February snow

This is the longest snowy, cold spell we’ve had in many years. On Monday, big, soft flakes came blanketing down, so it was time for a quick trip to a nearby woods.

One of the first poems I can remember is Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. Seemed like he had the perfect name to write a poem as that which ended:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Or a bit of William Carlos Williams, Winter Trees.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.

Today’s Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. One of my pleasures practicing law across Illinois was travelling the state, and running through the aspects of case in my head as the landscape went by. Racing across in the car had no comparison to Lincoln’s journeys as he rode the circuit. Carl Sandburg described a bit of it in The Prairie Years:

In the nine, and later, 15 counties of the Eighth Judicial 
District or "Eighth Circuit," Lincoln traveled and tried 
cases in most of the counties, though his largest practice 
was in Logan, Menard, Tazewell and Woodford, which 
were part of the Seventh Congressional District. He rode 
a horse or drove in a buggy, at times riding on rough roads 
an hour or two without passing a farmhouse on the open 
prairie. Mean was the journey in the mud of spring thaws, 
in the blowing sleet or snow and icy winds of winter. Heavy 
clothing, blankets or buffalo robes over knees and body, 
with shawl over shoulders, couldn't help the face and eyes 
that had to watch the horse and the road ahead. 

Former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins wrote Snow Day, and from that:

In a while, I will put on some boots

and step out like someone walking in water,

and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,

and I will shake a laden branch

sending a cold shower down on us both.

From Mary Oliver’s Yes! No!

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly, looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No! The

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of glass and petals, wants only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

From Claude McKay, The Snow Fairy:

Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,

Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,

Whirling fantastic in the misty air,

Contending fierce for space supremacy.

This scene stopped me. The black tree, the white tree. “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”

Land of Trees -- and mud

Congaree National Park exists to protect and preserve the last, small remnant of bottomland hardwood forest in the southeast United States. What helped make the giant trees, also protected them from harvesting. The river is named after the Congaree people who lived in the area, but the river did not protect them from small pox which effectively destroyed their community.

The Congaree River and its tributaries flood about a dozen times a year, turning the bottomland into water and muck and spreading nutrients to feed the trees. The flooding made it more expensive for harvesting the trees. Like the Great Dismal Swamp further north in Virginia and North Carolina, the challenging access allowed escaped enslaved people to live in relative safety in the dense, bottomland forests. Later, it also protected moonshiners’ stills during Prohibition.

Near the visitors center, a raised boardwalk trail keeps your feet dry and provides good views of the Cypress, Tupelo and Loblolly Pines. When the water recedes, you can follow further trails into the forest. We were told the water had gone down enough to walk on, but warned we would get muddy.

Despite vigorous washing and later walking in deep snow back home, there’s still mud in the boots. But hiking muddy trails in January allows you to be alone with giant trees. One trail is called Oakridge, because it’s on a “ridge” a few feet higher than the rest of the bottomland and supports magnificent oak trees.

And what might live below?

You might remember a post I did in October 2018 after my first visit to Congaree. The land was a lot greener then, and not as muddy. However, one advantage of a January visit was no mosquitoes. Even in October, when the bug population was “moderate,” and you covered yourself in bug spray, stopping on the hike would result in being surrounded by a buzzing, biting cloud.

Loblolly pine are the tallest trees in the Congaree with the state champion towering a couple hundred feet above the ground and a challenge to photograph. Here’s some of the massive bark.

The Tupelo trees spread in the bottomland and along the water.

And the Bald Cypress trees can lead you and your imagination onward.

Lang and Dreary is the Night

Growing up in Florida, there was not much difference between midsummer and midwinter daylight—from 13 hours of summer daylight to 13 hours of winter night. On summer visits to my grandmother on the Iron Range in northern Minnesota, I’d be amazed that it was still light at 10 p.m. Now living in Illinois, it’s no fun when the sun sets at 4:50 even a month after solstice. But even northern Minnesota doesn’t hold a candle to Scotland. Today, the sun set in Inverness at 4:19 p.m. and won’t arise until 8:38 the next morning. So to break up the winter gloom, the Scots invented another midwinter celebration — Burns Night.

