Spring Across The North

It's almost the middle of the month of May, but the leaves are only beginning to show their green growth (willow). Birds from rose breasted grosbeaks to phoebes to pine siskins to goldfinches are making their nests (the phoebe is nesting under the garage porch eave for the first time in 15 years) and the Canada geese are already parading on our waterways with their goslings.
Our garden is peaking a bit of green cold crops from under the coat of mulch, warmed in their bed. The cold crops are tolerant of the seasonal dusting of snow (yes, still possible, as last weekend showed) and few hours of freeze at night that characterize our cool Lake Superior spring.
The coyotes were yipping and carrying on at our field and woods edge last night at around midnight. They woke me at the advent of my slumber, which I was glad for - to hear them roust about closely. I will go out to our back field to check the red pines that we planted and have been watering. One of them was dug up and dead; noticed on Sunday when I was carrying water from the stream to water the trees. I wonder what chose to dig the little seedling up. No tracks could be seen.

I am beginning to pack for the 9 day Wilderness First Responder class that I am taking in Wisconsin over the next week plus. Tough time to be leaving, with so much to be done around here, but it seems that each season has its own reasons for me to stay home...

Reverence For Nature

The historic Episcopal Church in Eagle, Alaska

What is the place for reverence in viewing "the wonders of the natural world"? Pantheism, the worship of nature, is what many fundamentalist Christians would call showing excessive attention and concern for the fate of the flora and fauna of natural areas. The Christian Bible cautions the believer to worship the Creator, not the creation. The person who doesn't believe in God (or Jesus Christ as the son of God) is termed a pagan and is to be pitied and if possible shown "the only true way of the cross of Christ." There is some room in more liberal churches for those who want to practice "creation care" but for those who follow the fundamentalist church the creation care movement is suspect for offering allegiance too closely to nature's creatures rather than Creator.

Rick Bass, a leading writer and environmentalist, who lives in a rural area in northwestern Montana, addresses the question of reverence for the creation, as put to him by some seemingly Christian "friends" in his community. His answer, in the following essay, told after an encounter with a female painted turtle, is both humble and wise.

This essay was in the May 2009 issue of the Shambhala Sun Magazine

The Turtle

by Rick Bass

Surely I am becoming a pagan; and not through any formal rejection or even dubious re-examination of the mystery of my childhood, Christianity, but more through the evolution of some closer fit between my spirit and this Montana landscape. So glorious does this engagement feel some days that I must confess, in the beginning I wondered if I was not being tempted somehow by the archetypal devil himself—for surely anything this pleasurable had to be sinful, even lustful; and worst of all, placing myself, rather than any God, at the center of things.

I’m not even sure what a pagan is exactly—perhaps I’m misusing the word—but yesterday, after I had dropped the girls off to play at a friend’s house over on the backside of the valley, just across the state line, in Idaho, I encountered a painted turtle crossing the gravel road, traveling from one marsh to another, and my spirits soared, at the life-affirming tenacity of her journey, her crossing, as well as at this most physical manifestation that indeed the back of winter was broken; for here, exhumed once again by the warm breath of the awakening earth, was the most primitive vertebrate still among us.

It was not a busy road, but I stopped anyway and picked up the turtle. Her extraordinarily long front claws, so like a grizzly’s, confirmed that she was a female—the longer claws are useful in excavating a nest in which to lay her eggs—and I put her in a cardboard box to show the girls upon my return.

I continued on my way, down across the giant Kootenai River and into Bonners Ferry, to run errands, and then drove back to our friend’s, where all the children examined the turtle with appropriate and gratifying fascination. They learned the words “carapace” and “scute” and “plastron,” and a bit of the natural history of the painted turtle, but what I suspect lodged deepest in their memory was the mesmerizing hieroglyphics, or cartography, of red and orange swirls on the underside of the shell; and the image that probably went deepest into either their consciousness or subconscious, into the matrix of memory and formative identity—or so I hope—was the three of us stopping on the trip home to release the turtle on the other, safe side of the road, pointed down toward the larger marsh—the direction she had been headed—despite the fact that there was still no traffic.

We kept watch over her then, as she slithered her way through last autumn’s dead grass, and the newly emerging green-up, toward the cattails and chilly dark waters that would receive her and the future of her kind.

