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, but 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.
After their Tuscobia segment, I tell the hikers that 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.