Dunnet Bay, Scotland

The national bard Robert Burns was born January 25, 1759, and many Scots celebrate his life, writing, and national heritage with dinner, drinks, songs and stories on his birthday. Perhaps someone will read a bit of

How Lang and Dreary is the Night

When I am from my Dearie:

I restless lie from e’en to morn

Though I were ne’er so weary.

Glen Shiel

Here’s a verse with a phrase near the end I’ll bet you might’ve even used without knowing it’s origin.. Burns was ploughing a field in November when he destroyed a mouse’s nest and it ran away in terror. From, To a Mouse

. . . .

Thy wee bit housie too in ruin,
Its fragile walls the winds have strewn,
And you've nothing new to build a new one,
Of grasses green;
And bleak December winds ensuing,
Both cold and keen.

You saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cosy there beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash; the cruel ploughman crushed
Thy little cell.

Your wee bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Had cost thee many a weary nibble.
Now you're turned out for all thy trouble
Of house and home
To bear the winter's sleety drizzle,
And hoar frost cold.

But, mousie, thou art not alane,
In proving foresight may be in vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Go oft astray,
And leave us nought but grief and pain,
To rend our day.

Still thou art blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches thee,
But, oh, I backward cast my eye
On prospects drear,
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear.

Cairngorms

Or perhaps the long night provides a snowy glen in moonlight

CAULD FROSTY MORNING

'Twas past ane o'clock in a cauld frosty morning,
When cankert November blaws over the plain,
I heard the kirk-bell repeat the loud warning,
As, restless, I sought for sweet slumber in vain:
Then up I arose, the silver moon shining bright;
Mountains and valleys appearing all hoary white;
Forth I would go, amid the pale, s'ient night,
And visit the Fair One, the cause of my pain.-

. . . .

Cairngorms

And here’s a verse of Burns’ you might’ve even sung yourself. We sing on New Years Eve, and it traditionally closes the Burns Night celebration.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne. . . .

Glen Shiel

Burns certainly lived close to nature as his verses are filled with such beauty and images of wildness, but as with his Mousie, he turns those images to reflections on human life. This one, called Song Composed In August, reminds me of Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi. Here’s the full text filled with birds, and a link to a terrific sung version if you’d like to listen along. So perhaps on Monday night you can get a wee dram of whisky, and listen to Westlin’ Winds and enjoy his images of the birds of Scotland on a long light day in August, land think of the brighter days that are ahead — thus every kind their pleasure find.

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev'ry happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

Headwinds

Beyond the northeast coast of Scotland are the Orkney Islands, then Shetland, then Norway. The Vikings controlled most of this land through the Middle Ages.

With a Norse father and Scottish mother, Earl Harald Maddadson likely built this castle in the 1100s. Only a few ruins are left of the tall castle that once stood high over these fingers of rock jutting into the North Sea.

Photos can only capture a thin slice of the experience and feel of a place. The sounds of the crashing waves and bird calls, and smell of the sea are intense. But my most vivid memory of this place was the fierce winds. I often shoot with a tripod, and often in low light it is a necessity. Here it was necessary to help keep my camera steady. The camera was mounted on the tripod, one hand and body weight pushed the tripod down into the tufts of grass to try to keep it steady, the timer was triggered, and the other head held the ballhead as firm as possible as the wind relentlessly battered us.

The path led over what was once a moat to protect the only landward access to the castle, and an illustration helps provide a sense of what the buildings may have looked like 900 years ago, when the winds blew just as strongly.

Seemingly unaffected by the winds, Kittiwakes, Shearwaters, Guilliemots, and Fulmars flew between the cliffs.

The sea relentlessly batters the rocks that calmly endure.

The short view for a human visitor is relentless attack by wind and water. The long view of the birds, rocks and lichens is quiet endurance.

Escalante Hope

Last year, this week we hiked in the hoarfrost covered Toadstools in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah. The 2 million acre national monument was created by President Clinton, One of the current administration’s first acts was to cut the size of this in half and open the unprotected area to mineral extraction. No president had ever previously reversed a prior president’s actions under the Antiquities Act and the legal challenges to whether he had the authority to do so is still in the courts.

Even greater devastation was imposed on nearby Bears Ears National Monument established by President Obama. Bears Ears creation was pushed by many native tribes to protect sacred sites and cultural icons as well as the natural resources. The new administration blew up the protection by reducing the monument by 85% and opening the newly unprotected areas to mineral extraction. President-elect Biden campaigned stating he would reverse this destruction.

