Soul of the Outdoors book – Dave Greschner Outdoor Journal

Soft and peaceful the night

Introduction: During this season of glitter and gifts, family and friends, and reflections and resolutions, I’m sharing excerpts from my book, “Soul of the Outdoors.” For the book reader/nature lover on your gift list, signed books are available through me (see price and contact information below). The book is also available at local bookstores and online. Here‘s the third and final excerpt, a February journal under a winter’s full moon.

Winter affords one, maybe two, opportunities to snowshoe or ski comfortably by the light of a full moon. The necessary trifecta is mild temperature, a mostly clear sky and, that big sphere, full or nearly so. In the last week of February it all came together under the Full Snow Moon.

So off I went, a couple of hours after sunset, the moon three hours into its night ride and already halfway up the eastern sky. The temperature had dipped below the freezing mark when I strapped on snowshoes and slapped them to the trail. I hoped to see animals moving in the moonlit meadow or the large field as I shuffled toward the narrow path in the forest. But the melting and freezing of previous days left a crust. Crunch, crunch, crunch spoke my snowshoes. I would not be sneaking up on anything.

The full moon was behind me, my shadow waltzed in front of me. I crossed the field, the wide expanse allowing me to study the sky—Orion the Hunter and Sirius the Dog Star high in the south, the Big Dipper balancing on its handle in the northeast, and that big orb Full Snow, 225,000 miles away but seemingly riding on my shoulders.

The dark, jagged form of the hilly forest was a half-mile away. It wasn’t that dark when I got there. My path was easily visible, a white ribbon tinged in blue, though always trailing into a dark curve. I’d reach the bend and see the next stretch of ribbon. I paused to listen for an owl, perhaps a coyote, but heard only the sifting of moonlight through the bare branches and pine boughs.

I headed for home, my shadow tagging behind to the jogging rhythm of my snowshoes. For a moment, it was nature’s night song, on the wings of a Canada goose, in the gurgle of a creek, on the cadence of an owl’s call. Sirius was my guide, high and straight ahead, with the moon towering to my left. Soft and peaceful was the night.

Note: “Soul of the Outdoors” is available through me at the special holiday price of $17. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tail), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

Solstice, and serenity, of winter

Introduction: During this season of glitter and gifts, family and friends, and reflections and resolutions, I’m sharing excerpts from my book, “Soul of the Outdoors.” For the book reader/nature lover on your gift list, signed books are available through me (see price and contact information below). The book is also available online and at local bookstores. Here‘s a short journal from the book’s December section.

Winter arrives on the calendar this week. So what should I expect from winter? The worst, I suppose, if I so choose to look at it that way.

But what if I expect the best of winter, of the gems to come, found in the serenity of snow and cold? These gems will surely turn my head even as I turn my collar to the wind.

It’s already happening. I see the wide flowerheads of faded, bronzed sedum dressed up in white hats. Chimney smoke curls into the frigid night air, softly illuminated by holiday lights as the wisps tease the crescent moon.

There’s more to come. I’ll see swirls and whirls of frost on the window panes of an old shed. An icicle will hang in the bushes, changing colors as it catches sunset’s golden rays. The same rays will find their way through a south window, warming a nook for reading a book.

I’ll study tracks in the snow, discovering a rabbit’s night moves to and from the seeds below the bird feeder. I’ll see deer tracks sharing my snowshoe path. A cardinal will appear among the first fat snowflakes of an approaching storm, flashing its red feathers as a warning to all birds to feed and take shelter.

Winter is bright red high-bush cranberries against a backdrop of pine boughs laden with snowy fingers, dogs bouncing in the fluffy whiteness with hints of fun on their noses, lake ice booming in the darkness, the lonesome hoots of an owl at midnight, and geese shrouded in the rising steam as river water meets a morning of zero degrees.

