I soberly answered, “Oh yeah, I forgot that.”

After the invitation to go on a jungle exploration, we pushed away from the table and got ready for an adventure. 

“Well,” I said, “ on this hike you will have to use your imagination a little bit.”

I was reminded of such a wilds when I was a youngster. We lived in town until I was in third grade. About a block from our Main Street home, across the street from the Methodist Church, was an overgrown vacant lot. We called it “the grassy green jungle” and it was the nearby wilds where we created trails and tales. Jungles can grip the imagination. 

Thomas and I strolled slowly down our long driveway that is flanked by hedges of brush and trees. The expedition was slow as there were numerous pauses for close looks at little things that only he spotted. At the mailbox, we turned left on the gravel township road and walked perhaps thirty yards before we left the road and walked into our neighbor’s cornfield. 

“This Thomas, is a lush, very green jungle of corn.” I guided him to a row where he was flanked by tall stalks much taller than he.

He asked, “Can we eat this corn?” 

I paused before replying “No. But people kind of eat it because most of this corn is fed to animals that we eat like cattle, pigs and chickens. And a bunch is used to make fuel for cars and sugar for pop.”

“Do any animals live in here?”

“Nope,” I said, “nothing but corn. 

Why aren’t there other plants, like trees and flowers?

“Because only corn was planted and then certain chemicals were sprayed on the ground to keep all other plants from growing. 

“Aren’t there even any bugs?”

“Well if you look close you might see some but otherwise it is not very good for anything but corn. You won’t even find worms if you dig into the ground here.”

Thomas stood just looking at the corn like it was an alien. I wondered if I should tell him that in fact the corn is an alien. 

Before settlement, there was no corn or any other agricultural crops growing here. The closest crop that would have been found here before Europeans moved here would have likely been the wild rice crop that grew less than a mile east of us. And that crop would have required no chemicals or tilling from the indigenous people who lived here and harvest the native rice for thousands of years.

I waved him to go ahead and walk into the corn. “Stay in the row you are on and we can walk to our neighbor’s house so you can meet him.” 

 He hesitated. “No need to worry,” I comforted, “I’ll be in another row just a short distance from you.”

Thomas managed to move a few extra rows distant from me but I could see his hurried path among the jostling corn stalks as he scurried towards my steady banter. After five minutes of jungle trodding we broke out into the bright sunlight and into the neighbor’s yard. Not all jungle expeditions take days or weeks.

I introduced Thomas to neighbor, Dennis out in his pole building where we found him rattling on some riding mower maintenance. As expected the five-year old was mostly shy. I was surprised that he was more intrigued with the dusty life-sized plastic Christmas carolers stored on a high shelf above the shovels, rakes and chain saws. I would have thought the John Deere tractor or the chain saws might have caught his attention.

Dennis suggested that Thomas go around to the front yard to the old hand pump and see if he could pump up some water and maybe some frogs. And with that intriguing invitation Thomas quickly grasped my hand and pulled me to the old pump.

We goth grabbed the long handle and began pumping. Soon water came pulsing out of the spout into the bucket. Squeals erupted when a frog suddenly came flushing out of the spout like a summer kid flying down a slide at a water park. It swam in the bucket and all pumping was halted for frog inspection.

I explained it was a tree frog and that it had super powers. 

“Really? Super powers?” 

“Well, almost,” I explained. It can change the color of its skin so it can blend in to its surroundings. This is a super power that hides it so predators might not see it or to help it more easily catch bugs to eat.”

I pointed out the tiny rounded toe pads and told Thomas that this frog could walk up a pane of glass, kind of like Spiderman.”

The explorer’s response of “Cool!” was reward enough for this day of jungle adventure. 

I started scheming last winter, as I sat with a coffee cup in hands staring at the lapping flames encased in the kitchen woodburning stove.