The assault on Bears Ears was a direct attack on the Navajo, Zuni, Hopi, Ute, and Uintah and Ouray Ute peoples who worked to protect the Bears Ears land previously stripped from them by Mormon and other colonial settlers and the federal government. Biden has selected Congresswoman Deb Haaland, a citizen of New Mexico and the Laguna Pueblo tribe, to be Secretary of the Interior. The neglect of natural resources is further shown by the administration’s failure to appoint directors of the National Park Service and the Bureau of Land Management (which oversees Grand Staircase-Escalante) in the entire four years.

It is possible that Congress will enact legislation to grant National Park status to both Bears Ears and Grand Staircase Escalante. The National Park designation has been cynically used the last four years to dubiously create new parks. The 63rd National Park was established in the newly passed Defense Authorization Act elevating the New River Gorge in West Virginia from a National Recreational Area. A very small area was designated as a National Park (to undoubtedly try to increase tourism—and funded a larger parking lot!) and a larger area designated as a National Preserve (to allow guns and hunting). Two Republican representatives had proposed legislation to create Bears Ears National Park, but it would have only protected the much smaller area designated by the administration and fix into legislation the opening of most of the area to mining, oil and gas extraction.

Last summer Congress passed the Great American Outdoors Act which guaranteed funding of $1.9 billion annually to the Interior Department for deferred maintenance. The Act also provided funding for the Land and Water Conservation Fund, but — of course — the administration in November implemented bureaucratic hurdles to delay acquisition. That order can be reversed by order of the new president who promised in the campaign to protect 30 percent of American land and water by 2030 as one effort to slow climate change. Hope springs.

Earth, Teach Me Quiet

2020 certainly left us all with many lessons. In wanderings both very close to home and far away, the Earth continued to be a wise teacher. Here are some images of a few favorite experiences from the year accompanied by the words of a Ute prayer: Earth, Teach Me.

Earth teach me quiet ~ as the grasses are still with new light.

Morton Arboretum, Lisle, Illinois

The verses of Earth, Teach Me were composed into song by Latvian composer Ēriks Ešenvalds. A recording by Northwestern Professor Donald Nally was named one of the top classical recordings of the year in the New York Times. There’s a link to the recording in the NY Times article or you can click here if you’d care to listen while looking at these images.

Earth teach me suffering ~ as old stones suffer with memory.

Silgachan, Isle of Skye, Scotland

The capturing of images in the field is a way for me to engage more deeply with the Earth and her beauties. After settling in to our house in the Isle of Skye, Alister took us to this burn running out of the Black Cuillin mountains. With my camera, I explored how the many tangles of this stream could best be organized within a frame. How is the story of this wild water best told in an organized way? How will this wonderous foreground dance play with the sullen Cuillin Silgachan in the distance?

Earth teach me humility ~ as blossoms are humble with beginning.

Wilder Park, Elmhurst, Illinois

Covid quickly cut short the visit in Scotland, and walks were very close to home for a while. Bringing a camera along helped me see the beauty right at my feet.

Earth teach me caring ~ as mothers nurture their young.

Badlands National Park, South Dakota

Dan and I figured a way to safely feed our photo needs by packing up food and camping gear and heading to the Badlands. This was definitely the most magical day of photography all year. The sky and light played wonders all day with a wonderful storm moving through. Incredible wildlife encounters occurred throughout the day with prairie dogs, lots of birds and short eared owl circling us. The first meeting of the day was this peaceful, playful herd of big horn sheep ewes and lambs. To share this day with my son will always stay in my heart.

Earth teach me courage ~ as the tree that stands alone.

Cricket Creek Forest Preserve, Addison, Illinois

Back close to home is a trail Jane and I’ve done often on a bike, but Chance hasn’t learned to ride a bike, so we take him for walks instead. Then it’s easier to bring a camera and see things like this wonderful lone tree.

Unfortunately for the next verse, I didn’t get any images of ants or eagles. While I was fortunate to see eagles both in Scotland and Illinois, no photos were possible. However, I’ll use an image of my favorite soaring birds—Sandhill Cranes on their way south.

Earth teach me limitation ~ as the ant that crawls on the ground.
Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.

