(21 June)
The next day, I struck camp and headed back to my Spot at the Lost Forty. I sat for about five hours, drawing into my hardground-covered plate with a sewing-needle stylus. I finished the picture, recording everything I could see within that rectangle of composition. When I left, I ran into the researchers in the parking loop, and I asked the bearded one to explain it all to me again. He most generously did so, and I bade him farewell.
As this was my final departure, I made sure to pay a visit to Wirt Cemetery. Down a narrow dirt road it lay, a humble clearing surrounded by trees. Ancient, time-softened grave stones sat between polished modern ones. I drove slowly around the loop and looked at names, as cemetery visitors invariably do. Another minivan was doing the same opposite me, and I strove to drive respectfully, lest they were relatives of the interred. With my window rolled down, I could hear gravel crunching beneath me until I returned to the highway. My thrifted Wirt sweatshirt holds so much more meaning now. I have slept beneath its trees, and I have seen its ancestors.
At 5:30 I met Jean-Paul back at his place in Rapids, where he and his friend were cooking up a meal. They had beers waiting! After supper, we went riding. Jean-Paul led us on some amazing bike trails nearby. I got to do something only possible in the country: riding on the highway! * I thrilled to ride on Hwy 2, where I had driven so many times over the past few days.
We rode up into the hills, and through secret neighborhoods between old-growth pines. It felt so good to ride after sitting in the woods and car all day! I rocked hard, up and down hills of exquisite beauty and immaculate pavement. I saw what appeared to be a piece of lingerie hanging from a street sign. Upon closer examination, the piece was little more than a lacy string. A thong! My imagination reeled at the thought of a wild North Woods night.
We stopped at a place marked Pit Lake. Up a gravel hill and down another was a lake in a former quarry pit, swarming with teenagers. The scene was very Winslow Homer. Jean-Paul's friend said that only a few years ago, there were no signs or proper roads like there were now. Jean-Paul took off his shoes and socks and jumped in, still in his cycling jersey and shorts. It wasn't hot enough for me to swim. The sun setting behind the rocky cliffs reflected intensely off the rippling water.
On the way home, behind a giant white pine in someone's yard, the neon red ball of sun glinted the final light of the year's longest day.
*(FYI: The Minnesota Dept. of Transportation offers a free map showing all the MN highways with six-foot wide paved shoulders, color-coded for traffic density!)
Showing posts with label etching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label etching. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
12. Sasquatch & the Quest for Fire
(20 June)
Now I had a full day to spend at the Lost Forty. I was going to camp somewhere nearby, work all the next day, and meet Jean-Paul back in Rapids that evening. On my way out of town, I stopped at the camping store Jean-Paul had recommended: Glen's Army/Navy, where I bought an enameled cooking pot and bowl, dark blue with white speckles.
I forgot to take Hwy 38 up, to experience it from the other direction, and I was on 46 again. I planned to go claim my campsite before going to the Lost Forty, but something made me reconsider. I'd figure it out later. Since it was Wednesday, I was confident there would be campsites available, even if I didn't claim one until evening.
I found The Spot, framed my compostion on paper, and then blocked it all out on the plate, which was covered with hardground. I left with plenty of time to encamp before dark. Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year-- the summer solstice-- and I wouldn't have even remembered that if my friend Sarah hadn't texted me, "Happy first day of summer!" which I received in the virgin pine forest! I usually celebrate the solstice, but since I hadn't had a job all June, I never had any idea what day it was.
On my way to the van, I greeted a bearded man standing with some equipment by the white pine with the green rope. I asked if he was doing research. He explained that he was part of a group from Bemidji State, the tents were theirs, but only two of the twelve cars from the day before had been theirs. They were researching why trees increase in girth with age, but max out at certain heights. It is commonly thought that this is because trees can draw water up from the soil only so high. This research had never been carried out on white pines before, so these guys were up 120 feet gathering data. He said the strong winds of the past few days made the tree really sway, but that it felt pleasant, and it kept the mosquitoes away. Mosquitoes do attack that high.