Perhaps I’ll approach a feeding chickadee, so close I can feel the energy of its dime-weight body vibrating for warmth. Yes, warmth, what we all seek now. I’ll carry an armful of warmth from the wood pile for the late afternoon’s repose, the serenity slipping into a cozy evening. Then, a quiet morning indoors, warmed by the wood heat and hot coffee.

It’s winter. Sometimes the best of times.

Ghosts of the Woodlot

Introduction: During this season of glitter and gifts, family and friends, and reflections and resolutions, I’m sharing excerpts from my book, “Soul of the Outdoors.” For the book reader/nature lover on your gift list, signed books are available through me at a special price of $17 this holiday season (see contact information below). The book is also available online and at local bookstores, including The Old Bookshop in Rice Lake at its new location at 318 S. Main St. Here‘s a short journal from the book’s November-December section.

There were white ghosts and black ghosts, dancing away in the fading glow of the full moon an hour before sunrise. The ghosts were racing for cover before the light of dawn.

Was it their past the ghosts sought after they took a harrowing heated escape up the chimney on this bone-chilling morning? It was obvious, however, that the ghosts had no bones. They leaped from the chimney with dizzying fluidity, whirling and swirling, rising and falling and rising again as if eluding invisible obstacles.

They were wood stove ghosts. I wondered if their release from the hot coals sent them looking for the forest where they once lived in maple, oak and ash trees. Would they spend the rest of their days hidden high in the branches, wisps of the past witnessing secrets of the present?

I stared at a snow-covered backyard lit dimly by the Full Cold Moon, now high in the west behind me and casting shadows from all the familiar characters—the birdhouse, the trellis, the deck posts. The smoke ghosts were not as serene and steady. They were white against the cold predawn sky as they escaped in waves from the chimney. But their flickering shadows were dark on the snow below, their forms changing with the whims of any slight breeze.

The ghosts were hard to follow. I watched some race through the herb garden, bounce off the yard shed, climb the shed’s roof and disappear in the branches beyond. They were free, no longer standing in the forest, stacked in a pile or trapped in a stove. Now the ghosts danced in the branches. A cold winter dance.

Note: Thr0ugh the holiday season, “Soul of the Outdoors” is available through me at the special price of $17. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tail), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

The confliction of killing

Every hunt presents its own story, its own visuals, more often telling of the easy flow of the woodlands than the scene of downed game. I never know what the story will say, or what will be the photo of the day, or even what role I may play.

On this day, the story is the calm amid indecision, the crows and squirrels without the deer, leaves surrendering silently, and the fruit of the hawthorn.

For the first time this fall, I’m strapped to a tree, renewing my contract with the season of confliction. Bow and arrow are cradled in my arms, resting on my lap. A camera hangs at my side.

I’ve come to the treestand a couple of weeks earlier this year, drawn by the sweet, nostalgic smell of autumn’s soft sigh of resignation. In the restless breeze, leaves flutter past, landing softly, as softly as the first snow that will cover them. I’m calmed.

I’m also drawn by a photo of a deer—a buck hanging around these parts—with antlers of outlandish size. I tend not to see trophy deer as white whales. Points and spreads are nice but not my obsession. Still, that buck in the photo…

Thus, the confliction commences. If given the opportunity, would I end the life of a majestic buck, or would I be fulfilled taking photos of the deer as it ambles through its kingdom?

I push the decision aside, imbedding myself in the autumnal woodland. Squirrels scurry past, stopping to thrust their mouths in the leaves, all the time unaware they are being watched. A crow flies over, four “caws” and then a pause, and then four more.

Leaves float past my elevated position, mostly at an even pace but then suddenly in a dizzying swirl when the wind at my back forces its way through the treetops. I hear the gust coming before the leaves feel its push.

It’s cloudy this morning, as cloudy as my commitment to the hunt. Wait, that’s not entirely true. My passion to hunt burns as wildly as ever. But the passion to kill has weakened to a flicker. I know all the justifications for ending a deer’s life, but I also know the feeling of walking up to a wild animal, limp on the ground from the impact of my arrow, my decision.

