Uncategorized – Dave Greschner Outdoor Journal

Trail for the ages

The monarch butterfly alights on sedum in pinkish-mauve bloom, then takes flight. It twirls and dives, then rises again with seemingly no sense of urgency or direction. It appears to enjoy the whims of the wind. But the butterfly knows better than I, surely, and will soon be southbound, on its way. Fly my butterfly, one September day.

The trail stretches before me for 7.3 miles on this day in early September. The trail actually lays out for about 10 times that distance, across northern Wisconsin for 74 miles eastward to Park Falls. But 7.3 for me today.

I’m at the Tuscobia Trail’s western trailhead, the parking lot and kiosk along Hwy. SS north of Rice Lake. The sun is hiding for now behind the treetops along this east-west corridor, sending only slivers of light through portals in the leaves. It’s going to be a warm day, but the early morning has a hint of autumn. Coolish and crisp.

Today’s outing presents a special challenge among the emerging asters and retreating bergamot. Each September now I “run my age.” I ran 7 miles a few years back, then 7.1, then 7.2, and today it will be 7.3. You’ve figured it out. What was once a normal daily run now is long. And slower.

I mark this annual milestone on the Tuscobia Trail, having come to this abandoned railway—one of the state’s first Rails to Trails—in my 20s. For decades it was my training ground for marathon running, snowshoeing, and cross-country skiing. Today, along with memories, it hosts my conviction to continue.

It’s a quiet morning, but out of habit along less picturesque pathways, I’ve put in earbuds. Though I’m tracing the tempo of The Moody Blues, I’m missing the sounds of silence as the forest swallows me between fields and swamps. I take off the buds.

The footing is softened by pines needles and the first-fallen leaves, mostly tumbling from birch and aspen. The leaves are like golden coins, creating a tannish footpath below and between the greenness. Where it can, the sun plays on the pathway; I run through the shadows.

Except for the occasional drone of traffic along the intersecting town roads, there’s mostly only soulful silence. Birdsong is nonexistent, save for crows and bluejays. A sharp-skinned hawk perches silently on a branch above the trail.

As I approach my turnaround point (3.65 miles), I hear a muted rumble behind me. Motor vehicles are prohibited here—thank goodness—but the rumble grows louder. I turn around to see a horse and buggy gaining on me. Two young Amish men smile as the horse trots past. The black buggy with wooden wheels fades into the trail’s narrowing V ahead.

It isn’t today’s only horse. On my return, I meet two horseback riders, who alert me to stop. Though the horses wear blinders, I’m told that running footsteps sometimes spooks them.

I reach the trailhead at the intended 7.3 miles. Just then, three men with large backpacks walk toward me through the parking lot. They sling their packs to the ground, keep the smiles on their faces, and take a seat on the trailhead’s bench and the sawed hunks of a tree trunk that must have fallen on the trail.

What follows is a pleasant conversation. The men are hiking the Ice Age Trail, having started a week ago. They are from Cincinnati, Idaho, and Tennessee, their names Ed Acheson, Eric Weinmann, and Joe Sobinovsky, respectively (left to right, below). They are friends through hiking, having put their heels to some of the country’s most treasured trails. And now they add Wisconsin’s Ice Age Trail, of which Tuscobia is a part of for a dozen miles.

They ask about my run today, and I reveal the birthday endeavor while wondering aloud how long it’s sustainable. “It is for as long as you can,” offers Ed, with a smile.

There’s something about meeting strangers on a trail and sharing a fleeting moment. We are strangers in only name and appearance since we are akin in seeking the solitude, beauty, and challenges of the outdoors. We choose to enjoy nature without the use of noise and engines, and away from the crowds.

The men are inquisitive as to what lies ahead. Suddenly, I am the trail expert for this local segment. They are delighted to hear that Tuscobia is flat while passing between woodlots and farm fields; they started their hike a week ago in St. Croix Falls, and had encountered some dense and hilly forests on their way to northern Barron County.