I hoped the specific tone of sky at dusk, the call of snipe circling overhead, and the shapes of these specific mountains—these mountains—were imprinting themselves, this one April, as deeply in the minds of my young daughters, along with this leisurely, almost nonchalant yet considered act, as deeply as the chemistry of a river is said to imprint itself upon the bodies of young salmon. These are the sights and scents and tastes and sounds and textures, the logic and the reason, that hopefully will help form the matrix of their childhood and their individual characters.

I’m grateful to that one turtle for the opportunity to help show them consideration. I’m grateful to the color of that sky at dusk, and to the unique and specific shape of Haystack Mountain, to the north, and to the scent of the pine and fir forests, early in the spring, for helping form that calming matrix, as sense-filled and tangible as a bough of fir branches spread beneath one’s sleeping bag on a camping trip far back into the mountains, the mythic mountains of childhood.

We stood there and watched her clamber on down into the dark waters. We don’t have turtles in our marsh. Our marsh is one of several in a chain of wetlands that is perched at the edge of an upthrown fault block that parallels the valley’s main river. The closest turtles are but a quarter of a mile away, down in one of the huge wetlands created by the river’s high waters each spring; but there are no turtles in any of the marshes on that shelf up above the valley—the shelf on which our marsh, and several others, is perched.

We are a hundred feet too high, it seems, for turtles—an elevation of thirty-three hundred feet, rather than the valley floor of thirty-two hundred. Maybe, however, the warming earth will allow this marsh to receive them in my lifetime. Or it might take a hundred years, or two hundred, beyond that, but no matter; I dare not tinker with so ancient and established of a species—trying to coax it into a place it might never have been before. Perhaps this kind of reverence, respect and reverence, more than anything else, defines a pagan; I don’t know. Whatever it is, I know that I feel it strongly.

If this kind of attentiveness to, and gratitude for, the creation is excessive, or unseemly in our species, or, worst of all, ungodly, then I apologize for having been snookered by the dark forces; but know that I will go to damnation for having been an ignorant or mistaken man, rather than an evil one.

Some of my neighbors—friends—frown on the zeal, the restless tenor, of my environmentalism. They counsel me that with eternity at stake in the unending afterlife, there is little point or economy in getting so fretted up about clear-cuts when our mortal time here is so temporal, and the earth is but a proving grounds for the far greater and lasting struggle of our souls, our eternal salvation.

And sometimes—when I’m really tired of the struggle—I want to believe them.

But someone—their God, my God, somebody’s God—put the spark and light of peace and joy and worship and awe in my heart, when I stand in a cathedral of ancient cedars, or when I am far back in the distant mountains, so close to the sky and a scale of time greater than my own brief stay—and that spark tells me that for me, activism is a form of prayer, a way of paying back some small fraction of the blessing that the wilderness is to me; a way of celebrating and protecting that creation, and a way of giving thanks.