Jasper-Pulaski Counties, Indiana

Sandhill cranes are one of the oldest species on Earth. When they migrate, their incredibly loud bugle travels from a great distance and you can look up and look back to see a scene that would’ve been the same a million years ago.

Earth teach me acceptance ~ as the leaves that die each fall.

Shawnee National Forest, Illinois

I don’t think there can be a better time of year to make images. And to find colorful leaves, still water, and dramatic rocks and lichens . . . can’t get better.

Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring.

Snow Canyon State Park, Utah

Couldn’t anticipate what the year would bring in January, but it was a wonderful way to start in the starkness of the southern Utah desert. The person in this image frozen ancient sand dunes might say something of our ultimate ability to control the Earth.

Earth teach me to forget myself ~ as melted snow forgets its life.

Iceland

I’d hoped to spend a couple days with my camera in Iceland on my way back from Scotland, but that opportunity was lost. I got a taste of what awaited when changing planes there on the way east. Some day.

Earth teach me to remember kindness ~ as dry fields weep with rain

Highlands, Scotland

Earth, Teach Me

Earth teach me quiet ~ as the grasses are still with new light.
Earth teach me suffering ~ as old stones suffer with memory.
Earth teach me humility ~ as blossoms are humble with beginning.
Earth teach me caring ~ as mothers nurture their young.
Earth teach me courage ~ as the tree that stands alone.
Earth teach me limitation ~ as the ant that crawls on the ground.
Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.
Earth teach me acceptance ~ as the leaves that die each fall.
Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring.
Earth teach me to forget myself ~ as melted snow forgets its life.
Earth teach me to remember kindness ~ as dry fields weep with rain.

A Ute Prayer

Coquina concert

Yesterday was Beethoven’s 250th birthday. The beginning of his 9th symphony sure seems to be a lot of wave crashing. Perhaps you’d like to listen to Northwestern’s School of Music’s recording while viewing these images. I’ve posted more than usual.

Growing up near the Florida coast, I’d sometimes find fragments of coquina rock washed up on shore. Coquina is about the only rock you’ll find in Florida. It’s a sedimentary rock of compressed shellfish.

Only two beaches in the state have extensive outcropping of coquina. One is near Jupiter in the southeast part of the state and the other is in the northeast near Palm Coast. We were fortunate last month to stay near this one. The Castillo San Marcos in St. Augustine is built of coquina. It was quite an effective rock to use for a fort at the time because cannon shot would not shatter the soft rock but be absorbed into it.

While we were there, hurricane Eta came across the state twice. First, it crossed the Keys. While nearly 300 miles away, the outskirts of the storm battered the northeast coast as well. Then it boomeranged back after a visit in the Gulf. Plenty of rough surf pounded the coquina and the agitation caused a lot of sea foam.

Overcast skies were constant, though a couple mornings, the run broke through for a brief show.

The next picture is a composite of nine images. Count the pelicans. It’s actually one pelican flying by and captured in 9 frames.

As the tide and waves come and go, the shelves of coquina create and recreate new scenes.

One evening, we were taking a walk on the shore before it got dark. It was quite overcast and an uninteresting sky. I thought about leaving the camera, and not subjecting it to the sea salt spray, but grabbed it at the last minute. After the sun set, the sky began to glow and an amazing light show ended the gloomy day.

Swell, swale, steel

Hiking on the Paul Douglas trail in Indiana Dunes National Park, aside from the sound of freight train rolling by, you have no idea you’re surrounded by the city of Gary, Indiana. The trail starts in the oak savannah dunes swells. The leafless trees are a bit haunting.

Down the swells into the swales between the old dunes are wetlands and ponds with beaver lodges.

After a mile or so on the trail, you cross the Grand Calumet River, and there is one more line of dunes to cross to get to get to Lake Michigan.

And like Dorothy landing in Oz, Bark Ranger Chance nuzzles the river, and the ripples bring forth color.

The trail signs warn to stay on the narrow sandy trail and avoid the marram grasses to restore the flora on the dunes. This is the westernmost part of the park, and so the closest to my home. Still hard to believe I can drive to a national park in less than an hour.

A warm day in early winter lets the grasses and dunes glow against the water as the trail skirts along the edge of the river.