How could I convince my wife, Miss Nancy, that we should try a cycling tour rather than another Canadian canoe trip? Halfway through my cup of java I grew a satisfied smile. I would tempt her by including her love of music and the fiddle. Those loves would merge on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia. It is known for its fiddling that encompasses a lively blend of Scottish and Gaelic styles. Neither of us have ever traveled to the Maritime Provinces and this trip seemed perfect. 

Unlike the 13th century Italian explorer, John Cabot who sailed over a month to accidentally arrive on the rugged rocky coast of what was to someday become Nova Scotia, we would fly to Halifax. 

In 1496, England’s King Henry VII granted Cabot the right to sail west in search of a trade route to Asia. His ensuing voyage never made it to Asia because he bumped into a rugged continent which he immediately claimed for England.

My plan worked. We signed up with Discovery Cycling Tours to cycle the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island.  The trip information beckoned: “Experience the Cabot Trail’s legendary climbs.”  Miss Nancy expressed some concern over that line.  Admittedly I felt a twinge of “yikes” but kept my concern to myself. 

Two years ago Miss Nancy had been inflicted with Lyme’s disease and it had almost crippled her in her knee. She still experiences some slight pain so I was glad she decided to choose an electric-assist bike rather than a pedal or analogue bike.

We went an extra week earlier to take in the sights including one of the best known Nova Scotia music fests, The Stan Rogers Folk Music Festival, also known as StanFest.

The late Stan Rogers is held almost mythically in these parts. He is also a favorite of Nancy’s and mine. His song Northwest Passage is viewed by many Canadians as an anthem and we heard it several times performed by different musicians.

Finally our group of cycling companions converged and we traveled north from Halifax by van to our starting point on Cape Breton Island. 

The first two days had us cycling past numerous pastoral farms, a trail of old steepled churches of various denominations and expanses of spectacular rugged coastlines. I was also struck by how undulating the Cabot Trail was with plenty of oxygen-sucking climbs. 

On our second night Nancy got the opportunity to play a borrowed fiddle to accompany a professional Cape Breton musician.

Before the trip I was sort of dreading day four. I knew we had to face two major climbs on this day. And on top of it this was our longest cycling day of the trip: fifty miles. Now that I am seventy five years old, whether I am cycling, cross country skiing or backpacking, I have come to know that I relish a day off after a couple of extended workout days. Admittedly, this tour ride was no race and the guides always reminded us to have a relaxed, enjoyable tour.  “Remember this is your vacation!”

After dinner, on the eve of our big cycling day where we would gain 4,700 feet in elevation, guide Mark asked for our attention. He wanted to give us a rundown on what to expect the following day. 

I squirmed when Tom, the older guide, spoke up. He generally bears an almost mischievous smile overseen by a decidedly Irish twinkle in his eyes. He is a seasoned bike mechanic and has twice won the Nova Scotia mountain bike championship for his age group.

Tom’s face turned more sober when he shared his experience with the two testy climbs we would encounter. 

“French Mountain, our first big climb of the day, is a serious three and a half miles of non-stop pedaling. There are no. . . zero. . . breaks on a 8 to 10% average gradient. And there are sections where the gradient is right around 16%. For perspective, we had a European cyclist in our group one year who had cycled both Mont Blanc and Alpe d’Huez. Both of those famed Alps climbs average a 6-8 % gradient.  He claimed climbing French Mountain was much tougher.”

Our table got much quieter. Tom continued, “Those of you riding e-assist bikes need to be aware of how much power you have in your bike batteries. Those of you who on analogue, I will be sitting with the trailer in the trailhead parking lot at the base of the mountain for half an hour. If you find it too difficult, please turn around, glide back down and I will put your bike on the trailer and you can ride an e-bike up. Remember this is your vacation.” 

From day one, I had often found myself pedaling with two Pennsylvania friends, Will and Bob. Bob was a determined beast on a bike but he was admittedly only 66 years old. Will was very steady and determined and he and I started up French together with Bob ahead of us.

