Busy season, lots of traveling, changing habits, excuses, excuses…
I used to write a daily blog post, Monday-Friday. Remember those days? Somewhere along the line, it ceased to be a habit – you know how it goes when any routine gets interrupted.
When I was in college, I decided to make jogging a habit. I’d see people jogging regularly and it impressed me favorably as something that would be good for my health and get me in good shape. Win, win! So off I went with my Adidas (points for cool shoes) and absolutely no experience. Generally, my attitude about running up until that point had been that I saw no reason for it unless I was trying to catch a bus. I figured I’d start small and work my way upward.
Jogging is a huffing and puffing sport, an awkward, shuffling, sweaty, stitch-in-your-side sport. Why do people do this thing? Those were the prevailing thoughts I had after my first attempt. But I’m no quitter, at least not while I still had the idealistic visions of “Lynn the Athletic Young Woman” running through my brain. I’d never been accused of being athletic before and I really wanted the title. I kept at it, hoping that at some point it would become less agonizing and more rewarding. Well, guess what? It did! After a month or so, I hit my stride, literally and figuratively. “Gonna fly now…flying high now…” I felt like Rocky, except without the disgusting raw egg drinking.
And then I got a nasty cold which put me out of commission for a week. My jogging career derailed just like that. The balloon of my motivation became completely deflated. (I’m rather liking the image of balloons of motivation skimming along over people’s heads, some really buoyant, some losing air, and some like limp rags flopping listlessly on the forehead, obscuring the vision. Just a minute – I need to contact Disney with an animated movie idea!!!! You can see how I get caught up in flights of fancy.)
But I actually like writing, a sport that can be done in the comfort and ease of my plushy chair. So, there may come a day when I give up writing this blog, but IT WILL NOT BE THIS DAY!
I’ll have to see if I can get back up to the speed of 5 posts per week. I’ll start small and work my way upward. Oy – I’ve got a stitch in my side!
I’ll probably delete this post in the morning in an attempt to return to the basics.
Everyone knows that Lake Itasca is the headwaters of the Mississippi. Back in the day, many an explorer sought to find the origin of that river because that’s what explorers do. Of course, the Ojibwe people knew it all along. When Henry Schoolcraft came along in 1832, Chief Ozawindib kindly guided him to it, the lake they called “Omushkos,” which means Elk Lake. Schoolcraft apparently didn’t think that name was sufficient, so he put his scholarly mind to the matter and decided that since the lake was the “true head” of the Mississippi, he would use the Latin version of that phrase, “veritas caput,” and cobbled the name “Itasca,” from the end of the first word and the beginning of the second one. I bet his children had interesting names.
We had been to Itasca State Park about 10 years ago with our two youngest children, but we hadn’t done any hiking there. We went to the actual headwaters and took pictures of each other there. Because that’s what tourists do. We were looking forward to seeing more of the park this time.
We stayed at the Douglas Lodge and were mystified to see trees growing out of the roof of the building behind it, Nicollet Court. It reminded me of the Mrs. Piggle Wiggle story about the boy who hated bathing and cleaning himself. Mrs. P.W. advised the parents just to let him experience the consequences of being dirty instead of constantly nagging him to take a bath. He was overjoyed with his freedom at first, but then the dirt layer on his skin became a nice place where seeds could grow and when plants began to emerge, he gave up his commitment to filth. Ha ha! I loved those stories! Well, Nicollet Court had been given over to itself, that’s for sure. Kris talked to a park employee later and found out that when it became clear that Nicollet Court needed some major repairs and that it would cost 20 million dollars to do it right, the park officials decided to let it go the way of the world: death and decay. Ah, there but for the grace of God go I.
The description of the Hiking Club trail included the word “hilly,” which is always a red flag for me. In spite of that I opted out of the hiking poles, which are nice, but an encumbrance when I want to take photos (i.e. frequently). I had my trusty knee huggers on and they would have to suffice. It was 49 degrees and sunny when we started out around 9:00 a.m., picking up the beginning of the 3.5 mile trail right by Douglas Lodge.
The trail was quite ferny, and we also saw some of our old friends, like Meadow Rue, Large Leaved Aster and Smooth Blue Aster. It feels good to know their names now. My husband’s educational background was in plant breeding and therefore, he knows a goodly amount of botany. I received a little instruction along the way about the difference between dioecious and monoecious plants and I now pass it on to you, dear readers. Dioecious plants, like meadow rue, have their male and female parts on separate plants, rather than on different parts of the same plant. Corn, on the other hand, is monoecious, containing both male and female parts, the tassel/pollen being the male and the ear being the female. This has been the plant sex education portion of this blog.
Meadow Rue: “Call me Dioecious”
I had a eureka moment on this trail. I noticed some interesting icons on trail signs. I’d seen them before but wasn’t sure what they meant. I finally looked at the legend on one of the maps on the trail and saw that these were cross-country ski trails in the winter and the icons meant “easy,” “difficult” and “more difficult.” In other words, these were comparable to my knee scores! Very nice to know.
More Difficult (uh-oh!)
The colors of the natural world are a continual source of joy. Thank you, Lord.
