Category: Winter

Christmas Eve honey tree

Introduction: During this season of giving thanks and gifts, I have been sharing excerpts from my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” which was released at the end of last year. For the holiday season, the book is available through me at a special price (see information at the end of this post). As we close in on Christmas, this excerpt is the last half of the introduction to “Sometimes the Best of Times: November-December.” The first half of this piece was in an earlier blog, “A Waning Day in Autumn.” We pick up this piece at the first mention of Christmas. Enjoy.

… I’ll search for a Christmas tree in the woodlot. Or a honey tree at Christmas, for it was such a tree on a December day that nudged me toward the wonder of nature. It’s a childhood memory in which I see my father and myself on the hillside pasture beyond our barn.

It’s the afternoon of Christmas Eve. A chainsaw churns into an old oak tree. It falls to the ground. My dad stops the chainsaw, reaches into the hollow trunk and takes out pieces of honey bee combs. In the cold, the honey is too thick to drip. He places the golden combs in a stainless steel milk pail.

I recall the fascination and magic of honeycombs, of small snowflakes dancing through the gray afternoon, my cold fingers, my inquisitive dad. Did we stumble upon the bees’ summer work or did dad know this present was in this tree? I think the latter, for why else would he bring along the clean pail? I’ll never know for sure; oh, the things we wish we had asked our parents.

I would guess he saw it and took note during deer hunting, or on a late summer search for a cow and its newborn. I do the same now, noting and returning to the nests of bald-faced hornets and goldfinches, and the drying stands of pearly everlasting.

I remember the afternoon growing dim as we made our way home, Christmas lights twinkling in the windows, mom’s Christmas Eve meal in the oven, our sweet find in the pail. It was December, and now it is again. And now, like then, I bring home the gifts of early winter as I was taught, and the knowledge that seasons come and go, as do our trials and tribulations, as I have learned.

We find beauty and hope in the new season, the new day, the new chapter, and the sweet treat in the tree.

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, including Amazon, and 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.

Settling into winter

Introduction: During this season of giving gifts, I am sharing excerpts from my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” which was released at the end of last year. For the holiday season, the book is available through me at a special price (see information at the end of this post). The following is an excerpt from the chapter, “Woodland Settles into Winter,” from the November-December segment of the book. Enjoy.

Winter settles deep into the woodland, the chilly silence pierced only by the roar of my chainsaw spinning toward the core of the hardwoods.

The saw settles into a downed oak branch, scattering wood chips on the snow while slicing off 16-inch hunks of firewood. I pick up the pieces and bang the smaller ones together. A sharp smack rings through the leafless forest.

Then the saw unsettles winter in the middle of the firm but dying tree trunk. Caramel-colored rings tell me the oak has seen many winters. This is its last.

I come to the woods for more than wood. In early December, I come to make sure that some deer remain after the hunt, and that the first frigid blast hasn’t scared away the squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and ruffed grouse. I know the answers before I arrive, but reassurance is good for the soul, and a good reason to take to the woods.

In her 1942 book, “We Took To The Woods,” Louise Dickinson Rich writes of winter, “You can neither remodel nor ignore a thing as big as winter. In the woods, we don’t try. We just let winter be winter, and any adjustments that have to be made, we make in ourselves and our way of living.”

As the afternoon wanes, the half-lit first quarter moon starts to brighten quite high in the eastern sky. The full moon is exactly a week away, when the large sphere will rise at sunset. It’s a dreamy afternoon, and I think of the song verse, “There’s a new moon on the fourteenth, first quarter twenty-first, and a full moon in the last week brings a fullness to the earth.”

I feel the fullness. It’s getting dark as I haul my firewood to the truck. I pick up the pace and start sweating despite the chill that rides in on the sunset. I drive away, content that nature here is well, making all the adjustments for another winter.

Note: Want to read more nature essays such as this? 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 at regular prices through online book sellers, and 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.

Did you bring beer?

Whew! I got that out of the way. Yup, ice fishing is out of my system for another winter. Or maybe not.