And finally over the last dune is the lake with a view to steel mills to the east and west, but calm blue water straight ahead. Just a couple stormy days before there were 7 to 11 foot waves on the lake, and another storm coming in a couple days, but a calm, warm, shirt-sleeve day to enjoy now.

Harrowing Joy

Last year, the Library of Congress selected Joy Harjo as the U.S. poet laureate—the first Indigenous person to serve in that position. Here are a few excerpts of her work with some images of morning on the Florida coast.

Fall Song

. . . .

I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this

. . . .

Once the World Was Perfect

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.
Then we took it for granted.
Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.
Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.
And once Doubt ruptured the web,
All manner of demon thoughts
Jumped through—

. . . .

Once the World was perfect

. . . .

A spark of kindness made a light.
The light made an opening in the darkness.
Everyone worked together to make a ladder.
A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,
And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,
And their children, all the way through time—
To now, into this morning light to you.

You can listen to Harjo read the poem, along with a link to the entire text.

Talking with the Sun

I believe in the sun.
In the tangle of human failures of fear, greed, and
forgetfulness, the sun gives me clarity.
When explorers first encountered my people, they called us
heathens, sun worshippers.
They didn’t understand that the sun is a relative, and
illuminates our path on this earth.

. . . .

You can read the full text and listen to her read this, too.

A Ravine? In Florida?

New Deal projects during the Great Depression helped put people to work and created infrastructure we still enjoy. Nine state parks were created in Florida including a jewel near the St. John’s River in the north central part of the state. The court of the states with pillars for the 48 states and an obelisk dedicated to President Roosevelt was a grand entrance to invite tourists to the formal gardens.

A few acres of the old formal gardens remain, though November is not a great time to see plantings. Beyond the formal gardens, you can see into the path leading down to the ravine that gives the park its name.

A spring creates a creek that carves through the sandy soil and flows into the St. John’s. The ravines had been formally planted, but have been left to revert to their more natural state.

Though only 59 acres, the park seems much bigger. A two and a half mile trail meanders along the ravine banks and across suspension bridges over the creeks. It’s called the Azalea trail and filled with those bushes which will bloom from January to March, though a few stray plants were flowering.

The day we hiked was overcast with the fringes of tropical storm Eta, and it dumped some rain on us, but fortunately the tropical air kept us warm.

The view from the bottom of the 120 foot deep ravine is one I’ve never encountered in Florida.

Some time for the birds

Visiting Florida after what might’ve been my longest absence since I was five. Happy to report that birds are still here. In the desperate work we need to do on climate change, it’s helpful to see our past successes. I never saw ospreys while growing up here. DDT use was one devastating hazard they faced. Now these birds are everywhere! Visiting Scotland, I was happy to learn they are making a slow comeback there as well. Here’s one fishing in sunset light.

Another great success is the delicate snowy egret. They’re feathers were harvested for fashion near the turn of the 20th century leading the snowy and other birds to near extinction. Theodore Roosevelt established the first National Wildlife Refuge in Florida to help protect birds, and that along with efforts to change fashion kept the snowy alive and they’ve made a great comeback. Even by the turn of this century, they were still a bit of a challenge to find, and now they are fairly common. We can learn to change our ways to protect more aspects of the environment.

I doubt the scavenging cormorant was ever too much at risk. This fellow stabbed a meal that was a bit challenging to swallow.

Tropical storms and hurricanes are increasing in number and intensity and lasting later into the year. There’s been a record tying 28 storms this year. Warming temperatures result in the storms maintaining their intensity when they hit land. The sixth hurricane to come ashore in the U.S. this year was Eta. Here are the outer reaches of the storm as it hit several hundred miles away in the Keys and then swung around to come back here.

How about leaving it with some abstracts of pelicans on the shore?

(R)eclipse

In August 2017, I traveled to southern Illinois to view the solar eclipse where the path of totality would cross. I viewed it from an open area of a shallow granite canyon along Hill Branch Creek — a beautiful area to witness an unforgettable event.

Last month, we camped in the Bell Smith Springs area where the Mill Branch trail run to Hill Branch Creek (that’s not too confusing of naming, is it?) I didn’t plan to do any nightscape photography, but since I went to sleep shortly after it got dark, I was up well before dawn, and starlight filled the sky above the pine trees.

