Afternoon At The River's Edge

Heading Out In The Old Jeep

                This afternoon I had the opportunity to take two of my nephews into the great outdoors for an adventure.  I took my younger sister's boys to one of “Uncle Mike’s Favorite Places.”  As a result of the recent flooding, the banks of the river I took them to were covered in mounds of freshly deposited sand.  It was the kind of sandy beach only a person from the Midwest could truly appreciate; perfect for the beginning of our Spring Break.

            After hiking through the woods we came upon an ideal place to call our own for a few hours.  We broke up some branches for firewood, and then while I cooked the food, they talked, played and threw sand and sticks into the water.  It seemed like the right thing to do with mildly warm temperatures.  The river bank itself helped block the wind that had been blowing fairly hard most of the day; enough that it allowed each of us the luxury to peel off our coat.

            The boys thought the taste of the food made it one of their favorite meals, and after topping it off with seconds and a cup of hot cocoa, they went back to playing at the river’s edge.  They talked, jumped, and splashed.  I took some pictures of them while gradually packing up our gear.  The skies cleared and turned blue, revealing crystal clear water.

            When I said, “Well boys, are you ready to pack up and head back?”  My younger nephew said, “No!  We want to live here.  It’s a perfect place for two boys to run around and play tag!”  Hmmmmm.  I loved that response and thought to myself, “No argument here.”

            Eventually we did head out; stopping only to pick up the occasional old bottle or can discarded in the woods, or to squish a puffball mushroom left from last fall, or to climb on a fallen tree trunk.  Before reaching my old Jeep, I had the boys place their hands on the bark of an old green ash tree.  This last week the last male of the nearly extinct northern white rhino died.  Now, due to the exotic emerald ash borer beetle, the green ash tree is following the fate of the rhino.  I wanted a picture of their hands on a tree that may be a forgotten memory by the time they are my age.  They also hugged a giant of a cottonwood; a grandmother tree.  Together the three of us couldn’t even encircle it when holding onto hands.  We were about a foot and a half short.  The tree is simply massive.

The Boy's Hands On A Green Ash Tree-A Dying Species

New Moss Shoots

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            By the time we were halfway home, the boys had fallen asleep due to the day’s fresh air and sunshine.  It obviously was a great afternoon to spend at the river’s edge.

            See you along The Way…

Heading Back In The Old Jeep   : )

A Walk In The Park

The Day Begins-A Rising Sun In The Reflection Of The Jeep

“…that while great events may find their place in books and museums, it is the people themselves who really counted.”

                        Sigurd Olson – Songs of the North (1987)

            I still had five pairs of boots sitting in front of a fan in the basement from a previous outing.  They had been soaked through and through; water logged to be exact.  High water, down several feet from a few days ago, was still moving too fast and deep through the woods to reach an anonymous riverbank off the beaten path.  Our outing, yesterday morning, was destined to be landlocked; forcing us to look for alternatives.

            Instead of sloshing in the icy, cold water once again, and falling short of our destination, guys tied to our school district would be sanctioned to a walk in the park.  It was decided that we would go to the Sugar River Forest Preserve.  This preserve provided the high bluff banks to keep us dry, in addition to picturesse views overlooking the surging water below.  Typically the waters of the Sugar move at a moderate pace, but this week it would be more adequately described as rushing.  At one bend in particular, the river slams head long into a sand bluff bank before veering off and racing away at a ninety degree angle.  Yesterday it created swirling whirlpools that were flung off in the opposite direction into an off-shoot backwater slough.  The power of water is impressive.

            We hiked the campground roadway, blocked off for the winter season, and hooked up with the trail along the rim of the bluff.  It led us up and over a scenic prairie and down into the picnic area.  Along the way I came across a raccoon who was taking its final breaths while in the throes of a death struggle.  I backed away respectfully, wondering at the cause.

            I like this preserve because the picnic area still provides fire pits as opposed to grills.  The guys and I prefer the primitive sense of a crackling wood fire at ground level as opposed to using charcoal or a modern camp stove up high.  Within two strikes of the flint and steel, and an ember in a nest of dried grasses, we had our fire lit.  Our fuel was white pine and oak branches.  The smell of smoke was divine, permeated our skin, and stayed with us throughout the day.

            With nine men, we needed two frying pans to cook the necessary food; our gigantic cast iron pan, as well as an old Teflon pan.  The later was scratched up and displayed more metal than Teflon, but it was deep, held a lot of food and helped get the job done.  The smaller one complemented the job that the larger cast iron pan afforded us.

            The conversation was easy; discussing and solving the world’s issues around a crackling fire.  The appetizers were granola bars, Clementine oranges, and venison sausage.  The dogs raced around close at hand, and managed to only knock down one of us.  As the sun rose above the tree line, we warmed and then got down to the business of eating.  It’s what we had been waiting for frankly, and it tasted great.  We wolfed down the food, had second helpings, and still had some left over to feed the dogs.  We washed it all down with some orange juice and hot chocolate, and then began the process of packing it all up.  Our gear required five different backpacks.