The previous night they tented on the church lawn in Haugen, having asked permission from the folks at Holy Trinity Parish. This morning, they had breakfast in Haugen at the popular Lona’s Corner Cafe, then hiked 3 miles south to the Tuscobia trailhead.

I tell the hikers that after their Tuscobia segment, the Blue Hills segment will be hilly and mostly large tracts of forests. They just smile, and tell me they hope to make it to the gas station/convenience store in Weyerhaeuser by nightfall. They ask if there are showers there. Probably not, I tell them.

We bid goodbye after they get assurance that water is available in Brill, five miles down the trail. As I near my truck in the parking lot, Ed shouts, “7.4 next year!” I turn, laugh, and wave.

I walk away into the September day. This next year of my life is just beginning, as is my favorite month, the month with the bridge to autumn. I go home and reread a poem I wrote years ago.

Goldenrod blooming, blackbirds gathering. I will gather my thoughts in September.

Painted leaves and faded tansies. Lingering butterflies and easy breezes. Red apples and blue asters, old shotguns and canoe paddles, wood smoke at a cabin, and frost on the pumpkin, in September.

Bumblebees on sedum, tiny toads test their freedom. Sunflowers reach for the sky. Do I smell an apple pie? In September.

Velvet curls from deer antlers, woolly bears curl in fright; I’ll curl up with a good book, in September. Full Harvest Moon, northern lights, and southern flights. I’ll look to the sky, in September.

Note: My book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available through me, at bookstores, and from online sellers. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is available at Wisconsin 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, and in Marquette, Mich., at Snowbound Books.

The other skunk of spring

Skunk cabbage is a fascinating, complex plant capable of generating its own heat, allowing it to poke through ice and snow in late winter.

Skunk cabbage doesn’t have a ring-of-spring name. “Trillium” rolls off the tongue like white petals off the stem, and you can almost hear trilling in the cattails when you say “red-winged blackbirds.” But, skunk cabbage?

The plant’s first problem is obvious—it’s first word. Unless you consider a skunk sighting in March as a sign of spring, there’s nothing inviting about skunk unless you have an odd lean in smells. And cabbage? All wrapped up in itself, the sauer of kraut is rather dull compared to cherry tomatoes and acorn squash.

No matter its name, skunk cabbage vies for first wildflower of spring with crocuses and coltsfoot. But you may rarely see skunk cabbage, for it blooms in swampy muck where you have to wet your toes to get a look. I did.

I remembered once seeing skunk cabbage next to a small trout stream. So with the vernal equinox nearing, I went looking for spring in the lowlands. An easterly breeze chilled me as I walked a trail to the creek. After a modest snowmelt, there was only a trickle of water in which the leaves of watercress and forget-me-not were greening. Spring arriving.

Tiny brook trout flashed in the water at the sight of my shadow, darting in unison for cover, then drifting back in sight as I paused. These fingerlings from the fall spawn spent winter covered in a gravel depression. Now they learn how to hide above gravel.

A crow cawed in the distance. A red-bellied woodpecker squawked nearby as I sat down on a streamside bench among the pale green horsetail rushes. A flock of chickadees danced past. White pines towered in rich green against a blue sky on the hillside rising from the other side of the creek.

But where was the skunk cabbage? I walked along the creek until, ready to give up, I stumbled into a bog. Through the alders I saw spots of maroon among the decaying leaves and moldy logs. There they were—skunk cabbage plants poking through a mat of mud and swamp matter. I eased into the viscous seepage of spring.

Skunk cabbage’s wine-red mottled hood, partially open, protects the flowerhead spadix inside. On the spadix are tiny, straw-colored bumps which are flowers without petals. I caught a whiff of a musky, skunky smell, so there was no need to get my nose into the hood for a closer whiff. Though unpleasant to humans, the odor is what draws honey bees to the flowerhead during pollination.