I’ve been going ice fishing once a year for some years now, just to know it hasn’t changed. I normally don’t catch fish, I get bored and cold, and when I’m convinced I won’t catch fish is when I wonder why anyone thinks cold beer on a cold lake in a cold wind tastes good.

Ice fishing is not in my blood, even if lutefisk is. My parents fished in the summer only, because in our family “no such thing as safe ice” was taken way too seriously. Even when ice skating on the flooded rink in our front yard I had to tie a rope from my belly to the cottonwood tree.

But on a mild morning last week I texted my brother-in-law about something we’d been threatening since Christmas. “How about today for ice fishing?” I asked. A cold front was moving in by mid-afternoon, so we made fast plans to meet at the lake by 11 a.m. Maybe we’d catch fish before catching cold.

I stopped for waxies and teardrops—oh, you thought I’m not well-versed in ice fishing—drove to the landing and rode in bro-in-law’s Jeep to a spot hugging the west shoreline, out of the breeze. Bro’s gas-powered auger started whining and churning, thank heavens, because I really didn’t have a good plan for puncturing 18 inches of ice other than a garage sale special manual auger with a dull blade.

(When I go ice fishing alone I walk rapidly across the lake as if I know where I’m going. In reality, I have no idea, knowing only that I’m scanning for a hole already drilled but recently abandoned, a hole with only a skim of ice on it. The drawback being that I don’t catch fish in the same place someone else didn’t catch fish.)

I was fishing within 10 minutes. But by 30 minutes I was slouching on my obligatory 5-gallon pail, gazing across the ice, sometimes at the sky, fighting boredom by counting ice shacks and thinking profound thoughts. My profoundness was interrupted by my partner’s “Did you bring beer?” No.

Then suddenly, a nibble, though in my state of negative chill I figured a cruising northern pike had bumped my waxie. But then the bobber moved enough to get my hand’s attention to yank into a tiny bluegill. I threw it back down the hole. A minute later I either caught it again or its twin.

Then came more serious bites, and more serious fish starting beaming up the shaft to daylight. I tossed them on the ice next to me like I always do (or don’t). I was getting quite a collection of fryer bluegills when it all ended during a tangled line interruption and a cold-front eruption riding an emboldened wind.

Snow devils raced and chased across the flat whiteness. Clouds ran away, and so did the fish. But there were enough bluegills for supper, with a matching contribution from my bro-in-law. So you know, I might just go ice fishing again. Seems I got it into my system, not out of my system.

(Blogger’s note: Yes, I know this Outdoor Journal blog has taken a lengthy hiatus—18 months to be exact, after a 15-month run from the blog beginning in May 2020 to its pause in September 2021. As Jackson Browne wrote in his “These Days” song, “Don’t confront me with my failures, I’m aware of them.” But here’s the deal: About the time I paused I was taking on another newspaper column weekly commitment, which includes a photo with each piece. Then I got serious about a book, which has been accepted by Cornerstone Press at UW-Stevens Point, with publication scheduled later this year. The book is a collection of nature essays and outdoor stories. I hope to keep this blog up, more like once a month than the ambitious once-a-week routine it began with. This would also be a good time to note that my Up North column appears in the Friday print editions of the Eau Claire Leader-Telegram and Ashland Daily Press, and on the Ashland newspaper’s website, normally a day or two ahead of the Friday newspaper. A condensed version of the outdoor column also appears in every Wednesday edition of the Rice Lake Chronotype.)

Pull of the moon

I kept watching the clock this afternoon. At 3:51 p.m., the moon was rising. Not a full moon, but only a night away from full, and the sky was cloudless. Maybe not so tomorrow night. And so it was tonight, the time to go. My anticipation rose with the moon.

Winter normally affords only one, maybe two, opportunities to snowshoe or ski comfortably by the light of a full moon. For me, the necessary trifecta is the right temperature, a cloudless sky, and, of course, the full, or nearly full, moon.

That all came together tonight, with the temperature barely dropping below freezing as the sun slipped away from a springlike late February afternoon. I would leave the house at 6:51 p.m., exactly 3 hours into the moon’s night ride. It was nearly halfway up in the eastern sky when I strapped on snowshoes and put them to the trail.