Kora With Her Breakfast - On The Banks Of The Sugar River

            We hiked up and back to our vehicles along a hardwood forest trail.  Following the path gave us a nostalgic feeling of at least having to slightly rough it.  Today, however, was not about having to push the limits.  We didn’t have to fight the extreme elements of weather, or the distance needed to traverse to our destination.  We didn’t even have to ward off doubts of whether or not we could accomplish the adventure or not.  As the guys commented afterwards:

*“Sometimes you need that kind of an (easy) adventure.”

*“Whether it’s three miles through thick brush on a cold day, or a quick jaunt through the woods on a mild day, it’s always great to get out and recharge.”

*“Such a wide range of ages, interests, knowledge and life experiences.  So much to learn on every outing.  Most of us have one thing in common, but we rarely speak of that shared commonality.  Work is for work.  Nature is for nature.  Those hours with the guys are a welcomed escape from the stress in everyday life.”

*“Always a great way to start the day.”

*“Good times and more great memories.  Proud to be around so many great guys at one time.  I am glad to have been included in this group and just get away from all the daily stresses.  Thanks for getting us out in the woods.”

            We nine members of the Gulo Adventure Clan didn’t have to slosh through water in our boots, or get wet and cold in the process, to have a good time.  Life may not always be a walk in the park, but it’s refreshing when it is.

            See you along The Way…

L to R: Me & Kora, Dad, Justin, Zach, Merel, Joe, Ric, Doug (sitting), and Scott With Tyson

Swampin' - Spring Break Style

            It was the second full day of their Spring Break; Spring Break 2018.  Theirs was not one of long distance miles behind a wheel, or whooping it up on a sandy beach somewhere to the south.  My son and his college friends wanted an adventure going to the woods.  I had the day off due to a late night of parent/teacher conferences the evening before, so it worked out perfectly.  After the rain and snowmelt that happened so quickly last week, the lowlands lining the area’s rivers were still under water.  It created what I have termed the “Northern Backwater Bayou.” 

            When my college friends and I were their age, we went tubing on the Mississippi River.  It was late March.  It was unusually hot.  The water was memorably freezing.  My roommate had grown up on the banks of “Ol’ Man River” in a really cool setting.  His parents were awesome hosts, always accommodating, and loved to have a house full of knucklehead boys; especially ones willing to jump in the river in March.  That, however, is a different story now (surprisingly) thirty years old.

March 1988 - Scott, Mike, Brett, Me, And Tim

            Today my son, and I, and his friends Sawyer, Adam, and James, hiked as far as we could.  When we hit water, we tried skirting around it, backtracked a few times, and then finally shrugged our shoulders and plunged ahead.  Within seconds the water seeped into and over our boots and halfway up our calf.  If it was an adventure they wanted, it was an adventure they were going to get.  We waded until we hit drainage areas coming off from old oxbows left behind from ancient river beds.  We were not able to cross these today; at least not without some sort of watercraft like a canoe or kayak.  The water was moving and it was deep; and we were still almost a half mile to the actual river itself.  We were at a bit of a standstill, but decided to set up camp next to the water’s edge on ground that could only be described as mucky at best.  In fact, a day prior it had obviously still been under water.  The forest was a battlefield of washed up debris, with piles of sticks and logs stacked against the bases of the trees.  Grasses and bushes were all pushed sideways in the same direction as the water slowly receded out of the woods.

Todd, Sawyer, (Kora), Adam, And James

            I quickly made a fire while the boys gathered firewood.  We cooked up a great brunch, and enjoyed the conversation and joking.  After about two hours we broke camp, took a picture, and sloshed back through the water.  In some areas we had to break through surface ice.  Adventures are not for the faint of heart.  After we got back up onto dry ground, we trudged back to my Jeep; our boots now a few pounds heavier.  Just before reaching the vehicle I looked into the nearby field and spotted a huge deer shed.  It was the biggest shed that I’ve ever found.  I had been trying to keep my eyes peeled for such a prize all day as we had been walking along the trails, and I was finally rewarded.  This outing adventure was a great start to the boy’s Spring Break.  It was a great day for “Swampin’.”

            See you along The Way…

Drainage Off The Oxbow

The Muck In Camp

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A Layer Of Ice On The Water We Trudged Through

A Deer Shed Reward-A Non-Typical Nine Point

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Haunted By Waters

A Northern Backwater Bayou

Coon Creek

The Driveway Into School Is Flooded Over

            Over the last day or so it has rained heavily.  That, with the warmer temperatures, has added to the rapid snow melt.  The result has been flooding, as the water runs to the lowest point; unable to soak into the still frozen ground.  After school today I visited several area creeks and rivers in Northern Winnebago County.  What I saw reminded me of a journal entry I wrote back in April of 2000.  I wrote this entry almost 18 years ago after driving down to the southeast side of Winnebago County to visit the Kishwaukee River's then flooded banks.