At this point, a course in botany would be helpful. Skunk cabbage is a fascinating, complex plant capable of generating its own heat, allowing it to poke through ice and snow in late winter. While some refer to the hood as a modified leaf, the true leaves, lance-shaped and three feet long, don’t unfurl until the hood and flower fade to the ground in late spring.

Deer may eat the young leaves, and bears are known to dig up the edible roots. In late summer, berry-like fruits, each containing one seed, detach from the egg-shaped fruit head. The seeds will germinate if not eaten by birds.

Skunk cabbage forces spring’s hand. I try to, but I find that spring comes on its own terms, more in ripples than in waves. Skunk cabbage, however, makes its own warm wave.

Note: My book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available through me, at bookstores, and from online sellers. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is available at 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.

A February fray

On the last day of January, I remembered a mental note I made on the first day of January. It was a resolution of sorts, seemingly simple but bound to take time: find a pileated woodpecker’s nesting cavity.

So there I was in the woods of mid-winter, a mild day in early February. The temperature hovered at melting point as sunshine took aim through bare trees on the settling snow covering—not by much—the leaves.

Bare ground was still in hiding, but it was making its bid in all the usual places—on the south side of tree trunks, under evergreens, in wind-swept fields, and where deer had worn paths. A lone crow flew over the woods and landed in the field, where corn stubble poked through the thin white cover, like pegs on a cribbage board.

The crow’s flight cued me back to the pileated pursuit at hand. I have watched pileated woodpeckers in this woodlot while gathering firewood and hunting. I have marveled at the large bird’s deep vertical excavations in dead trees where carpenter ants intended to ride out the winter sheltered. From my tree stand, I once heard a pileated’s wings whooshing as it passed eye-opening close in undulating flight on a two-foot span.

On this day, I would see no pileated woodpeckers nor large holes that would be nesting candidates. What I did see were two downy woodpeckers chasing each other up and down and across tree trunks and branches. They would spar, wings flailing, then pause to stare at each other, only to pick up the silent skirmish once again, sometimes only a few yards above me. They paid no mind to me.

At first, I thought it was an early mating ritual. But as they came closer and lower in the tree, I could see they were both females (no red head patch). It was a mystery, this aggressive behavior by the downies, until I researched the nesting habits of these small woodpeckers I so often watch at the suet feeder.

Downy woodpeckers claim suitable nesting cavities in February and March, their quest for the best territory often pitting males against males, and females against females. And, it’s the females who have final say on the nesting site, explaining their intensity I was witnessing.

Female downies are said to feed, and thus spar for nesting rights, in branches lower than the males. Sure enough, as I watched the females not far above me, a male downy was pecking at bark higher in the next tree, seemingly oblivious to the females carrying on below.

I watched this territorial quarrel for several minutes, long enough to burn my neck muscles as I pointed the camera upward. The two birds would circle the trunk like young squirrels, at times flapping and fanning their wings in combative postures. At one point the fight took flight, the birds coming within inches of my head as they swooped downward, somewhat out of control. So it seemed.

The mild winter’s day indeed had the feel of a new nesting season. I had not heard or seen the largest of woodpeckers—the mustached pileated. But I had observed the smallest of woodpeckers—the six-inch downies—carrying on, preparing to move on to their next calling.

Note: My book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available through me, at bookstores, and from online sellers. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is available at 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.

Of fur and feathers

This is not my rabbit, this oblong figure of fur plump on the snow where the ground slides off into a gully of scraggly alders, dogwood, and honeysuckle. I’m a mile from home, too far from the rabbit’s home range of only an acre or so. So, no, this is not the rabbit under my birdfeeder every night.

It has, however, been eating well. It is a big cottontail, and it doesn’t seem too concerned about moving that big body—perhaps 4 pounds—just for me. I guess we’re friends; this encounter has been happening day after day when I trek the trail on snowshoes.