I hoped to see animals moving in the moonlit meadow or across the large field as I crossed from the wide snowmobile trail to my narrow path in the forest. But the melting and freezing of the past few days created a crust atop the snow. Crunch, crunch, crunch spoke my snowshoes. I would not be sneaking up on any animals tonight.

The full moon was behind me to begin with, a slight breeze in my face. My shadow danced in front of me—a snowshoe waltz. I crossed the open 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 standing on its handle in the northeast, and halfway up in the east was the moon, 250,000 miles away but seemingly riding on my shoulders as I headed west.

The dark, jagged form of the hilly forest was a half mile away. It wasn’t that dark when I got there. Of course, that was the point, this full moon jaunt. The path was easily visible in front of me as a white ribbon tinged in blue, though always trailing into a dark curve. I’d reach the curve and see the next stretch of ribbon awaiting me. I paused to listen for an owl, perhaps a coyote or fox, but heard nothing.

I took photos—a tough assignment at night without the aid of a tripod—and then pushed on again. I realized I hadn’t put my gloves back on, but my hands were comfortable. There was no breeze here, only the sifting of the moonlight through the bare branches and portals in the pine boughs. I saw rabbit tracks, and wondered how the cottontails adjust to the lighted night, their nocturnal rounds more visible to peering owls.

I headed home, my shadow tagging along behind. All I heard were my snowshoes and the rhythm of my jogging steps. For a moment, it was nature’s night song, the wings of a migrating bird, the flow of a creek, the call of an owl and all the intricacies and mysteries of a winter’s night.

I traversed the meadow and turned onto the wide trail that leads me home. Sirius was my guide, high and straight ahead. Yes, Sirius the Dog Star, whose spirit I always told my good dog was in him. I stared at Sirius, with the glowing moon on my left shoulder. Soft and peaceful was the night.

Our buds of winter

They’ve been there all winter, you know, those buds on the trees. Perhaps we will notice them more now as temperatures moderate and we get outside to look for signs of winter giving up. When we see the buds, we can appreciate that they’ve survived below-zero days and nights to give us hope for spring and all its greenness.

Buds form in late summer at the base of leaf stems. As soon as colored leaves fall in autumn, the new buds enveloping next spring’s new leaves, flowers and stems are visible. But we may be too busy raking leaves to notice the infancy of next year’s crop.

It’s more fun to take a look now as we search for signs of approaching spring. Against a blue sky of February, the buds of birch, maple, box elder and lilac trees in the back yard are easily revealed. So when we say trees are “budding” in spring, what we actually mean is that the buds that have been there all winter are “bursting.” Yes, in spring, the buds will be warmed and swell to a point that they burst from the outer scale that protected them in their dormant state of winter.

I snipped off a twig from the birch tree and slit open the scale with a sharp knife to reveal a tiny green bud—a leaf—about a quarter-inch long. Imagine, these little green leaves wrapped up tight and protected from the days and nights of below-zero temperatures. These miniscule oblong buds, now tucked inside the hard cover of the bud scale, will emerge as tiny leaves and grow and grow and grow into our summer shade and fall colors.

So take a look this winter at the tree buds and wonder at the precision of nature in protecting what will be the beauty of trees through spring, summer and fall. These buds over the next couple of months will be teased to burst open with spring fever, much the same as every one of us. But we will all have to wait until the time is right.

Trails for life

The first trails I followed were cow paths. They were pretty safe routes for a little tyke because they all led back to the barn and farmyard. Safe at home.

I’d run along the narrow paths with a dog following, making up names for the paths that the cows slowly plodded along single file in their daily routine. The names originated from my latest childhood fascination, perhaps a television show or a day trip with my parents.

I would continue to follow trails, being engaged while on them and enthused by what they offered as my outdoor explorations expanded. So, too, did my days of more hunting freedom, as in hunting solo. Cow paths turned to deer trails, and I’d follow logging roads, past and present.

Later I found myself winding through the woodlands on cross-country ski trails. On ambitious days I’d ski on groomed trails—sometimes snowmobile trails—for 20 miles or more. I’d also blaze my own snowshoe trails where nobody else ventured. Still do.

