The hungry lake (SWF)

Twelve-mile Beach,
Lake Superior

Waves tugging at the sand beside the broad blue of Superior, with great effort she lifted herself-- each labored step, dragging her clumsy body a bit further, beyond their reach onto the otherwise empty, windblown edge of Michigan’s Twelve-mile Beach. Knocked off the breeze carrying her in carefree flight above its lapping waters by a long, curling tongue of this hungry lake, she’d escaped a watery death. But, wings now heavy with droplets, she could not rise from the smooth, wet sand.

Green Darner dragonfly, female

As the grains dissolved from beneath each tiny, clawed foot, I stooped and lifted her onto my finger and walked with her, while the wind dried her transparent wings.
I left her to rest on a strand of beach grass beside the great lake, which boasts of many victories--having devoured so many, so great.
Still hungry, I stole this dragonfly from her plate.

windswept sand

(click to enlarge)

Twelve-mile Beach

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In Hiawatha's Footsteps

Tahquamenon Falls, Michigan

the Upper Falls from the platform

The Tahquamenon River (rhymes with phenomenon) flows north into Lake Superior, after winding nearly 100 miles through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to empty into Whitefish Bay. From swamps lined with hemlock and spruce, their tannins having stained its rushing waters brown, it passes here, over the Upper Falls in Tahquamenon State Park, falling 50 feet from a magnificent rocky bed, 200 feet across.
A viewing platform holds visitors from the edge and steers them along a partially paved, intermittently boarded walkway, scattered with signs and heavily treed with birch and dense evergreen.
Years ago, the Ojibwa walked these woods—traveling this river in their birch bark canoes, hunting these woods from its shore.

the Lower Falls,
Tahquamenon State Park

We stepped from the boardwalk, leaving the hollow footsteps of galloping children at the river’s edge, and entered the dark and quiet woods. A narrow, marked trail crossed a small feeder stream then climbed up a hill where patches of sunlight fed an assortment of ferns on its bank, and heavy moss grew soft on fallen logs beneath their shadow. Though still September, already the leaves of poplar and birch were fading and fallen—the winding trail, no more than an earthen path between them. And our footsteps, barely heard.




From behind a small hemlock, scurrying steps suddenly stopped. And we peeked beneath its lowest branch to see three dark birds, just off the trail, several feet in front of us. Not rising in the flurry of flapping wings as I would have expected, the small group of Ruffed Grouse barely moved, disappearing in their stillness against the shaded leaves. And as I sat squarely on the dirt, inching forward with my camera, they stayed, perched on the low branches, peeking back at me. Then in no hurry, stepped off and crossed to the other side of the trail, following the hillside past the patches of sunlit fern.
Here, on a quiet trail in the land of Tahquamenaw, it was as it could have been, in years past.
As if I walked in Hiawatha's footsteps.

Ruffed Grouse

From an assortment of sources, I have learned that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, The Song of Hiawatha, which was written based upon legends of the Ojibwa and other Native American peoples, refers to “the rushing Tahquamenaw,” a spelling variation coming from an Ojibwa word meaning “dark berry.”
Written in several forms, some dating back to Jesuit maps published in 1672, this word has varied in spelling from Outa koua minan to Otikwaminang, Outakwamenon, Tanguamanon, Toumequellen and Tahquamenaw.
From Wikipedia:
"The current name for the Tahquamenon River in the Ojibwa language is Adikamegong-ziibi, "River at where the Whitefish are found." This name is also the naming basis for the Whitefish Point and Whitefish Bay, both known earlier as Tahquamenaw."

Tansy

Pearly Everlasting

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Going to the Chapel...

I still pore through piles of photographs, captured, now months ago, when we took just one day to travel north and spend the week walking a great lakeshore. With each, reviving an impression so great upon our reaching daylight, after passing down a dim and winding trail from within the dense, north woods--of a broad beach and open water which, at first, lay calm and still.
In mounting wind and change of sky, I wrapped my head with an extra shirt, tying the sleeves beneath my chin. And, sat, backed into a great dune, the wall of woods behind me.
As, under piles of clouds, waves rose and tore at the shore, reaching higher and higher with each cast upon the beach--rolling colorful stones, as the marbles of a child.
Days from now, I will not recall the name of this grand place on Superior’s southern shore.
But, I will not forget the little ladybug that walked a path, around and around, on one smooth stone--just out of the water's reach.

the trail to Chapel Beach

Bicknell's Cranesbill

woods filled with Yellow Birch

small waterfalls

a slug has found a mushroom

Chapel Beach,
Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, Michigan

Chapel Rock

One of the Guys...III (SWF)

Reflection

(This is part III of a story that begins here.)