The rabbit just sits there like a watermelon with ears, sometimes sideways to me, other times facing me, only yards away.Sometimes it stands as if to query me. I bid for a reaction with inane questions: Have you brushed and flossed your incisors today? Have you combed your fur? Wanna carrot? No response, just a cautious stare from large brown eyes, processing if I’m a curious visitor or lurking danger.

Oh, those large eyes, “soft, dark, and brown,” like the line from a Lovin’ Spoonful song. A rabbit’s eyes are placed high atop the sides of its head, providing a 320-degree field of vision, the only blind spots directly behind and for a few inches in front. The big cottontail I’m watching has no trouble seeing me even when it’s not facing me.

I move to the foot bridge above a dry creek. With blobs of snow on the bed rocks, I’m looking down on a mosaic of white, gray and black. Keeping with the color scheme, a chickadee flits below me from one branch to another, climbing as it might be, up the steep bank.

The chickadee comes close, all five inches and half-ounce of it. “Fee-bee, fee-bee.” It is just below eye level, on a branch about six feet away. I study it, and take photos. The black-capped chickadee wears a black cap, of course, on its roundish head with a black throat. Its cheeks are white, as is its nape, from which a little white spills raggedly onto its gray back. Wing feathers have distinct stripes of white, gray and black.

From this vantage point of a chickadee’s back, I see only a rim of its belly extending beyond the wings. The creamy belly down I can see has hints of rust. The black, rounded split tail is trimmed with gray.

A cottontail and a chickadee. Ordinary sightings, for sure, but the closer one gets, the more beautiful are our winter neighbors. That includes the blue jay at the bird feeder. Though sometimes scorned for raucous behavior, the blue jay wears an attractive palette of blue, much like a da Vinci landscape rolling across the canvas in endless blues.

The blue jay’s back is ultramarine blue, some say, but others see it as indigo blue. Its wing feathers are Berlin blue, and secondary hues, trimmed in black and white, include the blues China, azure and flax-flower. So pretty, the jay can chase away the winter blues.

From my walk’s close encounters came the inspiration for a new year’s resolution: I will ease even closer to wildlife, recording the astounding details of birds and critters. A year of fur and feathers.

Note: My book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” is available through me, at bookstores, and from online sellers. For a personally-signed book, email davegreschner@icloud.com or text or call me at 715-651-1638. The book is available at 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.

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.

Reading into summer

I normally come late to books, as in 10 to 30 or more years late. In the past year I’ve read, and enjoyed thoroughly, “Paddling to Winter” by Julie Buckles (published 2013), “What the River Knows” by Wayne Field (1996), and “Reading the River: A Voyage Down the Yukon” by John Hildebrand (1988). So when it comes to recommending summer reading, I’m probably offering something you’ve long since consumed.

But I’ll add a title I’m reading right now, fresh off the press. That would be Cornerstone Press at UW-Stevens Point. “You Shoulda Been Here Last Week” is a collection of fishing stories by Ted Rulseh, just in time for the fishing season and vacations at the lake.

In down-home fashion, Rulseh spins fishing tales from his childhood in Two Rivers to his present home base on Birch Lake in northeast Wisconsin’s Oneida County. Rulseh recounts a “lifetime of angling’s joys, thrills and failures,” as the book cover puts it, with “moments of wonder, and treasured times with friends and family.”

I’ve been reeled in by Rulseh’s talent for description: “The evening wind is fading on Eagle Spring Lake, the water smoothing out so I can clearly see, in the sky’s bright reflection, the small circles of freshly sprouted lily pads floating on slender stalks. A red sun is setting into purplish haze …”

Rulseh recounts fishing for suckers as a boy, when sucker fishing was its own season, which was fleeting, lasting only a week or so, recalls the author. “When it was over, we stowed Uncle Dick’s net in the garage rafters, forgot about it, and turned to other pursuits, chiefly baseball behind the tavern.”