We had climbed perhaps 300 meters when Will turned and between breaths huffed over his shoulder, “Don’t worry it’s going to get worse before it gets a lot worse.”

In a lovely synchronized turn we turned our bikes and shot down the grade back to Tom to switch out for the electric assist bikes. After a short lesson on how to use them, we returned to the climb. 

After that big day, our evening feast took on a more celebratory nature. There was lobster and seafood to eat, the brisk waters of the Atlantic to dip into to soothe our leg muscles. Smiles continued to be rampant and soon we had to bid farewell to our gang. 

For two days after returning to Minnesota, my thighs ached. I soothed myself by reminding myself that the souvenirs of soreness were so worth it in the beauty and companionship I experienced from fellow cyclists and the friendly folks of Nova Scotia.

May is a month that has me walking more slowly through the woods. I pause to consider the delicate swirl of maidenhair ferns. Just to my left somewhere high in the screening foliage, a red-eyed vireo preaches celestial canons from the canopy. Someone once tallied 20,000 vireo phrases over the course of a day.

I hadn’t gone a hundred yards when I spied a doe slinking away. There was no classic bounding off with a lift of her white tail. Like a thrush that always whispers off through the underbrush, she was there and then gone. This is the second time in three days that I have seen a doe behaving like this.

Given that May is turning to June I expect to see this furtive behavior. It’s likely the does have birthed or are about to birth their fawn or fawns. Twins are not uncommon and on occasion I have seen triplets.

Newborn fawns are the best hiders. Their spotted back and flanks give the appearance of dappled sunshine and breaks their outlines. Unlike the Disney version of the doting mother of Bambi, in reality the does leave the fawn alone after the initial nursing. The tiny fawn curls up on the ground and waits until the mother returns from her feeding and watching. To prevent predators like coyotes or black bears from finding the fawn, the doe will frequently move it.

While there are gray wolves in Minnesota, ongoing research shows that coyotes, the more common canid, kill more fawns. Black bears also predate on fawns.

I remember another May day, years ago, when I watched a doe bound away from my Sunday morning stroll through a woods. I recall saying aloud, “Sorry deer. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

As the deer fled, I remember feeling grateful that I did not have to live such a diligent life on constant alert. I wondered what would it take to experience not just minutes, but hours of fear. Thankfully I’m not hunted and don’t live in a war zone.

Could I manufacture real fear? It was then that I started scheming of shedding all of my clothes and attempting to walk across the span of my home county without being seen by another human. I realized that it would require a nocturnal journey. Barefoot was out of the question; I would allow my feet to be shod. 

I wondered about food and water. Would I allow myself to steal into a darkened rural yard to drink from an outdoor faucet? No, naked I would carry a single 2 liter bottle of water.

What if I got caught? How would I explain this experiential exercise in finding fear to the police officer or deputy? At the time of my scheming, I was a father of two young daughters and getting caught would be wholly irresponsible. A charge of indecent exposure would be embarrassing and trying to explain my exercise of rendering real fear would be stumbling at best.

I even went so far as to ponder my route over a county plat map. My path would be as direct as possible while avoiding city and village boundaries and offer the darkest nighttime routes. I would walk the roadsides, watching for headlights and then like a feral cat slink quickly off the road and flatten myself in the ditch. 

Timing and a good weather forecast would be essential. A cool rain or a frosty night could invite hypothermia. Beating the mosquito hatch or the worst of ticks would also be factors in my tramp with fear.

My wife, Miss Nancy, would have to be my accomplice in dropping me off at the county line under the cover of darkness. Without a cell phone or any means of communicating we would have to settle on a predetermined destination with several potential times to check for my finishing the trek. My clock would be the rise and fall of the sun.

I wondered about the moment of the surreptitious pick-up. Would I dress first? Or would I guzzle water or devour her gift of food?

Allowing myself to write this fantasy of keeping company with fear is enough. Instead I will keep watch over the following weeks for a spotted fawn accompanying its mother as it learns to avoid the likes of humans and predators.