While the pheasant dashed between the rows of corn stubble without so much as a pause or backward glance, I pulled the car to the side of the road and waited. The dogs, still running circles in the tangles beside me, apparently had lost him at the road’s edge. And the fact that my vehicle now stood between them and their prey’s low, escaping form had stopped their pursuit in an instant. They ran, tails wagging, back through the fence row in haphazard bounds and were gone.
I rolled off down the road—now beginning to comprehend the great gathering of pickups drawn to a small, unmarked lot, tucked several yards off a quiet, rural road on an otherwise unremarkable Friday morning.


The lot at the lake’s edge was larger and less busy.
Within minutes, I was out on the trail—a wide, mowed, grassy path that ran up the entire south side of the lake, before finally veering off into the woods and joining the marsh beyond. Beside it, thick brush filled a corridor separating the grassy path from the pavement of a well-ridden bike trail.

sycamore leaf on water

basking turtles

I could peek past their branches to see a small, shallow pool where fallen logs collected leaves and spots of sunshine drew turtles from beneath its thick, green surface to bask in an autumn afternoon.

katydid

Autumn Meadowhawk dragonfly on sycamore leaf

Autumn Meadowhawk, Sympetrum vicinum

Familiar Bluet, Enallagma civile

From within each bush, katydids chirped boldly as I walked past, as they and a number of late-flying dragonflies and damselflies warmed their wings and cruised the unshorn edge. And the air was heavy with the smell of fresh mud, still dark and wet, applied to the large mound of straight, pointed sticks erected by the beaver whose muddy tracks I crossed again and again, as I made my way along the grassy path.

Cattails

Spring Valley Lake with blind (far right in distance)

The open water of the lake was broad and blue, rimmed with cattails and fading stems of grass that hid several blinds, strategically situated to look out upon its center, and, in a different season, hide the hunters within. Empty on this day, I tried one on for size. A cozy box of space, its roof was draped with nets and its sides wrapped in layers of mottled, shaded fabric. With random branches fixed to its face and a modest bench, it became a nice place to pass the hours--to see and not be seen. For it would appear that our hunt is much the same —it is just our capture that is different.


Slow, deliberate steps rustled the leaves a few feet off the trail. And sure that its source was smaller than a deer’s browsing, larger than a songbird’s scratching steps, I followed, creeping through the bare branches, hoping to see. Up and over the pavement he scurried, to the thicket and swamp beyond. With ease he left me far behind, snared in the thick, tangled mass.

Where the lakeside trail turned toward the marsh, I stopped. Discordant sounds had begun all around--clearly hounds, whose constant calling grew clear and then faded as pairs turned and tracked their prey. Distant shots rang out. And, the dogs ran on, spreading through the woods like wind on wildfire. Until I sensed a transparency I would not expect to feel in such a wild place. In these woods there was no place to hide.


I met a man in blaze orange, his shotgun ready and hunting knife plainly carried in a sheath at his belt, while his dog sniffed the ground at my feet.

“What’s going on,” I asked, my rather wide-eyed look difficult to conceal.
“Opening day on pheasants,” he replied. “Seen any?”
I hesitated and grinned broadly, in part, exploring the options for my response, and in part, now recognizing the utter uselessness of the can of pepper spray hidden in my pocket.
“You wouldn’t tell me if you did, right?”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
“It’d be a good idea to get some orange on.”
“Yep, I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks.”

And we went our separate ways, hunting--
our separate ways.

Hunter

Hunter of a different sort

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One of the Guys...II

(This is part II of a story that begins here.)

Rather than stop right there and step clumsily out, draped beneath the tangled straps of binocular and camera, into the midst of insulated boots and hunters' caps, I continued past them, turned the car in the overgrown field beside the line of trucks, and wiggled my way back out onto the small, rural road. Four-tenths of a mile further, I could hope for a better spot.