I asked about camping in an SNA, and he said that because this one is within a National Forest, there are fewer restrictions than if it were managed exclusively by the Minnesota DNR. I told him all about my grant project, and he seemed really excited and smiled.
Back at the van, I looked at the state highway map, because I knew the closest campground (a private one on Dolores Lake) was probably aimed more at RVs, meaning all the sites would be right next to each other in a clearing. Not my idea of camping. Aha! The map showed, quite nearby, a red tent symbol: a State Forest campground! Those are my favorite places to camp. Unlike at State Parks, in a State Forest you're allowed to gather firewood, and if the campground's full, you're allowed to camp anywhere, as long as you practice Leave No Trace.
I took off and headed there. It was right by Wirt, and turned out to be a National Forest campground: Noma Lake. The campground lay between Noma Lake and Clear Lake, the latter preferred for fishing, I would later learn. Three other campsites were occupied, and the one I was compelled to choose was right next to one of them, where there were a couple of pickups parked. From my site, I could not see the other through the brush and trees.
After pitching my tent, I had to go about gathering firewood. I needed it for cooking, and I had a little over three hours to find some before sunset. The campground appeared to be too heavily trafficked for there to be much wood lying around, so I set out to buy some.
Minnesota has recently enacted new regulations prohibiting campers from bringing in their own firewood. This is intended to prevent invasive species, such as the emerald ash borer from destroying our parks. According to the DNR, "To date, EAB has killed more than 20 million ash trees and infested over 40,000 square miles in Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, and parts of Canada." Now we must gather our wood on site, if allowed, or buy it from an authorized dealer. Although this restriction will inconvenience many campers, I admire the DNR's foresight.
I drove to a resort I had passed, just outside the campground, on Clear Lake. A little sign also designated this as the local fire warden station. Seemed like a logical place to buy firewood. Inside the lodge was a vacant bar, lots of taxidermy, and a woman sitting with her back to me, facing a computer screen. She didn't even turn around to look at me as I entered, so I examined a stuffed beaver and bobcat, thinking she'd greet me any second. When no acknowledgment came (was this a place of business?), I greeted her.
She didn't know if they sold firewood. "I'll have to go ask my husband." So we went outside to the boathouse, where he and two boys were managing a tank of live bait. He said they are no longer authorized to sell firewood, because of the new regulations. Strangely, he didn't know where I could buy any, nor did he know what roads to take to the nearest stores. His wife offered to call a couple places for me, so she and I returned to the lodge.
While she looked up numbers and called, I looked around at the wooden walls. Right next to a deer head was another piece of taxidermy, with two human-like eyes staring back at me through a furry face! The sasquatch! I told the woman I'd be right back, and I grabbed my camera from the car to covertly document this discovery.
No response on the phone. It was 6:00 pm. Maybe everything was closed. The husband had given me vague directions to Bigfork, so I headed there in the van. On the way, I passed one of the many tamarack bogs of the North Country. Most of them are filled with standing, dead tamaracks; in this one, they were all cut down. I decided that if I didn't find any wood for sale, I'd stop back here and load up. I continued on toward Bigfork, drooling as I passed fenced-in farms with massive piles of cut logs.
I drove for a really long time. Bigfork was worthlessly far away. Being used to distances of blocks or a handful of miles between destinations in the city, matters of minutes on a bike, I was already becoming accustomed to the spread-out proximity of things in the country. But this was ridiculous. To make matters worse, the roadsigns leading to Bigfork had troublesome gaps in continuity.
When I finally arrived, the general store was closed, so I went into the live bait & auto repair shop. A man and woman stood in the back room with the bait tanks, while the proprietor scooped something out. When he walked by, holding a clear bag full of water and minnows, he did not acknowledge me at all. I had to assertively inquire about firewood. He stopped and looked up toward me with demented, Peter Lorre-like eyes. His back was somewhat hunched, and the bottom half of his face was completely gray with dirt. (Or was it a strange stubble?) From one tear duct grew a quarter-inch long piece of skin.
"You might try the general store," he said, "but I don't think it's open."
Thanks.
Was I suddenly in a David Lynch film?