This isn’t a how-to fishing guide, or bragfest about fish caught, but instead it’s of everyday fishing stories with plenty of self-deprecating humor and confessions. “I had never caught a carp,” writes Rulseh. “Of all my failings as a twelve-year old, none weighed heavier than that. Being skinny and a bit of a weakling, being the last boy in the neighborhood to learn to swim, I could bear those burdens … But not having caught a carp—that wore on me.”

There is also the issue with the wife over live bait in the refrigerator—”You get those worms out of this house and keep them out”—and about the origin of the book’s title—”I can’t understand it,” the resort owner says. “The group before you was getting northerns right off the pier.”

There are the tender moments, including recounting fishing outings with his father when he was a kid. Rulseh writes of returning the favor so many years later, when “life’s circle swung around,” and the author and his three brothers took their aging and legally-blind dad fishing.

Writes Rulseh, “Before getting into the car for the trip home, Dad shook hands with each of us in turn. ‘This has been fun,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ In truth, the debt of gratitude was all ours. Dad didn’t teach us much about how to catch fish, but he did teach us to love fishing. It was and is enough.”

Introspection keeps showing up in Rulseh’s book, of how fast summers are consumed by house and yard chores, and weddings and reunions, while fishing keeps getting postponed. But with his children grown and retirement around the corner, Rulseh daydreams about when he can write three words in big, red letters on a sheet of paper and tape it to the front door. I’ll let you read what those words are.

If you enjoy fishing, if you enjoy the water and the Northwoods mindset, this book is for your summer reading. It surely is a part of mine. The book is available in bookstores in Northern Wisconsin, through online sites such as Amazon, and from Cornerstone Press. For a personally autographed copy, order through Rulseh’s website https://thelakeguy.net.

Rulseh is also the author of “A Lakeside Companion,” and “Ripple Effects: How We’re Loving Our Lakes to Death.”

Switching gears, I was invited to participate in a poetry hike last month, even though my poetry efforts have been limited. The hike took place at the 125-acre Union Conservancy, a wooded gem of eight trails in the Town of Union just west of Eau Claire. Some hiking paths rise high above the Chippewa River for stunning overlooks.

About two dozen people hiked through the early spring woodlands, following trails rising and falling along the river and into valleys, starting and ending at a campfire in the spacious parking lot. Along the hike, four readers took turns reading their piece of poetry and from their books. Ken Szymanski read a humorous piece about flying a kite with his son (a tree eventually ends up flying the kite); Elan Mcccallum read four of her introspective poems; Jessi Peterson read several nature-themed poems; and I read my “To the Creek” poem, along with a couple of excerpts from my book.

One of Jessi’s poems gives thought to the mortality of fawns, and how we can protect the raptors taking advantage of that mortality. Here’s Jessi’s “Roadkill” poem, from her chapbook “Century Farm,” available at Dotters Books and The Local Store, both in Eau Claire.

Roadkill

Fawn, only just past spots, spewing still-wet bloody foam from its nose

and mouth, maybe warm, I don’t know.

Can’t bear to notice too much.

Belly already breached, flies

have congregated on the stench,

the spilt raveling of gut.

From the stop sign half a mile away

I saw the wheeling wings, the great settling,

then ungainly upheaval into oncoming traffic.

It’s a quiet road, but not that quiet.

I could have turned off, driven south

And done no harm, but no good either.

So I drove on, past it, made a u-turn, put on my flashers.

Walking back, I stretched a stray sock onto my hand,

maybe to breathe through, but mostly to drag that

lost life off to nestle in the ditch full of daylilies.

Safe from being struck again and again by wheels,

safe for an eagle to land on and feast.

So that’s the blog, taking a bit different direction this time. Happy summer reading.

Book author Ken Szymanski reads a short story from his phone on the Poetry Hike at Union Conservancy near Eau Claire in May.

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.

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.