At a settling point in my life, new trails of a whole different plan and purpose came along. They were in the back yard, for my wife and I had taken on two four-legged boys who needed a route to stretch their legs and exhaust their energy in the winter. The dogs’ play trail was in the shape of a triangle, starting and ending at the foot of the deck (again, safe at home). After every snowfall I’d shovel the 300 linear feet of dog trails and then smile at wagging dog tails.

I’d toss their ball and it would roll quickly down the slight and slick incline, sending the dogs hurdling into deep snow if they caught up to it too late. They didn’t care. With gusto and white noses they’d retrieve the ball from the powder and get back on track, one chasing the other to the triangle’s next point. One of the dogs played his own game of ball, setting it at the top of the incline and nose-nudging it until it picked up steam.

Those trails are no longer, as the boys are gone now. So my energy goes back into the trails of exploration and recreation while running, hiking, snowshoeing and skiing. I miss the trails of the past, but am grateful for the memories and the hours of learning and laughing along those paths. I am still learning and laughing on the trails of the present, all the while wondering but not worrying about the trails of the future. I look forward to them, wherever they take me, whatever they teach me, whenever they call me.

Somehow, life’s trails always lead back home. Safe, and warm, at home.

A little winter’s help

It’s 5˚, and with a healthy northwest wind there’s a -15˚ wind chill, or “feel like” temperature as the weather folks like to say these days. No matter the shrill chill chasing 5 inches of new snow, the corn delivery must go through. You see, it’s this point of winter when I worry about game birds—pheasants and ruffed grouse to be exact—as they take a survival test in the snow, cold and wind.

So I’m taking corn and bird seed to the pheasants and grouse I have seen along my snowshoe trail, where I wind through the meadow grasses and next to thickets along a field. These spots hold birds, and I have seen them flush from one brushy spot to another many times, escaping the perceived threat I present on snowshoes.

A couple of winters ago five pheasants got up from the narrow thicket bordering a corn field. The birds flew northward a couple of hundred yards. It happened again at the start of this winter—not five birds but a single colorful ringneck. It flew to the same spot. So I headed that direction, to a confluence of meadow, creek, brush and fallen trees on the edge of a woods.

I was drawn to a downed tree in a tangle of brush. It was a foot or so off the ground, with pheasant tracks going back and forth from it to where long grass was deposited by the creek’s high waters. The thick clumps of grass are hung up on fallen branches, creating tent-like shelters, perhaps perfect for the wintering pheasant. By the log there was little snow, so the next time I came I brought shelled corn to the sheltered patch and also cleared a plot spot by the first thicket.

The trips are nearly daily now. The corn and seeds keep disappearing. There are bird tracks in both spots. I hope I’m helping both species; maybe there will be one more brood of each this spring because of my deliveries.

The grouse caught a break this week with 5 inches of fluffy snow falling. They now have the 10 inches of snow required to burrow into for warmth. The snow’s insulation factor provides the birds conditions 30˚ warmer than the air temperature. I’ll never forget the first time I scared a grouse from its snow roost. I had stopped to rest while cross-country skiing when suddenly the snowbank next to me exploded with feathers and snow. A grouse winged away into the blue winter sky as snow softly settled on my skis.

I worry more about the pheasants now as, like turkeys, their scratching for waste grain is limited by snow depth. They feed on what they find, even the seeds of the dead and bronzed tansies, goldenrod and thistles in the meadow and at the edge of the field. Of course, “my pheasants” are also feeding on shelled corn delivered via snowshoe express.

I stand between the food plot and field, letting the February sun find me fully as I turn my back to the wind. I see pheasant and grouse tracks leading to the gift of corn and sunflower seeds. It all disappears by the next day, only to be replenished. For now, these birds are well fed. So, too, is my soul.

Escape of the ghosts

There were white ghosts and gray ghosts above, and black shadows of ghosts dancing on the snow. It was an hour before sunrise, and in the gathering light of dawn the ghosts were racing for cover.