I drove over the dinging hoses, three buildings down, to the only other open business in town: the gas station. An old fisherman in overalls and a straw hat sat against the wall outside and spat into the road. This couldn't be real.
There was no wood at the gas station either, so I headed back toward Noma Lake. The sun still shone golden, just above the treetops. My mission was to fill the van with tamarack. That lonely highway had no shoulder to speak of, but when I arrived at the bog, I was able to turn around and park halfway off the road. I worked quickly, somewhat worried about drawing attention from the nearest farm, which was just barely in sight. There were no property signs at the bog, and only one vehicle passed me while I gleaned: a motorcycle, whose rider stared at me with his hand shading his eyes as he passed.
I loaded the van with logs and sticks, and with each armload I learned better how to walk in a bog. Don't step through or between the reeds; step on them, so that they bend down in front of you, and you can walk on them like a mat. I was not worried about the firewood transportation rule, conservationally speaking, because I was still in the Chippewa National Forest.
After returning to camp, I built a fire, boiled water and cooked potatoes, heated chili in the can, ate them together in a bowl, washed my dishes, and it was still dusk. In the distance, I heard loons calling.
A biker emerged from the woods. My neighbor. His name was Bud, and he just stopped by to say hey. We chatted a bit. He said he was camping alone, but I couldn't help referring to "you guys" because I swear I saw multiple vehicles in his site (and throughout the night I heard him speaking). Bud had been playing classic rock radio, and before he came over, I was gearing up to go inquire if he'd be listening to the radio very late. So, I asked him, and he said, "No, I'll turn it down after a while." I told him I didn't really mind the music, but the commercials are what I go camping to get away from. He seemed like a decent fellow.
After he left, I went down to the shore of Clear Lake to catch the sunset. The scene was gorgeous. I instantly wished I had remembered my camera, but I was witnessing the final moments of sunset, so if I had left again, I would have missed it. After the colors faded into twilight, I returned to camp, built up the fire, and had tea.
Bud did turn the radio down after a while, but I could still hear it, and he kept listening until at least 1:00 am, when I fell asleep. However, I must say I actually preferred his music to the primal fear.
Now I had a full day to spend at the Lost Forty. I was going to camp somewhere nearby, work all the next day, and meet Jean-Paul back in Rapids that evening. On my way out of town, I stopped at the camping store Jean-Paul had recommended: Glen's Army/Navy, where I bought an enameled cooking pot and bowl, dark blue with white speckles.
I forgot to take Hwy 38 up, to experience it from the other direction, and I was on 46 again. I planned to go claim my campsite before going to the Lost Forty, but something made me reconsider. I'd figure it out later. Since it was Wednesday, I was confident there would be campsites available, even if I didn't claim one until evening.
I found The Spot, framed my compostion on paper, and then blocked it all out on the plate, which was covered with hardground. I left with plenty of time to encamp before dark. Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year-- the summer solstice-- and I wouldn't have even remembered that if my friend Sarah hadn't texted me, "Happy first day of summer!" which I received in the virgin pine forest! I usually celebrate the solstice, but since I hadn't had a job all June, I never had any idea what day it was.
On my way to the van, I greeted a bearded man standing with some equipment by the white pine with the green rope. I asked if he was doing research. He explained that he was part of a group from Bemidji State, the tents were theirs, but only two of the twelve cars from the day before had been theirs. They were researching why trees increase in girth with age, but max out at certain heights. It is commonly thought that this is because trees can draw water up from the soil only so high. This research had never been carried out on white pines before, so these guys were up 120 feet gathering data. He said the strong winds of the past few days made the tree really sway, but that it felt pleasant, and it kept the mosquitoes away. Mosquitoes do attack that high.
I asked about camping in an SNA, and he said that because this one is within a National Forest, there are fewer restrictions than if it were managed exclusively by the Minnesota DNR. I told him all about my grant project, and he seemed really excited and smiled.
Back at the van, I looked at the state highway map, because I knew the closest campground (a private one on Dolores Lake) was probably aimed more at RVs, meaning all the sites would be right next to each other in a clearing. Not my idea of camping. Aha! The map showed, quite nearby, a red tent symbol: a State Forest campground! Those are my favorite places to camp. Unlike at State Parks, in a State Forest you're allowed to gather firewood, and if the campground's full, you're allowed to camp anywhere, as long as you practice Leave No Trace.
