Tag: autumn

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.

Tracing the transition

The landscape is changing, trying to make up its mind on its makeup, while on the lake a sliver of open water bounces between sheets of thin, dicey ice stretching to the shorelines. The ice is clear in places, shows shades of gray in other spots, with scant snow swept here and there.

It was only a week ago that trumpeter swans bobbed next to Canada geese across open water, both species plunging head-first below the surface to feed, leaving only their tail feathers and back end exposed. But cold nights this week have put a lid on the lake. Geese stand on the ice or crowd the shrinking water, probably discussing a move to the open river. The swans are gone.

There’s an allure in both the briskness and starkness of both landscape and lakescape as the first day of December arrives. It’s the beginning of meteorological winter, they say. The other day I worked in the woods, the ground bare except for decaying leaves and fallen branches. I gathered firewood, then built a campfire. I knew it was the end of autumn, both somber and stimulating in the hushed resignation of the woodlot.

Give me one more day, I always say, before the snow gets too tall on the boots and the fingers too cold on the saw. I must admit, there have been a lot of “one more days” this fall. It won’t last, because winter always comes, seemingly always in an unwelcome flurry. But that’s not really the case. Winter sends out early notices that it will be along soon, dropping white notes on the lawn and not paying much attention as the afternoon sun picks them up the next day.

Winter whispers through the doors and windows that it’s out there, packing its bags full of cold, snow and harsh winds. It always arrives, changing our attitudes, our routines, for better or for worse.

Changes, always changes. Accept them or resist them? There’s really no choice, I know, as today I trace the vastness and starkness of November handing off to December. The transition has been slow and agreeable so far. Nature has been given extra autumnal days to prepare, change and recharge. So have we.

Note: The black and white photo of the barred owl above may not have much to do with this blog other than that owls are easier to see in the bare branches of late autumn and winter. The owl however, like the one that befriended Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh, helps me announce that my book, “Soul of the Outdoors,” will be released by Cornerstone Press on Dec. 15. The posterized owl photo is one of 50 graphics in the book, accompanying 60 chapters, essays and journals on nature, wildlife and rural life, often in an introspective tone as I explore how we connect with the natural world.

Those interested in the book can preorder now, through Dec. 15, from Cornerstone Press at 20% discount off the $22.95 retail price. Cornerstone Press prefers that customers email cornerstone.press@uwsp.edu to request a book, and Cornerstone will then email back an order form.

The book is also available now through online sites Amazon and Barnes & Noble (both $22.95), and Bookshop and Indiebound (both $21.34). Several bookstores will carry the book, including Dotters Books (Eau Claire) Old Bookshop (Rice Lake), and Honest Dog Books (Bayfield). I will also have copies available. Any questions can be sent to me through the comment section of this blog, or at my email davegreschner@icloud.com.

An apple away

Five apples. That’s all I could count as I circled the tree, tucked away out of sight just off the trail in this woodland beyond the city’s edge. Low brush scratched my legs as I stumbled beneath the branches, my gaze upward. The apples were rather large, their species unknown to me. Now there’s only three.

I knew this tree was here, having taken photos last winter of its neglected apples, too high for deer to reach, brown and frozen apples wearing caps of new snow. Now in the heart of apple season there was only a handful of apples on the old scraggly tree, probably past its life’s prime of production.

I first saw this tree years ago while running through the woodland. The autumn discovery of an apple tree far away from buildings and roads always stirs my imagination. The red jewels of September are right there in front of me, but the tree’s history is not as easy to see.

Was I standing where a farmstead once thrived a century or more ago? Was the apple tree in the backyard, or perhaps in the woodlot just beyond where I found what looked like the remannts of a building’s foundation? If I poke further off the trail, will I find more signs of a farm’s crumbled past?

I imagine the tree was once harvested by someone who lived here or nearby. Harvested on pretty autumn days, the promise of apple pie in the pickers’ hands. Did the farmers come here with gunny sacks, or was an apron simply folded up for a makeshift bag?

Now the tree bears fruit with no idea for whom. Perhaps deer and bear, and birds, along with the occasional woodland hiker who passes by. I couldn’t resist. The two largest and most red of the five apples were within arm’s reach. I snapped one off the twig, and the other tumbled to the ground. One for me, one for the deer.

I imagined the deer finding the treat later that day, like a child discovering a shiny penny on the sidewalk. I walked away, clutching my red prize in my hand, having added another small piece in the history of an old apple tree gently living out its life in near obscurity.