TODAY AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES, as the temperature climbs, one of our infrequently seen congregation members makes a welcome appearance. The opossum has a hard time dealing with the harsh realities of a Minnesota winter—perhaps not unlike human beings who now endure a national climate in which kindness, decency, and honesty have been replaced by bitter winds of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
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
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES the rafters are ringing. Someone got the old furnace working again and the choir and full congregation lift their voices rapturously to the heavens. Chickadees call their names and sing their sweet, two-note song. Goldfinches and pine siskins twitter and gossip while bluejays broadcast the word through all the the neighborhood. Even the old
MOURNING DOVES have always meant Summer to me. Their soft cooing on a warm June morning. The whistling of their wings in the neighborhood during a game of catch or wiffle ball. The nuanced beauty of their feathers in the sun. They were a part of my childhood, especially the two summers I spent in Alton, Illinois with my grandparents,