IN MY WRITING OFFICE there are many items of interest. At least to me. Hundreds of books, photos and art, mementoes from countless wilderness trips. But especially… rocks. Rocks have been important to me since earliest childhood. And I suspect I am far from alone in this regard. The following chapter from my book, ‘Deep Woods, Wild Waters,’ (University of
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES the sun rises on another winter day. But change is in the air. Although the church moat (Mississippi River) is still frozen, the eagle pair has remodeled their nest and eggs are being tended. The music of geese and swans echoes through the river valley. The sun climbs a little higher each day and
SOMETIMES WE STOP TO PONDER why we do the things we do. For many years I have led folks on journeys into wild country. In the form of ‘Road Scholar’ trips, I still do. From my book, ‘Deep Woods, Wild Waters,’ here’s why. The essay is called, “Hello To Life.” I stood in the great, billowing mists of a tremendous
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES, famed soloist Sparky the Cardinal has begun to sing his favorite hymns. After a long winter of gentle ‘chips’ from the forest thickets, and sensing a change in daylight hours or the angle of the sun, he once more dazzles us with vocal calisthenics and time-honored melodies. His tone and timbre are unmatched—until those
IN MY WORK and travels, I meet a great many people who ask me, essentially, how I can be an optimist in this world. There was a time when I wasn’t. I’m still not, always. Nobody can be honest and be an optimist all the time. On my good days I am. Most days I am. Outdoors I usually am.
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES, there is an insistent whispering and shushing in the pine tops, under a gathering overcast. The wind is restless, and the woods seem to be in a waiting, anticipatory mood. The blue jays are restless, too, and in full cry at the slightest disturbance. Other birds and congregation members are more quiet, gathering food
WHEN I WAS a little boy, it was a rare and beautiful thing to see a bald eagle. On the annual family vacation to Lake Kabetogama in what is now Voyageurs National Park, grandfathers and grandmothers and parents would say, in hushed and excited tones, “Look, Dougie, it’s an eagle!” And we would all gaze in rapt attention and amazement.
I WAS UP EARLY, but Sarah had been up long before. She was at the water’s edge, sitting on a shoreline boulder, looking out at the little island where the mist shrouded the pines. Sarah was the first one up every morning in the group I was guiding, and she was the last one into the tent at night. She
A TILT CALLED the Super Bowl will be played today, But I fear I might miss the fine, fearsome fray. A trail in the woods is calling to me, Past three pines and a birch and a balsam fir tree And the chirp of an eagle in the setting sun’s rays; All call my attention, as they do on most
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES it is a Sunday morn, and the members of our humble woodland congregation—ranging from snow fleas to eagles—strive for even greater levels virtue and moral rectitude than is normally the case. Although in truth I can tell no difference. The sun has arisen in the east, as is its wont, and shines brightly on