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            Norman Maclean once wrote, “I am haunted by waters,” or at least the movie version of his book narrated those words.  These words come to me today as I watch for the second day in a row the rain that plummets from the sky.  Each drop pounds itself earthwards and then creeps away in silent fashion to hide.  This, however, is not the end of its escapade.  As the troops of droplets gather in the valleys they ready themselves.  Those veiled in secrecy slowly emerge to join the ranks.  Within the downpour and the thunder that snarls angrily overhead, the armies of water build until, with the strength of numbers, they begin their journey to the nearest creek or river.

            The waters of these swollen rivers haunt me in that they are terrible.  They are terrible in the sense that one must fear them out of respect.  The waters churn.  They carve.  The river is a living entity that is never more evident than when it is in this state.  The water races with a furrowed brow and an intense, stern face.  It screams, “Don’t mess” from its mouth; and I don’t.  Yet I can’t help but feel a deep intrigue.  I long for a glimpse of a river running over its banks.  Why the curiosity?  The power!  The waters of an irritated creek, stream, or river rips and tears the earth from its banks at each bend.  Trees and rocks are an afterthought, and once strewn forth, they become ripples within the current.  This same hand of power that strikes unmercifully, however, replaces the land on the opposite side after chewing it up and spewing it out, albeit further down river and on a calmer day.  Its colors are foul yet beautiful as the waters gouge its bed and boil it into a bubbling froth.  Perhaps it is the sound it makes that forces one to pay homage.  In the midst of the storm, the wind and rain are one with the current as it roars onward.

            Don’t turn your back to this spectacle, however.  Once the rain stops and the sun burns forth, the land continues to drain itself of the excess water it cannot absorb.  Now is the time when the surface will sparkle and entice.  Now is the time when the water will gurgle and trickle, lulling you into careless submission; for all the while the water rises.  Its depth is deceptive in the magical, murky accent.  One can feel complacent in the sounds of a babbling river, not realizing that the small branch that bobs up and down with the drifting water is the tip of an entire tree now ensnarled below the surface.  Beware the intensity of the seemingly clam surface.  A river can be shallow and clear.  It can laugh as it wanders lazily, but it can also take a life with violence.  Enjoy nature’s fury and rage but with heightened senses.  The same drop of rain that tickles the nose on your face as it drips off your head can also join forces with countless others to create a river of wrath.  Ever alert while on my haunts, I peer from a distance at the cleansing power of a moving river and am “haunted by waters.”

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Pictures And Videos From Today:

Dry Run Creek Running Through A Field

Dry Run Creek Racing Under The Bridge With Inches Of Clearance

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The Sugar River Today

The Same Stretch Of The River As Above (Three Days Ago)

CLICK FOR A VIDEO OF TRUDGING THROUGH THE WOODS:

A Grandfather Silver Maple Tree (Today)

The Same Tree (Three Days Ago)

Happy In An Environment With Water

Haunted By Waters

Snapshots Of Snowshoeing A Snow Day

            Did you catch the alliteration?  The “S’s” of Snapshot, Snowshoeing, and Snow day brings you into an English class on a day when school was cancelled.  That’s alliteration as well as ironic.  This blog is mostly pictures, so I’m not going to write much other than to say that today was a good day to slowly pull out of a funk from recent pressures.  After waking early this morning, and getting something to eat, I shoveled the driveway.  Since there was a lot of snow to move, I took my time.  I used the shoveling as “delayed gratification” so I could do something else later in the day that was perhaps a bit more enjoyable.  After catching my breath, Cindy and I jumped into our Jeep and ran a few errands before lunch.  Once we were home I took a needed nap, and then I threw some gear together to head out to the snowy woods.

            My parents gave me my own pair of snowshoes on Christmas day back in 1989.  Cindy and I used to have them hanging crisscrossed in our apartment when we were first married.  Friends used to wonder if they were “real.”  Although loved, they were “City Slickers.”  My snowshoes are made of green ash and rawhide, with bindings that my Dad made from old inner tubes.  Appropriately, they are Michigan style snowshoes; which simply means they are not as long as the Alaskan style, and not quite as round as the Bear Paw style.  In other words, they keep you on top of the snow while allowing you to maneuver in tight situations.

            My dog Kora and I went out to a favorite area for several hours.  I saw four bald eagles while trekking along (two that were mature with their white head), and one pileated woodpecker (it’s almost the size of a crow).  After snowshoeing in, I heated some water over my Emberlit stove for a cup of hot cocoa.  Cindy and I are now wrapping up the day by watching the opening ceremony of the PyeongChang Olympic Winter Games.  For the next 18 days we’ll be able to watch people from around the world who also enjoy the activities associated with the snow, cold, and ice.

            See you along The Way…

Finished Shoveling The Driveway

Christmas 1989

Heading Out At The Day's End