Dressed from head to foot in tattered shards of browns, grays and here-and-there greens I might resemble a military sniper. That is what I am: an assassin. My target is a male turkey, hopefully a mature gobbler.

Turkeys have exceptional eyesight and hearing. They can detect the slightest of movements. Caution is always front and center. If they feel uneasy, they can display an amazing speed in their escape.

During spring turkey hunting I leave the house in the frosty darkness. I find a hefty tree, usually an oak, that I can sit against in the vicinity of roosting turkeys. I pull a piece of dark green, one and a half inch thick foam from my pack to sit on. I use my turkey call sparingly to imitate a hen. My goal is to entice a gobbler to come and investigate. 

The longer I sit stoically against the tree the more attuned I am to the knobs, crags, and ridges that make up my back rest. Some would call it uncomfortable. Others would grumble that the hunt is an ordeal. I call it a privilege.

Sitting unmoving, I try to become a sort of burl to the tree. One with the tree.

One of the advantages of hunting in the spring is that the outing coincides with the spring bird migration. I have always taken pride in my ability to identify birds by their vocalizations. My mind drifts back to when I was a student at the University of Minnesota. I had the privilege of attending the University’s Biological Station up on Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota. One of the classes I took that spring was Ornithology and it was that experience that really turned me on to birds. 

One of the projects I worked on was noting which bird species were using a thirty acre study plot in a mixed deciduous/coniferous forest.  As spring progressed and the trees’ foliage exploded, it became difficult to see the birds and necessary to listen and learn the multitude of bird songs. My bird identification skills accelerated. 

Part of our final exam was strolling on a fine May morning with our class Teacher’s Assistant out on Bear Paw Point where he would point in the direction of a singing bird. Each student carried  a clipboard and pad of paper to record our guesses of the mystery bird song. I was one of two students to correctly identify 100% of the singing birds. 

These days the free app Merlin helps people identify bird songs. I have to say it’s pretty accurate but if there are several birds singing or the vocalization is too distant it can make mistakes. Overall, Merlin is spot on 80-90% of the time. 

That bird song quiz on the shore of Lake Itasca was over fifty years ago and now I wear hearing aids to help me pick up the higher frequencies. 

On the first morning of my hunt the sun climbed into the sky gradually spilling its light across the corn stubble. Nearby birds starting singing and vocalizing. With no obvious turkey nearby, I dared to slip my phone out of my pocket to list the bird species I could hear over a fifteen-minute timeframe.  

Besides the distant gobble of wild turkeys, I heard a red-bellied woodpecker, Canada geese, sandhill cranes, ring-necked pheasants, a robin, a cardinal, crows, white-throated sparrow (migrants heading north), and a northern flicker. Nearby an eastern towhee trilled its lovely pneumonic invitation to “drink-your-teeeea.” And across the field in a line of red oaks I smiled with the song of the brown thrasher repeating itself. 

I decided to see what Merlin could pick up that perhaps I wasn’t hearing. While the app is a great tool I am hesitant to use it as I like to test my skills. On this morning, it didn’t add any species and it could not hear the distant thrasher repeating itself. I felt a moment of smugness in having identified more bird songs than the computer.

Over the next couple of days, gobbling turkeys came closer but not close enough. It seems these amorous males must be in the company of live hens. Consequently they are not about to seek out the hen siren calls that I was delivering.

My body was aching from my daily efforts in trying to merge with a tree. One afternoon, I remained still for four and a half hours as I half laid and half sat against a large old windfall limb. Both the limb and I were clearly weathered but I dared not move as there were feeding turkey hens strolling all around me. But no gobblers.

The following morning, my aching body resumed its position with the knob of the tree jabbing my lower back and broken stub poking my hip. At dawn I watched two gobblers fly out of the oaks that they had roosted in and glide to the ground a hundred yards in front of me. Soon two more gobblers and a half dozen hens joined the gathering.  Even though they were out of range, it was fun to watch the flock. Any movements I made were slower than an emerging shadow. 