Was it their past the ghosts sought after escaping the chimney on the bone-chilling morning in January? However, the smoky ghosts had no bones, so probably no chill, either. With dizzying fluidity they swirled, rose and fell as if avoiding invisible obstacles.

They were wood stove ghosts. I wondered if their release from the firewood and hot coals sent them looking for the forest where they once lived in maple, oak and ash trees, among the birds and squirrels and seasons of all degrees. Will they now spend the rest of their days hiding high in the branches, wisps of the past watching secrets of the present?

I stood in the warm house and stared at the cinema of winter—a snow-covered back yard lit dimly by the advancing dawn. There were fuzzy, fixed shadows—the birdhouse, trellis, deck posts. But there were also moving shadows. I stepped into the cold morning and looked up to watch the ghosts leaping from the chimney in white and gray flickers against a murky sky giving up its stars one at a time. On the ground, racing past my feet the ghosts were dark shadows, changing shapes with the whims of the slight breeze.

The ghosts raced over the herb garden, bounced off the yard shed, climbed its roof and disappeared into the pine boughs above. They were free, no longer standing in the forest or stacked in a pile, but now dancing in the branches.

Counting on crows

There was the crow on a winter’s morning, perched as close to the end of a tree branch as it could, against the cold blue sky, facing the arms and hands of branches wrapped in hoar frost. Was the crow catching sun or taking in the winter scene? Or both?

Many winter days the only birds I see are crows, not counting the usual visitors at the bird feeder. I see crows when I drive, crows when I hike, crows when I’m stacking wood. Along the road, in the fields and woodlands, in the pine trees of the back yard. They are a constant and oh so easy to see—feathered black on winter white.

I take their appearances for granted until I see the rather pensive-appearing crows, like one on the hoar-frosted branch of January, or another I saw perched on a foot-tall corn stubble stalk. One tall crow, I thought at first!

There was another crow in winter that had claimed a patch of grass and dirt the size of a bathroom rug on the road shoulder where the on-ramp meets the freeway. It was a bold crow that refused to give ground no matter how close trucks rumbled past its oasis.

Brave and hardy, these crows. And quite social with each other, which was apparent one day when I drove past two crows rubbing wings while sharing the top of a wooden fence post along a town road. Crow buddies watching traffic. Perfect photo, I thought, but by the time I turned around and came back, they were gone. For all I knew they were direct descendents of Heckle and Jeckle, now hiding in a tree and squawking with laughter.

So I count on crows in the winter, every day, the beauty and boldness of their blackness matched only by their distinct and raucous “caws” piercing the frigid air. They not only survive winter, they seem to live for winter, enhancing the season, as easily as black on white.

Watch on the wind

As I veer off the tree-lined snowmobile trail and set my snowshoes on a meandering path through the open meadow, the wind finds my face. I jog along the twisting trail through the meadow, a trail I’ve packed down on previous outings, having some fun laying out a path with plenty of turns.

I’m snowshoeing at night but not in darkness as the ambient light from the nearby city teams up with the diffused light from a full moon above the clouds. There’s enough illumination to easily see my course. My snowshoes faithfully follow that path, crunch, crunch, crunch on the packed whiteness.

I come out to a large field of picked corn. The wind is more noticeable here, catching more of me as I head west, the last row of corn stubble as my guide. I now get a wide look at the sky as it partially clears. The clouds are racing eastward, chased by a wind that is suddenly switching from southwest to northwest.

As I jog along I think about the wind, how it dictates my direction and choice of clothing. I check the wind by the small windmill in the yard before I leave (I trust it more than my phone). Head into the wind first, I tell myself, and then let it push me home after I’ve worked up a sweat.

Right now I’m working up that sweat as the wind bites at my face. I continue westward, tugging my collar a bit higher, my cap a bit lower, songs about the wind filling my mind in the quiet night. On this night, it’s “Against the Wind.” Still running against the wind.

Then I turn to reverse my steps, and just that suddenly the wind is my friend. But if I think the wind is pushing me home, I’m only half right. I’m also following the wind home, running in second place. Of the wind, poet Alan Alexander Milne penned, “It’s flying from somewhere as fast as it can, I couldn’t keep up with it, not if I ran.”