I am not alone. In “Meditations on Hunting,” Spanish philosopher Jose Ortega y Gassett wrote, “Every good hunter is uneasy in the depths of his conscious when faced with the death he is about to inflict on the enchanting animal.”

I have seen deer die in ways more suffering than by hunting—smashed on the highway, snared on a barbed wire fence, clawed by predators, impaled by their own species, and starved in a winter deer yard. So who can say that death by the hunter’s blazing bullet or swift arrow is less humane?

I also know the arguments for paring the herd, including lowering collisions with vehicles, crop damage, deforestation by overbrowsing, and the odds of lack of food for too many deer in a winter too harsh. And yet, my conscious is haunted by my inconsistency, my tendency to play favorites. I wouldn’t think of killing a chipmunk in the yard. But a deer? I’m fine with taking one a year for the venison, and for what I see as a need to sustain the health of the species.

Today, my conscious isn’t probed; I see no deer except for a buck walking along a picked cornfield as I arrived in dawn’s murky light. Nevertheless, I am filled; the hunt never leaves me longing. In my youth, the point of kill was the point of hunting. Now, the hunt is always a success measured in the cawing of crows, sunrays stroking the morning, birch trees glowing like lighthouses in the distance.

Amid all this, I accept death as part of the hunt, just as I accept death as a part of life. Wrote Ortega, “One does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.”

As I walk out of the woods, I pass a cockspur hawthorn shrub that has held its ground since my childhood here. Only one of its scraggly, aged branches has green leaves, and on a twig of that branch hangs a single burgundy berry. It’s this hunt’s final chapter.

Note: My book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at Wisconsin bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

Heron in the haze

I lost at this pursuit game of the great blue heron a year ago. Well, it’s a game to me, probably not to the heron, who sees the photographer’s intrusion as a threat at worst, a nuisance at the least.

Last year on this flowage, which edges up to the roomy, pine-studded campground, I walked the shoreline at sunrise, stalking the heron, hoping it was somewhere near the weeds on its own stalk, that of fish. It wasn’t there, and I let down my guard, walking the weedy shoreline to where it met up with a dying weeping willow.

Before I knew it, before I could raise my camera, there was a raucous squawk above me, and a great blue heron dropped from the high branches, swooshing away from me in an awkward pumping of wings. It quickly put branches and distance between us; there was no photo to take.

Now, it’s another August, its first days bookmarked by sunrises and sunsets in a reddish haze. It makes for good photos, but not so good air quality. Canada’s wildfires, 500 and more miles away, are a visible lesson in how we are linked by natural events on this globe, including smoke riding the jet stream.

In the dew-soaked morning, as a burnt-orange sunrise from burnt forests slips through this campground’s tall white pines, a doe and her fawn feed on red clover in a field. They dash into the brush, wary of a walker. I see a heron along the shoreline. I take some photos from afar, then decide against an approach, leaving the heron to its morning routine as a light cover of fog lifts to meet the smokey haze.

Does wildfire smoke affect wildlife? Birds, for sure, say wildlife biologists. There’s the resident great blue heron on this flowage—a river widened by a dam—along with Canada geese. A pair of osprey hover above the water, their nest farther up the river. A cardinal tweets unseen from high in the pines, and a killdeer races along the mowed edge of the campground.

Birds, unlike mammals, direct air through their lungs to extract oxygen, exchanging most of the air in their lungs with every breath. It’s a highly-efficient way to breath, but also makes birds more susceptible to poor air quality.

Birds may decrease activity in the worst periods of smoke. Some will alter their migration. Up the road late yesterday, purple martins whirled above tall corn, picking off insects while flocking and feeding—fueling for migration to Brazil. Will they leave early, winging south, outflying the smoke?