I took off and headed there. It was right by Wirt, and turned out to be a National Forest campground: Noma Lake. The campground lay between Noma Lake and Clear Lake, the latter preferred for fishing, I would later learn. Three other campsites were occupied, and the one I was compelled to choose was right next to one of them, where there were a couple of pickups parked. From my site, I could not see the other through the brush and trees.
After pitching my tent, I had to go about gathering firewood. I needed it for cooking, and I had a little over three hours to find some before sunset. The campground appeared to be too heavily trafficked for there to be much wood lying around, so I set out to buy some.
Minnesota has recently enacted new regulations prohibiting campers from bringing in their own firewood. This is intended to prevent invasive species, such as the emerald ash borer from destroying our parks. According to the DNR, "To date, EAB has killed more than 20 million ash trees and infested over 40,000 square miles in Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, and parts of Canada." Now we must gather our wood on site, if allowed, or buy it from an authorized dealer. Although this restriction will inconvenience many campers, I admire the DNR's foresight.
I drove to a resort I had passed, just outside the campground, on Clear Lake. A little sign also designated this as the local fire warden station. Seemed like a logical place to buy firewood. Inside the lodge was a vacant bar, lots of taxidermy, and a woman sitting with her back to me, facing a computer screen. She didn't even turn around to look at me as I entered, so I examined a stuffed beaver and bobcat, thinking she'd greet me any second. When no acknowledgment came (was this a place of business?), I greeted her.
She didn't know if they sold firewood. "I'll have to go ask my husband." So we went outside to the boathouse, where he and two boys were managing a tank of live bait. He said they are no longer authorized to sell firewood, because of the new regulations. Strangely, he didn't know where I could buy any, nor did he know what roads to take to the nearest stores. His wife offered to call a couple places for me, so she and I returned to the lodge.
While she looked up numbers and called, I looked around at the wooden walls. Right next to a deer head was another piece of taxidermy, with two human-like eyes staring back at me through a furry face! The sasquatch! I told the woman I'd be right back, and I grabbed my camera from the car to covertly document this discovery.
No response on the phone. It was 6:00 pm. Maybe everything was closed. The husband had given me vague directions to Bigfork, so I headed there in the van. On the way, I passed one of the many tamarack bogs of the North Country. Most of them are filled with standing, dead tamaracks; in this one, they were all cut down. I decided that if I didn't find any wood for sale, I'd stop back here and load up. I continued on toward Bigfork, drooling as I passed fenced-in farms with massive piles of cut logs.
I drove for a really long time. Bigfork was worthlessly far away. Being used to distances of blocks or a handful of miles between destinations in the city, matters of minutes on a bike, I was already becoming accustomed to the spread-out proximity of things in the country. But this was ridiculous. To make matters worse, the roadsigns leading to Bigfork had troublesome gaps in continuity.
When I finally arrived, the general store was closed, so I went into the live bait & auto repair shop. A man and woman stood in the back room with the bait tanks, while the proprietor scooped something out. When he walked by, holding a clear bag full of water and minnows, he did not acknowledge me at all. I had to assertively inquire about firewood. He stopped and looked up toward me with demented, Peter Lorre-like eyes. His back was somewhat hunched, and the bottom half of his face was completely gray with dirt. (Or was it a strange stubble?) From one tear duct grew a quarter-inch long piece of skin.
"You might try the general store," he said, "but I don't think it's open."
Thanks.
Was I suddenly in a David Lynch film?
I drove over the dinging hoses, three buildings down, to the only other open business in town: the gas station. An old fisherman in overalls and a straw hat sat against the wall outside and spat into the road. This couldn't be real.
There was no wood at the gas station either, so I headed back toward Noma Lake. The sun still shone golden, just above the treetops. My mission was to fill the van with tamarack. That lonely highway had no shoulder to speak of, but when I arrived at the bog, I was able to turn around and park halfway off the road. I worked quickly, somewhat worried about drawing attention from the nearest farm, which was just barely in sight. There were no property signs at the bog, and only one vehicle passed me while I gleaned: a motorcycle, whose rider stared at me with his hand shading his eyes as he passed.