Finally one of the mature toms broke off from the turkey huddle and edged my way. I gave a couple soft yelps and clucks out of my mouth call and glacially readied myself. The bird paused and stared in my direction. Then he made what was to be his death march directly towards me. 

Last night we had a big salad that included smoked turkey breast. And again, I repeated, “Thank you turkey.”

NOTE: It turns out that somewhere in that zigzagging half mile hike back to our house, with the turkey slung over my shoulder, my right hearing aid fell out. I filed an insurance claim, talked to an adjuster and today I pick up my new one. And no, that doesn’t mean for the last ten days I’ve heard only half the birds.

The postcard postmarked Sept. 30, 1914 is graced with a penny stamp bearing the head of George Washington. The front image of the card is a photograph of my hometown, North Branch, when all the streets were dirt.

The cursive message on the opposite side was penned by my grandfather Irving Anderson. He writes: Dear Mother, How are you? I am feeling fine and hope you are the same. I sleep good nights. I suppose you are in full swing with the potato digging now. Greet papa.

From Irving

When I read that card I am reminded of the sacrifice that my grandfather’s parents (my great grandparents) made for him. He was an only child which in itself is odd for a farming family at the turn of the twentieth century.  His parents insisted he complete twelve years of education. Most of his schooling took place in a country school less than three miles from their farm. He walked to and from school most days. I used to hear that when conditions were really cold, his father might harness a horse to a cutter sleigh, heat some irons on the woodburning stove and then put them under a horsehide blanket for warmth and transport his son to school. But mostly it was walking to and from school.

To secure a high school diploma he would have to go to the North Branch School seven miles away. So instead of walking fourteen miles every day, he boarded closer to the school during the week and then walked seven miles home on Fridays and then made the same trek on Sundays back to his lodging in North Branch.  Perhaps he didn’t go home every weekend but I suspect he missed few as they could use his help on the farm. Being alone, away from the home place he could more easily concentrate on his studies. It paid off. He was the valedictorian of the Class of 1917.

I suspect on those walks from home to town and back, he went over his classwork, new ideas, memorization and so on.

During my grandfather’s high school years, his father hired Milton Peterson to help on the farm. When Milton was in his nineties he shared a story with me that  involved leading a roped cow for over a dozen miles to deliver it to a farm up near Rush City. After dropping off the cow he turned around and walked those miles back home for supper. He shared the tale without any sense of gloating. It was just another day of work. 

Today, if anyone walks 24 miles in a day it has to be posted on social media. It seems what used to be the ordinary is now a loud proclamation of “Hey look at what I did!”  

A century ago walking was no big deal. No one had apps encouraging them to “get their steps in.” Now it seems almost newsworthy if you are able to get your 10,000 steps in every day. I confess, I’m not immune to such utterances as shown in these blog entries.

For most of our long history as a species, we have been walkers. We didn’t live in one place. The template of “Home Sweet Home” is only a recent practice among our species. (“Recent” in this case means since the Agricultural Revolution some 14,000 years ago, which is very recent in the map of our existence.)

 Until we poked seeds in the ground and domesticated animals we were always on the move. We paused at seasonal camps if there was an abundance of food, such as a run of salmon, a herd of bison, a patch of berries or a shallow lake covered with thick stands of wild rice. Or we might have had seasonal camps to better cope with the extremes of heat and cold. 

Eventually, less than 20,000 years ago, we domesticated the horse to carry or pull us. But even then, we two-leggeds mostly walked. 

Only in the past one hundred plus years have we divorced ourselves from the natural elements and transported ourselves in trains, autos and airplanes. 

Walking has even been pulled away from our children’s lives. Very few children walk to school even if they live less than a mile from the school. A walk would be beneficial to their health.

I suspect it is fear that keeps parents from letting the kids walk home. There seems to be a subliminal message that children will be abducted..