Summer rolls on, as does the sunny morning. I look down, a spot of green at my feet catching my eye. It’s an acorn of the pin oak, which thrives in damp habitat; here, pin oaks grow out of the riverbank. The acorn is dull green with a brown flat cap appearing too small for the nut, as do all pin acorn caps.

What knocked the acorn from the tree so early, before it browned and ripened? A squirrel? Squirrels will snatch green acorns to hide them away. The squirrels can’t wait, impatient for autumn, as am I.

The trail follows the river’s steep bank. Above me rises a wall of sandstone, below me are glimpses of the river through trees and brush. I stop to peek at a smooth softshell turtle atop the end of a log in the water. Its tubular, pig-like snout pokes out from under its roundish smooth shell, about a foot across and covered with leather-like skin. The shell is as smooth as the flowage’s surface, both turtle and water glimmering in the morning sun.

Suddenly, there’s movement under the tip of the log as the turtle inches forward. I realize it’s the turtle’s feet rippling the water as they churn for momentum. The turtle slips off the log, its splash creating a swirl of sparkling dimples that inexplicably take on a purplish hue in the morning sunlight.

The smooth softshell, a turtle of the river, can stay submerged for more than an hour. I think of how easily it escaped the smoke, though unknowingly, I’m sure. Where do I go?

I take off walking toward the last spot I saw the heron, when the sun was inching above the trees, its rise pretty and peaceful, belying the raging source of its reddish hue. The heron is still there, but has moved up the shoreline. It sees me, and flies to that same bare willow where it startled me last year.

This time I approach slowly, focusing on the large bird’s silhouette among the scraggly branches. I get closer and closer, the photos get better and better. And then, just like last time, the heron squawks and swoons downward, away from me. It clears the branches and rises above the flowage, into the sepia-tinged fog and haze of another August morning.

Cattail detail

In a week or two this shoreline will draw anglers soaking up spring while soaking worms to tempt panfish in shallow, warming water. The bobber watchers may not jostle for position but will surely work to outmaneuver each other for the best spots.

This morning there are no anglers on the marshy bay, covered in thin ice for at least one more day. There are, however, a lot of geese, and they do jostle, wings clashing if verbal threats aren’t taken seriously. Canada geese are in pairs, claiming nesting sites in snowy patches of cattails and reeds poking from the ice.

I’m seated tight to the shoreline. Winter is on the leave but has left its mark. Stubborn spits of snow and wet ground are covered with branches from an ice storm. Bits of garbage are strewn about, though scarlet twigs on a red osier shrub pay no mind.

Geese are paired up for as far as I can see—dozens of “gooses in deuces.” Truces of courtship appear in place, though every so often a lone goose, probably having lost its mate, wanders about. It gets chased away, its hope for a new mate dwindling; geese mate for life, until death do they part.

Today the geese walk on crumbling, darkening ice, sometimes stopping to rest their bellies on the surface or stand on one leg. I vow to sit and watch in an attempt to read their nesting behavior. I have a lot to learn.

Just when I think there is peace among the geese, suddenly one pair begins honking. Honking loud. Apparently, another twosome has come too close, though to my eye the “offenders” are simply waddling aimlessly. The honking male, slightly larger than the less irritated female, makes a short dash at the other male. They awkwardly tangle, clashing wings. Then it all quiets down again.

What am I watching? Is there already a nest I can’t see, hidden on an elevated clump of ground in the cattails? Has dogged nest defense begun? Perhaps egg laying has started. Could well be, for geese, like many birds, lay an egg a day before incubation begins, allowing for simultaneous hatching of a half dozen goslings, maybe more, maybe less.

I shift position and sharpen my camera focus, framing geese in cattails 125 feet away. But what’s this? A few feet from my feet a sleek creature comes through a platter-size hole in the ice. A river otter, dripping wet, pauses next to the bank near exposed tree roots. It sees me fumble with my camera and tripod, then it whirls and dives back down the hole, leaving me with a photo of a tail.