I loaded the van with logs and sticks, and with each armload I learned better how to walk in a bog. Don't step through or between the reeds; step on them, so that they bend down in front of you, and you can walk on them like a mat. I was not worried about the firewood transportation rule, conservationally speaking, because I was still in the Chippewa National Forest.
After returning to camp, I built a fire, boiled water and cooked potatoes, heated chili in the can, ate them together in a bowl, washed my dishes, and it was still dusk. In the distance, I heard loons calling.
A biker emerged from the woods. My neighbor. His name was Bud, and he just stopped by to say hey. We chatted a bit. He said he was camping alone, but I couldn't help referring to "you guys" because I swear I saw multiple vehicles in his site (and throughout the night I heard him speaking). Bud had been playing classic rock radio, and before he came over, I was gearing up to go inquire if he'd be listening to the radio very late. So, I asked him, and he said, "No, I'll turn it down after a while." I told him I didn't really mind the music, but the commercials are what I go camping to get away from. He seemed like a decent fellow.
After he left, I went down to the shore of Clear Lake to catch the sunset. The scene was gorgeous. I instantly wished I had remembered my camera, but I was witnessing the final moments of sunset, so if I had left again, I would have missed it. After the colors faded into twilight, I returned to camp, built up the fire, and had tea.
Bud did turn the radio down after a while, but I could still hear it, and he kept listening until at least 1:00 am, when I fell asleep. However, I must say I actually preferred his music to the primal fear.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
10. The Lost Forty
(19 June)
The next day, the plan was for me to use Jean-Paul's van again, and to meet him at work when he got off at 3:00, then drive to Duluth to his parents' place (who were out of town), go to a bike shop, ride the Munger Trail, eat dinner, and sit in the hot tub.
Passing the radio station the night before had reminded Jean-Paul to tell me about a show on Tuesday mornings called Phenology, and I told him to turn it on in the morning when he left for work. The show was pretty interesting. The host reported his varied observations from around the area: berries, wild irises, and other flora and fauna. He mentioned "June berries," which I'd never heard of.
This time I found the Lost Forty, which is in the Chippewa National Forest. The drive up is pleasant. Hwy 2 ("The Great Northern Route"), Hwy 46 (the "Avenue of Pines"), and then a few miles down a gravel road. Hwy 46 leads through the Chippewa, and somewhere in the middle of it I stopped to relieve myself at a rest area. I parked right next to a big Forest Service sign facing west, marking the Laurentian Continental Divide. There was a vertical line down the middle of the sign. On the right, precipitation flows south to the Gulf of Mexico; on the left it flows north to Hudson Bay. How epic!
There was nothing gradual about this transition, judging by the stark geometry of the sign, and yet there was no physical ridge or rift on the ground to betray it. I took a photo and considered texting my friend in Kalispell, Montana. That morning I had been paging through Jean-Paul's atlas, and looked at Kalispell, which is also on a continental divide, the east-west one. I felt awed by this spot, with an invisible ridge that commands a continent! How was this specific spot identified? Could this precision be believed? Why wasn't this posted on the highway? I was lucky I had to stop when I did.
Sitting in the outhouse, I heard tires on the gravel outside, and soon a knock and a voice, asking if I was busy in there. I said yeah, and then he drove away.
At the Lost Forty, I was surprised to see about ten cars (and two tents) in the parking area, on a Tuesday! The tents were strange because, officially, you can't camp in an SNA, although my friend Trout had told me that no one would notice if you did, because people hardly ever visit them. That certainly didn't seem to be the case here. The road sign said "Lost 40 Loop," and it seemed to be referring to the whole road, so I drove past the parking circle to see what was ahead. I had my window rolled down. A pickup passed from the other direction, and puddle water splashed into my window, all over my face and arm, and into my ear! I was mad, but I eventually had to laugh. The road became narrow, and led only to private properties, so I stopped at a grassy little water access. Across the lake I saw a large otter chewing. I urinated, turned the van around, and headed back to the Lost Forty. "Lost 40 Loop" just meant the parking area.