Redbud campground

Looking up

Chance and I were off for an early hike, and planned for sunrise at a different spot, but we crossed the trail that pointed to the Mill Branch area and decided to give that a try. As often in the autumn in Illinois, the morning began to get a light fog and a soft glow. We got to the open canyon area, turned around to where the old mill had been that gave the creek its name, and the rising sun began its show.

Mill Branch Creek sunrise

We continued upstream, and the sun continued on its path up.

Sun rays lighting Mill Branch Creek

Chance figured out it was time to rest up while I explored for images.

The sun had given sublime show three years before when it was covered by the moon, and now was lighting up scenes in all directions over the little canyon.

Looking east:

Looking north:

Looking west:

Looking south:

On Heron Pond

About ten years ago, I had my only visit to Heron Pond in Shawnee National Forest and experiencing the wonder of a cypress wetland in Illinois. Some long-time followers might remember a Friday Foto of a Water Moccasin covered in the duckweed of the swamp. I hoped for fall colors in a visit last week, and was blessed with a magic morning.

I started the hike in the dark with a lamp on my head, and wasn’t sure I was on the right trail because my memory did not hold the river I was walking along.

Early light on the Cache River

Soon enough, however, cypress trees were showing in the soft morning light.

Cypress dawn

The trail eventually leads to a boardwalk that heads out into the pond. The sun was getting above the tree line and glowing through the morning mist.

Mary Oliver sets many of her poems on ponds, so let’s start with the beginning of At Great Pond:

At Great Pond
the sun, rising,
scrapes his orange breast
on the thick pines,
and down tumble
a few orange feathers into
the dark water.

. . . .

Seems that Great Pond was a favorite place for Oliver. Morning at Great Pond was in her 1983 Pulitzer Prize winning book American Primitive:

It starts like this:
forks of light
slicking up
out of the east,
flying over you,
and what's left of night --
its black waterfalls,
its craven doubt --
dissolves like gravel
as the sun appears

. . . .

From Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond

. . . .

And she turns
From the thick water,
From the black sticks

Of the summer pond,
And slowly
Rises into the air
And is gone.

Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
Of happiness, and I think
How unlikely it is

That death is a hole in the ground,
How improbable
That ascension is not possible,

. . . .

The trail continues on past the pond boardwalk, and shortly after comes to the state champion cherrybark oak. A champion tree is one recognized as the largest of its species in a state. Eleven state champions are in the Heron Pond-Cache River State Natural Area. To help show the size of this wonder, Chance and I got in the image.

Illinois Champion Cherrybark Oak

From there, the Little Black Slough trail invites you to continue along the Cache River.

What awaits on the Little Black Slough trail

Reflections

My neighbor is the Republican county chair. His house, as usual at election time, is surrounded by Republican candidate signs. He rode by on his bike yesterday carrying some asking if I wanted one. Notably, he doesn’t have a sign supporting a presidential candidate. As I was chasing fall colors in southern Illinois this week, as in rural northern Wisconsin and Michigan a couple weeks ago, vast numbers of Trump-Pence signs and flags covered the landscape. Such displays are vigorous expressions of political wishes.

I don’t understand how wearing protective face masks becomes acceptable political expression. I stopped for water at a grocery store which was likely the only one within 20 to 30 miles. A couple elderly people were wearing their masks as they got off a social services bus to get groceries: Critical essential public and private services on display. Coming from the other direction was the first person I’ve seen entering a indoor public space in more than seven months without a mask. And so it continued inside, filled with men without masks, one talking with the woman preparing food behind the deli counter wearing a mask—below her chin so she could talk better. I hurried out, dismayed that people believe it is appropriate political expression to put fellow citizens at risk to go grocery shopping. I went back to seeking solace in the colors and shapes on the surrounding Shawnee National Forest.

Bell Smith Springs

What is better than autumn colors and still water?

Fairy circle

Bay Creek

I see these scenes, and then reflect on words from a math teacher:

I just feel like I'm working 20 times harder than I was last year and I have 1/4 of my students who have grades below a 50% and I'm being accused of not helping students and just not feeling like I'm doing my job well. It's just emotionally and physically and mentally draining right now.

Devil’s Backbone

“...the trees were actually dressed in their coats of many colors — the real scarlet and gold which they wear before they put on mourning... I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house. So I have spent almost all of the daylight hours in the open air.”

Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1842

Hill Branch Springs

He found himself wondering at times, especially in the autumn, about the wild lands, and strange visions of mountains that he had never seen came into his dreams.

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Bay Creek, Bell Smith Springs, Shawnee National Forest

October

The Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to an American poet —Louise Glück. She has a long, challenging poem: October. Not difficult to understand, but of subjects that confront us in difficult times. Her language is direct and beautiful.

Autumn has arrived in full force, and as Glück writes winter will come, so some images of the colors that are here with a few of her words excerpted from October.

Morton Arboretum

. . . .

Daybreak. The low hills shine
ochre and fire, even the fields shine.
I know what I see; sun that could be
the August sun, returning
everything that was taken away —

Great Blue Heron, South Pool, Busse Woods

. . . .

A day like a day in summer.
Exceptionally still.

Dark to light

. . . .

The brightness of the day becomes
the brightness of the night;
the fire becomes the mirror.

My friend the earth is bitter; I think
sunlight has failed her.
Bitter or weary, it is hard to say.

Golden Goose

. . . .

Once more, the sun rises as it rose in summer;
bounty, balm after violence.
Balm after the leaves have changed, after the fields
have been harvested and turned.

Busse Woods geese

. . . .

The light has changed;
middle C is tuned darker now.
And the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed. —

This is the light of autumn, not the light of spring.
The light of autumn: you will not be spared.

The songs have changed; the unspeakable
has entered them.

This is the light of autumn, not the light that says
I am reborn.

Great Egret

. . . .

Come to me, said the world.
This is not to say
it spoke in exact sentences
but that I perceived beauty in this manner.

. . . .

I stood
at the doorway,
ridiculous as it now seems.

What others found in art,
I found in nature. What others found
in human love, I found in nature.
Very simple. But there was no voice there.

Sterling Pond, Morton Arboretum

. . . .

The songs have changed, but really they are still quite beautiful.
They have been concentrated in a smaller space, the space of the mind.
They are dark, now, with desolation and anguish.

And yet the notes recur. They hover oddly
in anticipation of silence.
The ear gets used to them.
The eye gets used to disappearances.

— From Louise Glück, October

Fall Fungus

Autumn colors are arriving in northern Illinois. But hiking with a dog gets me looking at the ground a bit more, and I found some color in the decaying wood.

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

. . . .

From Sylvia Plath, Mushrooms

This scene in Illinois Canyon seemed to show the transition from summer to fall occurring right there.

Illinois Canyon, Starved Rock State Park

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

. . . .

Looking up, the colors were definitely showing their autumn flair.

The perspective from a mushroom’s view?

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

. . . .

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

. . . .

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

. . . .

I didn’t try any of these, so don’t blame them. But one lit up tree in the forest inspired me. Some zooming in with the lens on long exposures and tilting the camera led to some fun.

Sweeping up

Zooming out

Zooming and tilting

Walk with Renoir

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Sylvia Plath, Mushrooms

If you’d like to listen to Plath reading this poem.

U.P. to fall

Pockets of autumn colors were appearing in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The day started with a hint of red from Mars shining on Au Train Lake where we camped.

Early light shown on yellowing ferns.

The woods in Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore had some trees changing.

South of the National Lakeshore, the wetlands in Hiawatha National Forest had a few areas of concentrated color.

And in a few areas, a cluster of trees changing gave hints of what is soon to come.

While the trees are getting more colorful, birds are losing their breeding color. This goldfinch has lost most of his gold, but the prairie flowers and the distant maple provide their brilliance.

Now I'm Free, Free-Fallin'

Not meaning to be petty, but one hope for last week’s trip to the Upper Peninsula was waterfalls. The U.P. is filled with them, but it’s mid-September, and a dry season. Fortunately, weather reports showed rain for a few days there before I headed north, and hopefully the falls were recharging. Encouraging sign right off the side of the road on the western edge of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore is Alger Falls.

Alger Falls, Michigan

On the western edge of the Park, a trail leads down to Sable Falls which you hear long before you get to see it.