I turn my focus back to the bay. A bald eagle circles above, male red-winged blackbirds atop cattails trill “conk-la-REE,” and a lone duck passes over, drawing a few honks.

The geese are calm but guarded. When egg-sitting begins, they will aggressively and tirelessly fend off predators, including that otter. The geese are focused on the goal of goslings, spring’s detail in the cattails.

Note: For more essays like this, my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at Wisconsin bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

Crystal blue persuasion

At least once a winter I go ice fishing to remind myself why I don’t go ice fishing a couple dozen times a winter. Nothing against shacks and waxies, teardrops and tip-ups, or cold beer on a cold lake. It’s just that I prefer my fishing days on soft water when I can hear the plop of the bobber.

That once-a-winter came up on the last day of February, initiated with the text, “You wanna go fishing today?” That would be my brother-in-law’s thumbs typing. I replied in haste, “Yeh!”

Why not? The day promised thawing temperatures, blue sky, and a chickadee breeze, not a hawkish wind that is the bane of the shackless. There we were the next day, on a white canvas dotted with shanties of retreat and heat, gloveless in our pursuit of hooking on waxies to hook up bluegills.

With the sun, the calm, and temperature above freezing, my only other requirements were safe ice—I was assured 30 inches was safe—and someone to power drill holes through those 30 inches; my hand auger has become garage art. Bro-in-law has a gas auger to spit, lickety-split, ice from holes 10 inches across.

Then I settled in, or I should say settled on, for I sat on the mandatory 5-gallon pail turned upside down. Later, the pail would be used to carry 5 gallons of fish. I hoped. For the time being it was my front row seat to watch a tiny bobber for anything resembling a nibble. I stared at the hole, assuming the ice fishing pose.

Anticipation went down the hole and nothing came up the hole for the first hour. Yet, I was entertained by the lake’s Saturday-in-the-park atmosphere among the ice anglers with nothing much on their mind but enjoying the expansive getaway. Music wafted across the whiteness. We loaded and lowered our waxes to the Doobie Brothers’ “Only A Fool Believes,” followed by Three Dog Night’s “Mama Told Me Not to Come.” Not exactly tunes to build fishing confidence.

Whatever confidence we brought to the lake began to wane. No amount of angling finagling could bring the fish to light. So out came my brother-in-law’s drone. And beer. A drone went up, a beer went down.

“You hear that jet?” bro-in-law asked, as if testing my hearing, which indeed could use some testing. Yes, I heard it, and I saw its contrail bubbling behind. He played with his phone. Suspense heightened to the crystal blue sky before he said confidently, “Vancouver to Toronto.”

I inquired about the app, the app I now want to track flight routes of passing jets. Why I don’t know. Then something happened that brought our attention back to lake level—the fish turned on. Ah, crystal blue persuasion.

For an hour we caught bluegills, though many of them were shirt-pocket size. I was hungry for fish, however, so even the borderline catches made the cut. On cue, a real fisherman came by to check our meager catches and let us know he had 15 pounds of fish in his freezer at home. Well, la-di-da came to mind but not to my lips.

He went on to inform me that my bobber was not sensitive enough to catch bluegills. I wanted to say that I didn’t want sensitive bluegills, just the uncomplicated ones that take big gulps. He must have noticed me biting my tongue, assuring me that it wasn’t a good catching day for anyone. So that ended well; misery loves company.

Then the fish quit biting. Just like that. No big deal, for the day was mild and pleasing, the lake a whole different vista than the dirty, melting snowbanks at home. A small jet went over. “Iron Mountain to Minneapolis.” And then the sky was peaceful again, as was the lake, except for vehicles going to shacks. One or two people would disappear into the mystery of the shanty, sometimes with a dog.

If I go ice fishing only once this winter, this was the day, a good day—one beer, nine bluegills, one new app to explore, and zero cold fingers.