The Lost Forty Scientific & Natural Area, in Itasca County, takes about an hour to walk through slowly. The trail takes you to all the grandest trees. Occasional interpretive signs line the route, the good kind, that point to specific trees or other features in front of you. Indeed, this red and white pine forest remnant was exactly what I had been looking for: this acreage had never been logged. Thank Chaos for oversights.
That day I explored. I only had until 1:00 pm, when I would have to head back to Rapids, prepare to go to Duluth overnight, and then leave at 2:40 to go pick up Jean-Paul at work at 3:00. Not enough time to etch, but hopefully I'd find "The Spot," in case of which I carried my backpack with all the necessary gear. I saw a green rope snaking all the way up one of the bigger white pines, and I guessed why some of the cars in the loop were there: research? I was eager to find out, and maybe I'd get a chance to ask how they got to camp here.
I soon set out on a game trail toward a tamarack swamp, following the sound of birds and watching out for moose and cougars, for which I quickly grabbed a cudgel. I saw a warbling vireo down there, and the mossy area had beautiful colors (wet green and rust red), but it was too buggy to be The Spot. The trail led right to a muddy swamp creek, and the only logs spanning it were soggy, so I headed back up to the main trail.
I heard some unfamiliar bird calls, but their bodies eluded my eyes. I next left the main trail to follow one leading to Moose Creek. An ominous name. I held my cudgel ready and periodically jangled my keys or shouted as I cautiously stepped down the narrow path with tall, dense brush on either side. I emerged into the open sunlight of a wetlands the size of a lake. I stood on the bank, the stream completely walled by reeds as it quickly curved out of sight. A moose could come out of nowhere around here. I absorbed my surroundings, letting the sun into my skin, and breathing in the quickening winds. Then, I left with haste, shouting to make my presence known.
My next stop on the trail was a small clearing on a hill overlooking the wetlands. The wind blew hard, making the big trees sway, and the sun shone in a blue sky with bright summer clouds racing eastward. I pulled out my mini folding camp chair to sit and eat a PB&J in the mosquito-proof wind. I was drawn less to such epic vistas than to little groves in which to etch. I looked for a spot with both a red and a white pine in the scene. I walked around and around each massive white pine I came to. They are truly beasts, as far as Minnesota trees go.
I didn't settle anywhere until it was time to leave. I left my cudgel against a tree at the trailhead, and I counted twelve cars in the parking loop as I left. As soon as I did, a line of five Suburbans drove in! Jean-Paul had said he'd never seen anyone else there in the eight times he'd visited. And it was a Tuesday!
Jean-Paul had recommended returning to Grand Rapids via Hwy 38, which he proclaimed to be the prettiest drive in the state. I didn't need much coaxing to obey. Heading that way, near the Lost Forty, I passed the township of Wirt, whose name was emblazoned on my second-hand, sky blue sweatshirt with deer on it back home. Previously, I had had no idea where this place was. The mythical Wirt has no shops, no population number on the sign, and a sign from only one direction. I was intrigued to see a sign for Wirt Cemetery Road, pointing into the woods. I'd try to check it out next time.
Highway 38 is a rollercoaster through the Chippewa National Forest. Absolutely gorgeous and fun. I stopped to urinate, and again stumbled upon the Laurentian Divide. They don't announce the significance of these wayside rests.
The next day, the plan was for me to use Jean-Paul's van again, and to meet him at work when he got off at 3:00, then drive to Duluth to his parents' place (who were out of town), go to a bike shop, ride the Munger Trail, eat dinner, and sit in the hot tub.
Passing the radio station the night before had reminded Jean-Paul to tell me about a show on Tuesday mornings called Phenology, and I told him to turn it on in the morning when he left for work. The show was pretty interesting. The host reported his varied observations from around the area: berries, wild irises, and other flora and fauna. He mentioned "June berries," which I'd never heard of.