Around Grand Island

August, 2007 was an exhausting month after such a busy July. None-the-less, I was totally grateful for the work outdoors as a guide. I had herniated my L-5 disc in the early spring while guiding a dog team trip in northern Minnesota. After suffering through misdiagnoses and ineffective physical therapy followed by surgery and recuperation, I had jumped right into leading trips out of Munising and out to Isle Royale. I actually started doing trips at the end of June, with my son's help on heavy lifting.The first trip was to Pictured Rocks and there were many that followed. The previous 2 trips were an attempt by a large group to go around Grand Island and a 2 couple trip "on a budget" to Isle Royale. Both of these trips were disappointments for me, though not for the clients. The attempt to go around Grand Island was with a ski club out of Milwaukee. The members were all more into drinking and partying, many lacked experience at kayaking, and some were totally out of control as far as following a wilderness ethic. Three dysfunctional women would jump out of their kayaks when we would stop, sit down in the water and urinate while still in their wet suits. I thought it was different that they would have such an affinity for the water that they would sit down together for a time so often. Then on the last day one of the other participants told me what was up with those 3 women. I told Carl, the trip outfitter to be sure and wash those wet suits extra cycle.
We didn't go all around the island on that trip because of the group being large and not sticking together, and with the fog and windy weather that we had, I didn't feel comfortable leading them.
The other "cut-rate" trip with 2 middle aged couples from lower Michigan to Isle Royale was tough because they were all staying in the lodge and supplying the food. The major verbal topic was complaining about how the Rock Harbor Lodge and Restaurant was a rip-off. They were supposed to supply me with food and they were reluctant to do so, other than white bread and bologna sandwiches and cheap sugar cookies for lunch. The one time that they ate in the lodge with me they stiffed the waiter.
Right after doing the two disappointing trips, I had to rush back to Munising for a trip with the repeat customers from the year before, the Ripper group, named after Wendy Ripper, who did the coordinating with Carl, the Northern Waters owner and outfitter for the group of 5 women. I had met the ladies last year when they had switched over from then-defunct Great Northern Adventures out of Marquette, Michigan. One of the guides at GNA, Susan Bellamy had built up a great relationship with the Ripper party over a period of a few years. They had gone to Pictured Rocks but weather had limited their trips. They had gone to Grand Island into Trout Bay and Murray Bay with Susan.
The group members were Wendy, Jeannette, Jill, Julie, and Casey. All from the suburbs of Detroit, active in outdoor sports, all but Casey with kids and husbands. Jeannette was a fairly good paddler and could roll her kayak. She lived on a lake outside of Detroit and had a sport kayak that she would take out and practice with. She said that she always used ear and nose plugs as the water was warm and had a lot of bacteria in it.
All 5 ladies arrived at 9 AM in Jill's SUV. They were ready to go. Carl didn't have the food ready, actually didn't arrive until later. So we got their gear sorted out and did what we could and then got out on the water during the afternoon, heading out from Powell Point over to Grand Island and then going up the west side.
As the guide there is quite a bit of pressure on a trip such as this regarding making it a safe experience, comfort of participants on and off the water and arriving at campsites with enough time to be set up and fed before dark Getting a much later start than was optimal would make it hard to really have the surety that the aforementioned items would occur.

Casey, being new to kayaks was struggling to use her rudder and keep a straight line of travel. Her paddle stroke needed developed, and so I worked with her on paddling efficiently as we went along.

After 3 miles we stopped for a break on the lower west side of the island, but it was still too early to think about making camp. One place that we had in mind for spending the night was the Juniper Flats group site. There were a number of people who we saw there, so that wasn't looking like a possibility. Just past there is a beach and stairs that go up to the two-track road which leads to Hardwood Campground. No one was there but it is a long walk with gear to the campsite. Another not great possibility for us. Beyond the stairs is a little cove that has a waterfall that falls into the cove 10 feet or so out from the shore. Jill was the first to paddle under the drought diminished water. Then Casey tried but ended up beaching the bow of her boat on the shore. After a bit of a struggle with raising her rudder and pushing herself off she paddled under the falls. Then off we went, to parts unknown as far as camping. There was an eagle perched on a dead tree on a tall rock bluff. The rock is all tan and maroon tinted sandstone on the west side; mostly cliffs , which makes for awesome scenery but with few places to land and camp. There is a low arch before the a beach that I call the Northwest Beach. With the low water it was hardly possible to pass beneath it. Even the beach beyond it is low enough water that landing there on the mostly rock shelf means dragging the kayak in shallow water for a distance. We chose a back country campsite beyond with fair beach access. It was soon to be dark so that was the deciding factor in finding a campsite. Jill had a large tent that would fit all five and I busied myself with getting dinner of tacos while their tent went up. We were treated to a bit of Northern Lights after full dark, which capped our long day.

The next day dawned clear and just right for getting out on the water early. After a quick breakfast and pack-out of the kayaks, we were on our way. The arch in the photo was soon encountered after our launching from our back country camp site. Large enough, with deep enough water, even during this year of very low Lake Superior water levels, the arch would easily fit out kayaks for a few pass-throughs and picture taking sessions. Casey was doing better with her paddle strokes and maneuvering in tight places.

Here is the arch-cave from the inside. More than enough room to accommodate the party of kayakers.