Note: For more essays like this, my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at Wisconsin bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

The ride of Sol

There sits the camper, 30 feet of summer fun covered with 3 feet of winter. Well, not quite 3 feet, but enough snow atop it to worry me as I beg Sol to send melting rays the camper’s way. Icicles cascading down the camper’s nose tells me the sun—the goddess Sol’s personification in Norse mythology—is trying.

There’s a pine tree in Sol’s way for most of the afternoon as she guides her chariot, pulling the sun across the sky with horses Arvakr and Alsvior in the lead. The chariot was believed to be formed from glowing embers of the sun.

Back in the real world of winter, melting matters are about to improve. Heading deeper into February, the sun angles higher, obscured less and less by the pine tree’s boughs. We feel the glow.

The higher arc of the sun will soon lighten my mood and also my guilt of subjecting the vehicle of exploration and relaxation to the cold wilds of winter. I long for the calm whims of summer. I watch the camper’s corner spouts to see snowmelt dripping from the roof. Drip, drip, drip … dripping toward spring.

By three or four minutes every 24 hours, daylight now lengthens between sunrise and sunset. Like coins into a jar, the minutes add up, and soon it’s half an hour, and then an hour, and then it’s, if I dare say, the vernal equinox in March.

The sun’s rising angle melts our winter weariness. Sunlight is reaching us now from about 30 degrees above the horizon compared to 21 degrees two months ago on the winter solstice. It will be at 68 degrees on the summer solstice in June, obviously closer to overhead when we may choose to hide from the sun.

From here it gets tricky, at least for me, having to do with the earth’s axis tilt, declination, right ascension, sine and azimuth, all of which make my head hurt. So I try to simplify, satisfied to learn that on the first day of winter, because of its shallow angle, a mile-wide ray of sun shines on twice as much earth than on the first day of summer.

Spreading that much sunlight over twice as much ground weakens the sun’s energy to half the power in December than during its more direct beam in late June. The halfway point, of course, is the vernal equinox on March 21. Right now, we are well into our winter journey from the solstice to the equinox. So that’s a good thing, right?

For now, quite simply, we know the sun is climbing higher in the southern sky, amping up power to slowly subdue snowbanks, white roofs, and snowy fields where corn’s stubborn stubble is reappearing, having never given up its ground.

So here comes the sun, and I say it’s alright, as did George Harrison when he wrote song lyrics in a garden in the spring of 1969. Yes, I’m rushing the season a bit. But we are angling toward spring. And gardens. One degree at a time on Sol’s ride. Drip by drip becomes quite the might. It’s alright.

Note: For more essays like this, my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at Wisconsin bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

Numbers for February

A pair of river otters watched me stop and point the camera their way. One slid off the snow-covered ice shelf, disappeared under a swirl of blue, resurfacing within seconds. Then, with acute inquisitiveness, the otters stared at me from their spit of open water.

The diving otter could have stayed under for 8 minutes. Had both otters decided to escape atop the ice they could have bumped and bobbed, picking up momentum to slide, covering 22 feet per slide on the slippery snowpack; otters prefer slide-travel in winter.

Eight minutes, 22 feet. Numbers to ponder on a day in February, the temperature struggling to reach double digits. It can’t, despite some sunshine. It’s 5˚ after last night’s minus 7˚. Numbing numbers. The numbers of winter.

On this fourth day of February, the sun sinks behind bare trees 44 minutes later than on the first day of this year. Tomorrow, the sun rises one minute earlier than today. We’ve gained 71 minutes of daylight since the winter solstice 45 days ago.

Winter’s numbers tell of a struggle to survive. The fisher of 30-mph speed punctures the snow with leaping tracks up to 16 feet apart, pursuing rabbits and other prey over 10 square miles of range. Rabbits can dash 18 mph. Beneath 20 inches of ice, 32-inch northern pike cruise for 5-inch perch and bluegills.

Ruffed grouse roosting in 12 inches of snow stay up to 35˚ warmer than if they perched in a pine tree. Whitetail deer trail past the grouse in the night. The does carrying fawns are halfway through their 200-day gestation period.