This time I found the Lost Forty, which is in the Chippewa National Forest. The drive up is pleasant. Hwy 2 ("The Great Northern Route"), Hwy 46 (the "Avenue of Pines"), and then a few miles down a gravel road. Hwy 46 leads through the Chippewa, and somewhere in the middle of it I stopped to relieve myself at a rest area. I parked right next to a big Forest Service sign facing west, marking the Laurentian Continental Divide. There was a vertical line down the middle of the sign. On the right, precipitation flows south to the Gulf of Mexico; on the left it flows north to Hudson Bay. How epic!
There was nothing gradual about this transition, judging by the stark geometry of the sign, and yet there was no physical ridge or rift on the ground to betray it. I took a photo and considered texting my friend in Kalispell, Montana. That morning I had been paging through Jean-Paul's atlas, and looked at Kalispell, which is also on a continental divide, the east-west one. I felt awed by this spot, with an invisible ridge that commands a continent! How was this specific spot identified? Could this precision be believed? Why wasn't this posted on the highway? I was lucky I had to stop when I did.
Sitting in the outhouse, I heard tires on the gravel outside, and soon a knock and a voice, asking if I was busy in there. I said yeah, and then he drove away.
At the Lost Forty, I was surprised to see about ten cars (and two tents) in the parking area, on a Tuesday! The tents were strange because, officially, you can't camp in an SNA, although my friend Trout had told me that no one would notice if you did, because people hardly ever visit them. That certainly didn't seem to be the case here. The road sign said "Lost 40 Loop," and it seemed to be referring to the whole road, so I drove past the parking circle to see what was ahead. I had my window rolled down. A pickup passed from the other direction, and puddle water splashed into my window, all over my face and arm, and into my ear! I was mad, but I eventually had to laugh. The road became narrow, and led only to private properties, so I stopped at a grassy little water access. Across the lake I saw a large otter chewing. I urinated, turned the van around, and headed back to the Lost Forty. "Lost 40 Loop" just meant the parking area.
The Lost Forty Scientific & Natural Area, in Itasca County, takes about an hour to walk through slowly. The trail takes you to all the grandest trees. Occasional interpretive signs line the route, the good kind, that point to specific trees or other features in front of you. Indeed, this red and white pine forest remnant was exactly what I had been looking for: this acreage had never been logged. Thank Chaos for oversights.
That day I explored. I only had until 1:00 pm, when I would have to head back to Rapids, prepare to go to Duluth overnight, and then leave at 2:40 to go pick up Jean-Paul at work at 3:00. Not enough time to etch, but hopefully I'd find "The Spot," in case of which I carried my backpack with all the necessary gear. I saw a green rope snaking all the way up one of the bigger white pines, and I guessed why some of the cars in the loop were there: research? I was eager to find out, and maybe I'd get a chance to ask how they got to camp here.
I soon set out on a game trail toward a tamarack swamp, following the sound of birds and watching out for moose and cougars, for which I quickly grabbed a cudgel. I saw a warbling vireo down there, and the mossy area had beautiful colors (wet green and rust red), but it was too buggy to be The Spot. The trail led right to a muddy swamp creek, and the only logs spanning it were soggy, so I headed back up to the main trail.
I heard some unfamiliar bird calls, but their bodies eluded my eyes. I next left the main trail to follow one leading to Moose Creek. An ominous name. I held my cudgel ready and periodically jangled my keys or shouted as I cautiously stepped down the narrow path with tall, dense brush on either side. I emerged into the open sunlight of a wetlands the size of a lake. I stood on the bank, the stream completely walled by reeds as it quickly curved out of sight. A moose could come out of nowhere around here. I absorbed my surroundings, letting the sun into my skin, and breathing in the quickening winds. Then, I left with haste, shouting to make my presence known.
My next stop on the trail was a small clearing on a hill overlooking the wetlands. The wind blew hard, making the big trees sway, and the sun shone in a blue sky with bright summer clouds racing eastward. I pulled out my mini folding camp chair to sit and eat a PB&J in the mosquito-proof wind. I was drawn less to such epic vistas than to little groves in which to etch. I looked for a spot with both a red and a white pine in the scene. I walked around and around each massive white pine I came to. They are truly beasts, as far as Minnesota trees go.