The road to the lake ran between a large cornfield on one side, acres deep and recently harvested into long rows of golden stubble extending to the horizon, and on the other, a thick margin of snarled honeysuckle, through which I could barely see an uncut grassy field. Along this edge, two dogs led by their noses, ran in a winding path through the fence row and out to the road again--no doubt, brought here in the metal cages and released to track in the fields.

In seconds, their prey emerged.
A male pheasant, running in long strides, low to the ground, his head thrown forward and long tail straight behind, effortlessly dodged the tangled brush--
like an arrow, he shot across the road.
The dogs, still nose to the ground, did not see.

(this story continues here)

One of the Guys

Spring Valley Wildlife Area

We are wrapping up a stretch of those rare autumn days—those seemingly more wonderful than the fleeting days of summer. For they visit us after the frost has fallen, when summer has packed her bags and moved on.

Friday’s forecast promised sunshine and blue skies--uncommon for November in the Ohio River Valley. Where the usual day is clouded and gray, and each piles up, one upon the last, neither freezing nor warming, until we long for any change— even one that brings with it something white.
Knowing the weekend days would undoubtedly be overrun with revelers of all sorts grabbing what, with each week’s passing more certainly is the last of its kind, I chose to make an early start ahead of the rush—packed a lunch, grabbed binoculars and camera, and for good measure, tucked a can of pepper spray into my pocket.
Remote places hold the best treasures. The winding trail that leads deep into the woods, until all traces of another disappear, is the walk I find most worth the taking. Yet, the lone car left by the side of the road marks my place on the map. And imaginings scare me.

The parking lot was just as it said—unmarked and three tenths of a mile on the right. The small gravel pad tucked several yards off the quiet road backed up to dense woods and what I hoped was the wildlife area in which I intended to spend the day. I tentatively pulled in.
It was only mid-morning, and already I found it filled with vehicles. Rolling slowly past pickup after pickup, some with large, empty metal cages stacked in the back, and their drivers nowhere in sight, I found three men gathered behind the last, sipping from the silver tops of their thermoses a steamy, hand-warming beverage. They wore outfits of all sorts. But, all were layered for warmth and all were trimmed with the color of the season, blaze orange.

(this story continues here)

Spring Valley Lake,
Waynesville, Ohio

The Birds (SWF)

I arrived at the beach mid-afternoon, in a desperate attempt to hold onto the dwindling hours of a weekend—their passing even faster, now, as the time change steals an hour of light from the end each day’s due.
The night has suddenly grown long.

American Lotus seed head

At the water’s edge, a withered leaf and seed head of the Lotus remind me of their great fields in the distance. The tall, creamy blossoms and broad, flat leaves of late summer, now faded and furled, have turned to sunlit gold.



I dabbled here with the camera as each minute of daylight escaped me, taking image after image of summer’s remnants as they rolled in the water, forward and back. The rocking of one small piece, a walnut or osage orange, sending ring after ring of ripples to dissolve into the glassy lake.

fruit of Osage Orange

Then I drove further on to the lotus fields, parked and walked to the edge.
A small dock at the bottom of a narrow, steep stair nuzzled into the bank beneath a thick stand of pine, the ground beneath them soft with needles and littered with long, pitch-spattered cones. The slant of evening sun was gentle and warm and had filled the air with the sweet and spicy piney smell. The lotus fields were brightly shining, reaching to the very shore. Oak and sycamore branches extended bright and blurry reflections across the dark water.






Several very large, brown birds lifted from the trees across the lake and, as I looked more closely, I could see hundreds still there, standing as black spots perched upon every branch, tucked into the warm wall of trees facing the strongest light. As each rose and cleared the treetops, its shape became visible—they were vultures. In great waves, they lifted and crossed the lake directly above my head, their long wings stroking strongly, the only sound, as they settled in great groups in the tall pines all around me. With each new wave to arrive, the previous would rise and resettle—the wings of the first bird to lift, noisily crashing and becoming a crescendo as another and another joined the group and swirled in a tangle of great wings overhead.

vultures across the lake

and rising to the sky

In all, over 200, both turkey vultures and black, emptied the wall of trees as I sat there, to settle at dusk in their roost around me.
Then the sun dropped into what had become an orange horizon.
A full moon rose in the fading blue sky.
I shook the chill of a clear autumn night from my shoulders.
And the lake fell into quiet stillness.

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