How about some observations from Mary Oliver, in her poem The Waterfall, For Mary Swenson

For all they said,
   I could not see the waterfall
      until I came and saw the water falling,
         its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down

Sable Falls, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore

A lovely loop trail in Laughing Whitefish Falls State park winds through marvelous ferns and forest. Bark Ranger Chance has been posting lots of images in the woods there. You come to the top of the falls before heading down steep stairs to get a lower view.

while something howled like thunder,
   over the rocks,
      all day and all night –
         unspooling

Laughing Whitefish Falls State Park

At the bottom you view the full 100 foot slide down the rock.

like ribbons made of snow,
   or god’s white hair.
      At any distance
         it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple

You park on a residential street in Munising and find an opening in the woods and hope you are the right trail to Memorial Falls.

preponderance –
   a fall of flowers – and truly it seemed
      surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and
         light-hearted to be

flying at last.
   Gravity is a fact everybody
      knows about.
         It is always underfoot,

Memorial Falls, Munising

A few miles south of town is another state park with a short trail to Wagner Falls. Before you get to the fall, a small stream crosses the trail.

like a summons,
   gravel-backed and mossy,
      in every beetled basin –
         and imagination –

Wagner creek

And then the twenty foot falls among the hemlock and pine.

that striver,
   that third eye –
      can do a lot but
         hardly everything. The white, scrolled

Wagner Falls

A trail in Pictured Rocks leads through the forest to a wide sandy beach on Lake Superior. A walk along the beach to a rocky shelf, you get to a small fall that is the prettiest of them all emptying into the great lake.

wings of the tumbling water
   I never could have
      imagined. And maybe there will be,
         after all,

Lake Superior, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore

some slack and perfectly balanced
   blind and rough peace, finally,
      in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that
         falling?
-----

Mary Oliver, The Waterfall, Poetry Magazine, January 1991

Elliot Falls

Au Train, the traverse

I needed a photography fix, and decided it was time to test whether Chance would like camping. So we headed to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan this week hoping for some early autumn color. Chance was a great camper, loved hiking in the woods, and plenty of patience for my photography. More woods images to come, but for today, some beach images. We camped along the Au Train River, and it emptied nearby on a great sandy beach into Lake Superior. The Ojibway used the river as a route between Lakes Superior and Michigan, and early French explorers named it Au Train, for “traverse.” Our first stop after setting up the tent was a walk on the beach where the river emptied, and lovely, short dunes needed to be traversed.

After stretching our legs, we got back in the car to head west to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Unfortunately, since you are standing on the shore, you really can’t see the “Pictured Rocks” unless you get out on a boat. A few spots give a hint, and we spotted the boat I had reservations to ride in a couple days. Unfortunately, just as my previous trip to the U.P., my cruise was cancelled because of rough waters.

Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore

The next day, after getting up before dawn and lots of hiking in Pictured Rocks, we stopped again at Au Train beach for a sunset walk before returning to camp. It didn’t look promising for a sunset with high haze, do doubt from smoke drifting all the way from the western fires.

Lake Superior is massive. A true inland ocean. It holds more water than all the other Great Lakes combined. But this evening, it was as calm as a tiny pond. Only a couple inch wave would form and break right before the shore. And in that small moment as the water moved up and back, it would catch the light from the shrouded sun.

Off shore was even cloudier and the distant island of Au Train rested between the clouds and water.

As the sun got lower, the color close to shore intensified.

Long before it got to the horizon, the sun traversed behind the haze and clouds, but provided a farewell view.

Starved Rockin'

Took a trip to Starved Rock State Park hoping a couple days of rain might have the waterfalls flowing, but a month of dry weather still had them at just a trickle. Several trails are still closed after the major wind storm on August 10. Nearby Mattiessen State Park is still closed. We went first to St. Louis Canyon which has the most reliable flow, but even that was very light.

St. Louis Canyon falls

Chance declared himself king of the Rock.

St. Louis Canyon

Some trees are showing early color, and glowed a bit in the soft light.

St. Louis Canyon maple

Though the Park’s latest posting said Kaskaskia and Ottawa canyons were still closed, we found the lot and trail open. So do you like the trickle at Kaskaskia better in color or black and white?

Kaskaskia falls and ferns

And again the trees were the stars of the hike.

While Chance got back to his roots.

Kaskaskia trail

Finally, we took a walk into Illinois canyon, and found a ghost tree locked in jail.

Ghost