We passed the north light house, on it's high cliff above, with just an out-building showing unless you paddled out in the lake a few hundred yards. We stayed out from shore and made for the northeast point, with one pit stop en route. As we paddled along in the sun, a monarch butterfly, fluttering along from the open water to the north, landed on my bow deck. There it stayed, catching a rest, fanning its wings slowly. As I looked about me, in the firmament and over the water, more and more butterflies came into focus. The water gently pulsing around my kayak carried on its surface the drowned shapes of monarchs; those who, on their migration across Lake Superior from the Canadian shore some 70 miles distant, had almost made it to landfall on the south shore. What a wondrous migratory epic we had paddled into on our route around Grand Island! The monarch on my deck fanned more frantically and lifted off, assured of arriving at the stepping stone of Grand Island before flying on to Mexico in due time, if the butterfly's migratory impulse wasn't ended by predatory weather or creature. As we paddled on and made it around the northeast point, the sky began to draw into mottled gray and blue. A west wind was pushing clouds onto our sky-view. I was getting a bit anxious with the weather looking more squally, as well as concern for getting a preferred campsite just outside of Trout Bay. The group's favorite camp site was Cobble Cove, which has a dramatic rock shelf overlooking the whole of Trout Bay. My groups use the rock shelf as a kitchen and living room. The sheltered camp site is used solely as a bedroom. The light and view from the shelf "living room" is so appealing that most campers at the site don't want to leave there until the last rays of the setting sun are extinguished. A possible problem was if another party was already at the site, then we would have to go elsewhere. When we came around the cliffs of the northeast opening of Trout Bay, I stopped and used my binoculars to glass the cove area and it did look as though there was a large power boat at the site. I told the ladies about my observations and said that we should paddle over and see if the boat owner was camping or just visiting the site. As we got closer to the cove it appeared that people from the boat were out on the rock shelf as well as in the cove area. When we paddled into the cove the boat looked to be getting underway. I hailed the boat skipper and he said that they weren't camping, though he wished that they were, "at such a beautiful campsite." So, with relief and elation the Ripper party landed and set up a bucket brigade to shuttle tents, food and camping gear up the steep approach to the camp site and rock shelf. The squall clouds had blown out of our area and it looked as though we were going to have sun and clear skies for our dinner and evening at Cobble Cove.

The Ripper party, paddling into a band of squall clods on Grand Island

With everyone working, on what we thought would be the final dinner on our trip, I soon had a filling meal of Carl's "Guide's Delight", a chicken salad, with Oreo cookies and fruit for dessert. A couple of women in the party broke out wine for watching the sunset. I was content to sip my cup of wine while washing the dishes. The last of the sun was warm and relaxing, not giving any clue about the real possibility of high winds on the morrow. The NOAA weather report warned of a possible small craft advisory on the morrow, but there was no point in worrying about tomorrow when there is nothing to be done other than enjoy the camp, sunset and sound sleep...
Morning dawned with gray moving clouds and a wind that was increasing by the minute. As the wind increased the waves jumped up, moving larger and steeper out into the eastern open lake. I started the stove to heat water back in the woods, sheltering the stove flame from the wind. We ate out in the wind on the ledge and talked about the non-possibility of paddling back to Sand Point for pick-up. No way were we paddling out in the big waves and cold water. One of the eventualities of paddling on Lake Superior was getting wind and wave-bound and this was one of those times. So we hung out on the rock ledge and read in our tents for the day. Spouses and children back home were apprised of our plight by cell phone - marooned on an island - and so the day moved on. I was looking at having a rushed few days following,this trip, as I had an Isle Royale trip scheduled to begin, with 1 day after this trip to prepare - that's 1 day if I wasn't stranded. All I could do was put thoughts of stress and dirty laundry out of my mind and concentrate on being ready for a quick getaway in the morning. Typically the wind began to die just before sunset, but the waves stayed up and Casey was a bit unsure of paddling in the rough water, so we opted for staying the night and making a quick getaway in the morning.
The water and wind were both down in the morning when we made our early getaway and a couple hours later we slid in on the Sand Point beach, where we unloaded gear, walked down to the Park Service headquarters where Wendy's SUV was and loaded up. It was triumphant but sad farewells as the group left me behind in the parking lot, waiting for the shuttle to load the kayaks onto the trailer and begin a hurried trip back to the next kayak trip out of Copper Harbor.

At the shelf "living room" at the Cobble Cove camping site. This tranquil evening sunset became disturbed by morning with high winds and waves, stranding us for the next day.