Birds of 15 species work over the five feeders outside my window—chickadees, juncos, mourning doves, cardinals, pine siskins, blue jays, and two varieties of nuthatches, three of woodpeckers and four of finches. The chickadees weigh four-tenths of an ounce. They will eat about 60% of their body weight this cold day, only to shiver the added fat off tonight to stay warm while they lower their body temperature 15˚ to conserve shivering energy. Fourteen hours to dawn.

Those same feeders will be visited in the light of the moon by flying squirrels, gliding in at 15 mph from a nearby tree up to 150 feet away. Standing 24 inches tall, a male great horned owl hoots in the dark, declaring its territory and attracting a mate as nesting season begins. The females lay up to four round, dull white eggs, and incubate them for 33 days in the dead of winter.

Chipmunks, curled in a burrow, slash their heart beats from 350 per minute to five. Thousands—make that millions—of mosquitoes are buried beneath the snow, waiting for a day three months away. Far above, a hawk sees light eight times better than humans, picking out a meadow mouse 1,000 feet below.

Sleepy bear sows in dark dens give birth to two or three 8-inch cubs. They weigh 5 ounces, and won’t open their eyes for 6 weeks. I look at the calendar. There are 45 days until the vernal equinox. The cubs’ eyes will be wide open for spring. So will ours.

Note: For more essays like this, my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available by contacting me at davegreschner@icloud.com or 715-651-1638. The book is also available through online book sellers, and at these fine bookstores in Wisconsin: Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.

Clarity of January

The common redpolls have found the common tansies. On a gray January day, where the meadow meets the field, these small finches feed on the minuscule seeds of the dried wildflower five months past its bloom of yellow buttons.

The redpolls balance on the flowerheads, now faded to olive-brown. Some of the birds are on the ground, in scant snow, pecking at tiny black seeds that have been shaken loose by the birds, or the wind, speckling the snow like a shake of pepper. Somewhat alarmed by my approach, the redpolls lift as one, whirl and wheel away, like my fleeting thoughts on a winter’s day.

But they whirl their way back, following their hunger in this last half of January. Perhaps not the last half of winter, but a milestone toward spring nonetheless. January is often too long, too cold, too burdensome.

I’ve tried to do more than just “hang in there” this month. I strive to stay upbeat and find the brights spots on cloudy days, some warmth through frigid waves, and a good trail to follow out of the wind in most my ways. I trace what January offers in the plus column.

It has worked, evidenced by the dizzying yet pleasing sight of hundreds of redpolls, with some other finch species probably interspersed, feeding and fleeing in the chilled air. I have looked up at a barred owl on silent watch for cottontails which should also be looking up. I have found melted ovals on matted leaves where deer curled with shelter at their backs and sunshine slanting from the south to warm their thick coats.

And yet, January is not conducive to stay and play all day. I return home to let the wood stove heat warm my feet in the calm of the late afternoon. No different than deer, I let the sun find me, the sun that will be hanging around 38 minutes longer by the end of January than on New Year’s Day; we’re making progress in the light department.

I also let the quiet of winter surround me, content in this state of repose and reflection, and clarity too, if we’re fortunate. Naturalist writer Annie Dillard observed, “I bloom indoors in the winter … I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear.”

It’s clear that January has its place. I just have to find the tiny seeds it feeds me before I wheel away, like the redpolls, to the next chapter of the season.

Note: Want to read more nature essays such as this? My book, “Soul of the Outdoors” is available through me at the special price of $18. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is also available at regular prices through online book sellers, and at Wisconsin bookstores in Rice Lake (Old Bookshop), Eau Claire (Dotters), Menomonie (Dragon Tale), Hudson (Chapter2Books), Spooner (Northwinds), Three Lakes (Mind Chimes), Cable (Redbery Books),and Bayfield (Honest Dog), and in Duluth, Minn., at The Bookstore at Fitger’s.