The reality is that various studies have shown that child abductions are far less than they were in the 1960s and 70s. In recent years most abductions are statistically more likely to perpetrated by a relative of the child. Sadly our actions only make it more likely that the child will grow up with the same fears.  

Recently, while babysitting our granddaughter in the Bay Area of California, Nancy and I drove over to Berkley to spend some time at the infamous Moe’s Books. After parking we began walking the mile or so to the bookstore. At one intersection we paused, waiting for the green “walk” sign. There was a disheveled man talking to another street person. The tenor of their conversation was friendly. As they parted, the disheveled guy gave a wave and said, “Good luck with your locomotion!”

I wish the same for you dear reader. Good luck with your locomotion.

Two summers ago surprise winds pushed over stout oak and cherry trees on three sides of our house. Since then, over the winters, I have been rendering them into firewood. This is known colloquially as “putting up wood.” 

First you cut all the limbs from the tree and saw them into proper lengths to easily feed into the woodburning stoves. We have two stoves in the house, in the basement and the kitchen, and a third in a small log cabin. 

When the limbs are removed and the slash piled, I begin the slower job of cutting the tree trunk into rounds. The world becomes quiet when I turn the chainsaw off and reach for my six-pound splitting maul or the Swedish Gränsfors maul with its hand-forged three-pound head. I pile the split pieces to await their next trip to one of our three wood sheds. 

Now that it is warmer, some of the oak and cherry don’t split so easily. Then I head to the garage to grab some steel wedges from an old galvanized bucket.  

When faced with a stubborn block of wood, I lean over it, scrutinizing its cut surface. I read the grain, inspecting where any branches might have grown out from the trunk (junctions of limb to trunk are difficult to split) and look for telltale wood checking or fissures that will help determine where I should aim my swinging maul. 

Once I determine what looks to be the weakest point of the block, I walk a few blows of the maul across the wood’s cut surface in as straight a line as possible. Many winters of doing this has made me fairly accurate. Using the back of the maul head I tap a wedge into one of the initial maul bites. I gradually pound that wedge deeper into the oak. If the block is especially stubborn, I align a second wedge in another of the original maul bites. On the rare occasion I add a third or fourth to complete the job.

Four generations of my family have been pounding on these wedges. The countless blows have rendered the steel into ragged-edged mushrooms. Over a hundred winters have seen my great grandfather, grandfather, father and now me partner with these old steel artifacts. Such familial knowledge makes the job more like a team effort and for that I am most grateful.

Just over fifty years ago I was helping my Grandpa Anderson put up wood in the same woods that I continue to cut firewood.  Grandpa had recruited his cousin, Gordie Peterson, to help. Gordie drove his unstyled John Deer B a mile and a half to join us. The tractor was equipped with a 30-inch buzz saw mounted on the front of the tractor.

We set 6-8 foot oak limbs on the saw bed and then Gordie would grasp the handle and pull the whining saw blade down on the wood, like a giant electric meat cutter. 

At one point a piece of oak fractured as it was cut and it sent a sharp shard at Gordie’s pulling hand. It left a nasty cut. Gordie casually looked at his hand and without taking his pipe out of his mouth, reached into his pocket, pulled out a bandana, wrapped it tightly around his bleeding wound and resumed sawing.

During a break I asked Grandpa, “How many cords of wood does it take to heat your house?” (It’s a big farmhouse built early in the 20th century.)

“Oh, we usually figure it takes about ten cords to get us through fall, winter and early spring.” 

Now bear in mind this was when winters were colder and a temp of minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit did not send folks into a tizzy. Even at -30 schools were not cancelled.

Wide-eyed, I wondered, “How did you have time to cut all that wood?”

 He looked at me quizzically and answered matter-of-factly, “Well it was our job.”

I suspect the ancestral lineage of wood splitters and wedge carriers will end with my death. The wedges might be passed on as hefty paperweights but in an increasingly digital world who needs to weigh down loose papers.