I didn't settle anywhere until it was time to leave. I left my cudgel against a tree at the trailhead, and I counted twelve cars in the parking loop as I left. As soon as I did, a line of five Suburbans drove in! Jean-Paul had said he'd never seen anyone else there in the eight times he'd visited. And it was a Tuesday!
Jean-Paul had recommended returning to Grand Rapids via Hwy 38, which he proclaimed to be the prettiest drive in the state. I didn't need much coaxing to obey. Heading that way, near the Lost Forty, I passed the township of Wirt, whose name was emblazoned on my second-hand, sky blue sweatshirt with deer on it back home. Previously, I had had no idea where this place was. The mythical Wirt has no shops, no population number on the sign, and a sign from only one direction. I was intrigued to see a sign for Wirt Cemetery Road, pointing into the woods. I'd try to check it out next time.
Highway 38 is a rollercoaster through the Chippewa National Forest. Absolutely gorgeous and fun. I stopped to urinate, and again stumbled upon the Laurentian Divide. They don't announce the significance of these wayside rests.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
5. An Ancient Forest in My Backyard
Strong gales began to blow while Peanut and I were at Nerstrand. I finished what I could of an etching, and we returned to Minneapolis a day early, aborting our cycling plans. The spot where I made my etching was a forty-five minute walk from our campsite, at the south end of the park along Prairie Creek. All the hiking trails at Nerstrand were terribly muddy. Very strange for a State Park, where the trails are either paved or gravelled. Take heed if you are planning a trip there, although the agriculturally scented waterfall is visually and aurally stunning. Nerstrand is Minnesota's largest remnant of the "Big Woods," the deciduous forest, one of the three major ecosystems of North America, the very northwest edge of which cut across our state diagonally before the European conquest. This area includes the Twin Cities.
The next day, I still had the rental car, and I used it to drive to Wood-Rill Scientific & Natural Area in Orono. I had never been there before, and it was amazing. I enjoyed it more than Nerstrand; the trails weren't muddy, and the energy was much more positive. The place is a true old-growth Big Woods remnant, with stages of forest succession that are easily viewable, as there is no undergrowth due to the dense canopy. Wood-Rill is like a forest museum: all stages of succession, and all ages of snags and blow-downs. Go there to see what Minneapolis used to look like.
When I want to make an etching of a place, the first thing I do is explore. My goal is to find The Spot. For this project, I wanted to find spots where I was glimpsing the genuine past. No trails in view, no power lines, no buckthorn. Was I seeing Minnesota how it was in its natural state? Part of finding the spot is gut feeling, mostly it is compositional.
I returned to Wood-Rill by bicycle the next day, and then one more day after that. The bike ride takes an hour and a half from Minneapolis, and is absolutely lovely. Take Glenwood to Harold, right on Winnetka to Plymouth Avenue, and take that to Hwy 169, where you pick up the Soo Line bike trail. This takes you right to Wood-Rill.
The next day, I still had the rental car, and I used it to drive to Wood-Rill Scientific & Natural Area in Orono. I had never been there before, and it was amazing. I enjoyed it more than Nerstrand; the trails weren't muddy, and the energy was much more positive. The place is a true old-growth Big Woods remnant, with stages of forest succession that are easily viewable, as there is no undergrowth due to the dense canopy. Wood-Rill is like a forest museum: all stages of succession, and all ages of snags and blow-downs. Go there to see what Minneapolis used to look like.
When I want to make an etching of a place, the first thing I do is explore. My goal is to find The Spot. For this project, I wanted to find spots where I was glimpsing the genuine past. No trails in view, no power lines, no buckthorn. Was I seeing Minnesota how it was in its natural state? Part of finding the spot is gut feeling, mostly it is compositional.
I returned to Wood-Rill by bicycle the next day, and then one more day after that. The bike ride takes an hour and a half from Minneapolis, and is absolutely lovely. Take Glenwood to Harold, right on Winnetka to Plymouth Avenue, and take that to Hwy 169, where you pick up the Soo Line bike trail. This takes you right to Wood-Rill.
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