Earth Day Wednesday

After a sloppy snowstorm that started on Sunday, this day dawned in pacific tranquility. The slowly melting snow pack, formed by the soggy snow over the crusty winter snow-remains, is a fitting Earth Day setting for spring on this Superior Peninsula.Since I left the moderating winter weather of Hudson Bay last week, I have been slogging through getting back into a domestic mindset of reestablishing the rituals of home and hearth obligation. No more sustained nomadism on the tundra and obligation to dog team and camp life.
Earth Day, a spiritual sister to Easter, is here with little societal reverence or acknowledgment. Planting trees is one bit of homage that I'll indulge in, though planting at a bit more southern latitude makes more sense if in conjunction with this date. And my planting is also a bit self-serving (on my own land), but couched in a biocentric sensibility.

Joseph Romm, climate change thinker and gadfly, writes on Alternet :

http://www.alternet.org/water/137586/on_earth_day%2C_forget_about_the_planet_--_we%27re_the_ones_who_are_screwed/

Romm believes that the concept of an Earth Day is flawed and somehow hypocritical - that what we need is to relate to the baser human world-view of anthropocentrism to get people on board and vested in the anti-climate change movement. At least that is my reading of what he is cynically (but wisely) getting at. He may be right...

A New Vision

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of wild animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creatures through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness. for their tragic fatefor having taken a form so far below ourselves. And thereby we err, greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations,caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and the travail of the earth.

-- Henry Beston, The Outermost House

A Long and Solid Winter

What a winter we've had behind us - spring is before us - much for me to be thankful for in winter weather that I revere. The dog team trips that I have guided have been fun, the ones that I have yet to do are beckoning me - and the big one to Hudson Bay is drawing near!

This winter has been a mixed experience for me health-wise - and I couldn't get myself motivated to write or blog over the last few months. A bout of skin cancer, further sciatica and consequent physical therapy left me feeling my age. I had tennis elbow that was the result of or contributed to byhand splitting a winter's wood. I got a hydraulic log splitter too late in my wood processing for this year, but when I got a simple forearm band for tennis elbow, the pain in my arm began to disappear. When I did dog team trips, the back problems tended to diminish.
We had way over 200 inches of snow this year, extended cold made it good that I was home to keep moving the snow and keep the home wood fires blazing. When I was gone to Ely, Lynn would be at work all day and come back to dying coals in the wood stove and 2 dogs that were cooped up inside all day, as well as snow piled up in the driveway.
I have pictures of winter happenings and adventures that will have to wait for a later time to post. Come to think of it, I didn't post last summer's sea kayak trips and can see that I've been slacking a lot more than just this winter. So the last of April I'll try to get motivated to post, after I'm back from adventures at the "northern sea".

Mid-November Anticipation

At MTU last year on a freshly groomed skate trail

What a tumultous month it's been! With Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama elected in a landslide, most of the nation's people are feeling optimistic in spite of a global financial downturn with no end in sight. The nation has been under such an oppression for the last 7 years that lifting and drop kicking out the Republicans at the polls has given the populace a bit of self-determined optimism that "we shall overcome" and take back so much that has been robbed from us by the Bush/Cheney cabal.

We're finally getting some promised snow, with the last few days of below freezing temperatures preparing us for what was predicted since last week. I'm hoping to get out on my skis this week as the Nordic Track treadmill is getting tiresome. I must say that I am concerned about the status of my fitness to guide the trips over at Wintergreen with my hips and lower back being consistently sore.
I am possibly going to be doing some kayak guiding trips with Living Adventure out of Bayfield this next summer. I'm email corresponding with Gail Green after Ervin M. put in a word to her that I was interested in getting back working in the Apostles. Hopefully this will lead somewhere good in the future.
I am very haltingly going forward at writing an informational article on dog team trips at Wintergreen for Northern Wilds which is a North Shore of Minnesota newspaper that Kate works for. Once I talk to Sean Perrich, the owner and editor of Northern Wilds things will hopefully fall into place for my writing...
(Evening) The snow continues to sift down and I'm glad that we have ample seasoned wood for this winter. I finally bought some stove oil for our furnace - 80 gallons to top off our tank. The stock market crash world wide has lowered petroleum prices by nearly 2/3, even with OPEC cutting production. Now was a good time to stock up, though prices of fuel oil haven't dropped as much as gas. This summer we paid for a time in excess of $4.00 a gallon for gasoline and it is now around $2.00 a gallon.
Got my first view of a Northern Shrike swooping in on the birds at our feeders today. After last winter not having goldfinches and purple finches staying around it is nice to see a large flock of them (goldfinches) at our feeders.