If these wedges are to continue their divisive work in the decades to come, I may have to forgo the idea of these being family heirlooms and simply pass them on to any wood cutter. 

I feel good about the three cords of wood I’ve put up in in the last month and a half. It’s given me healthy doses of fresh air, a great core workout (proper splitting engages the core more than the arms) and the reward of accumulated wealth.

Every winter I can count on wearing out a pair of leather work gloves. Now, with March upon us, I can optimistically go to the hardware store and pick up a supple new pair for next winter.

Nothing lasts forever. Change is the only constant.

A month ago we stood across the bay from San Francisco on what is known as the Albany Bulb, an artificially made 31-acre spit of land. Its bulb-shaped geology began when truckloads of concrete chunks and twisted rebar were landfilled here for scores of years.

The dumping stopped in 1984. Within a few years local artists began creating art among the mounds of concrete, tangled metal, washed up trash and driftwood. Like our long-ago forebears, they see a hard surface as a canvas for art.

It was ironic that as we strolled on the crude paths meandering through the eruptions of art, that only recently it had been reported that a recent discovery of “new” cave art in Indonesia had been found. The painting of a wild pig and three human-like figures is at least 51,200 years old and are now considered the oldest art known to archaeology. These etchings predate the famous paintings in the French Lascaux cave painting by at least 5,000 years.

Who knows how much earlier humans showed a capacity for creative thought and story telling through images.

Now, more than 40 years later, the art continues and the natural world is slowly reclaiming this once devastated site. Today walking trails radiate in all directions. Among the massive broken blocks of concrete there are sinuous green tangles of vine, bushes, grasses and flowers. Along this maze of trails a multitude of critters reside. Insects, birds, small lizards, mice, ground squirrels, rabbits and the occasional coyote and owl flourish here.  (Over 150 species of flora and fauna have been documented here. I suspect that the real number is substantially greater.) 

Wandering through the sinuous trails I wondered about the concept of “waste.” It occurred to me that there is no waste in the natural world; waste is a human construct and one born only in recent centuries by western cultures. Prior to contact with European settlement, North American indigenous peoples had no name for “waste.” Their shelters were made from organic materials such as animal hides, rock, mud, tree limbs or bark. The natural world would simply take these materials back when the humans were finished with them.

The indigenous understood that even their defecations were food for something else. And given that people were nomadic, there was never a foul  accumulation of feces.

We tend to refer to human feces as “waste.” However for most of the approximately 14,000 years that humans have practiced agriculture we used our feces as well as that of our domesticated animals (cattle, horse, pigs, fowl, etc) as a valuable input for our crops. 

Using chemistry, modern humans have created synthetic materials such as plastics, fiberglass, glass and more to create materials that are stubbornly resistant to natural decay. Consequently we have piled trash on acres and acres of good ground. Cities, towns and villages have departments that deal with the accumulation of our garbage. Fleets of giant garbage trucks move in and out of the thousands of acres that house our accumulated trash. We hide it behind berms and fences thereby pretending it isn’t there. 

Even a tossed cigarette butt can linger for ten years. And plastics are even worse. Plastic islands in the ocean are measured in acres. And since these are so far out in the ocean, out of sight, they are out of our minds. So who cares that sea turtles are eating filmy single use plastic bags thinking they are jellyfish?

Many of the paintings and sculptures on the Albany Bulb stopped me in my tracks. Curved pieces of driftwood melded with twisted rebar bejeweled with old loops of beads, battered phones, or even a typewriter splashed in paint made me smile, wonder, and loudly exclaim. Some were provocative and put me at unease. But that’s what good art is supposed to do. 

Here on the Bulb, the seasonal cycling of birth, death and decomposition is at work. The buildup of organic material will eventually erase all vestiges of the human landfill.  

The Bulb has become a destination for creativity where humans and the processes of the natural world pair together to transform a landscape of ruin into a softer world. A landfill evolving towards rewilding.