The trail would not be taking us anywhere near Lake Itasca, actually. Instead we would be seeing some of the smaller lakes in the park, like Mary Lake and Myrtle Lake, Itasca’s forgotten little sisters.
We’re assuming Mary Lake is named after Mary Gibbs, who was appointed as park superintendent at age 24 when her father, the current superintendent died. We read a few things about Mary Gibbs and it was like reading a script from a movie. At one point she came up against a local lumber company that built a dam to facilitate logging operations, but which might cause flooding that could kill the park’s old pine forest. Gibbs and a local sheriff brought a warrant to open the dam’s lift and the lumber boss threatened to shoot the hand off of anyone who put their hands on those levers. The sheriff backed off, but Mary Gibbs was made of stronger stuff. She said, “I will put my hand there, and you will not shoot it off, either.” The lumber boss knew when he was beat. He ordered the gates opened and was eventually jailed. Gutsy lady!
We passed by a few more lakes, probably the most lake-intensive hike we’ve been on so far. For me, lakes are all about the reflections in them, so that’s what I captured as we went along.
But I also saw a couple geese on Deer Park Lake.
Fallstad Lake was a frenzy of fish feeding activity. You could see places all over the lake where the fish were touching the surface as they were feeding. It was like watching stars twinkling in the night sky. I tried to get a photo, but it’s hard to capture.
It turns out that the Toilet Family has a tiny dwelling in the park. We passed by their humble abode but decided not to pay a visit.
We’ve seen several different species of goldenrod this time of year, the most attractive of which is called zig-zag goldenrod. I have nicknamed it ZZ Gold. But let’s play the Henry Schoolcraft game and take it one step further. The Latin words are “obliquum aurum,” so the HS technique would render it “quumaur.” I guess not. ZZ Gold it is!
The last lake we passed was Coffee Break Lake. Who gets to name all of these lakes anyway? I know a lot of coffee drinkers who would appreciate that one.
We finished the hike in just under 2 hours and due to the cooler weather, it was a lot easier on the weaker vessel.
Knee score: 6 on a scale of 1-10 (equivalent of 14 flights of stairs).
But that’s not the end, no sir. You don’t think we’d come all this way and NOT go to the actual headwaters again. We put our tourist hats on and got ‘er done. From this little trickle of water, a mighty river is born.
If you can tell me where the Blog Headwaters are, I’ll take a photo and delete this post.
After visiting one set of the family progeny, we prepared to head northward to spend some time with the others who have settled out West. It was hard to say goodbye to everyone, especially to my little exercising buddy who also sat by me on the couch every day singing Bible songs with me. I did my best to kiss an extra layer of skin off of the faces of our grandchildren before leaving, and to keep the tears out of my eyes. We drove away but left part of our hearts behind.
North we went through steep valleys with mountains hovering over us for a long time, alongside a stream that was a times a brook, at other times a full-fledged river. There are rumors of salmons in those parts, but we never saw any. Eventually we left most of that behind, coming into the beautiful rolling hills of the Palouse and to the town nestled in the midst of those hills where the rest of our Western children live (we still have one son and his wife living in our town in Minnesota). It’s been a few years now since we’ve had to arrange for paid lodging. We have children in both Western locations who roll out the red carpet for us, letting us use a room in their homes. This is an extra heap of blessing for us on many levels.
The week filled up quickly. Our daughter and son-in-law hosted family meals at their home – much good conversation and laughter ensued. Kris got involved in re-upholstering their kitchen table chairs. This was a project that none of us had even the slightest experience doing, but by the end of the week, all four of us had invested some sweat equity in finishing them. I love how they turned out!
I have failed to mention the presence of Fred and Velma at our daughter’s home. You may be thinking of Scooby Doo, and you wouldn’t be far off, since the names probably came from that cartoon. These are the Large Cats in Residence. I call Fred, “Fatty Freddy.” It doesn’t bother him one bit, nor should it bother you. Picking Freddy up is a wonderful experience – his girth fills your arms and it’s like hugging a big cuddly pillow. Velma is a little smaller but very personable. When we came out of our room every morning, Fatty…er Freddy was always lounging just outside the door, ready for some attention.
I also got to try using some Virtual Reality (VR) equipment for the first time at my oldest son’s place (the newlyweds!). It’s a unique, mind-bending experience, like being in a 3-D theater that wraps around your mind. Later on, a few of our other kids got to try it for the first time as well.
On Sunday, we all gathered at the church to worship. I love being back in church with our children (in both locations!) speaking the liturgy, singing psalms and hymns, and taking communion together. Ah, how sweet it is.
Not unto us, LORD, no, not us, But to your name above, Bring glory for Your faithfulness And for Your steadfast love.
One last gathering for a Chinese food supper, one group photo, and the next round of goodbyes began. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Have a good trip! It was good seeing you!” And in the morning, the last goodbye to our wonderful hosts. I choked off a swelling of emotion as we turned our faces toward the Midwest and set off for home.
That’s the rest of the story.
Good night. I’ll most likely delete this in the morning.
Dear friends, we have returned after a journey of 4000 miles and oh, what wondrous wanderings we’ve had. We met our newest grandson, Baby “Odipher,” as his 2 1/2-year old big sister calls him. I am often tempted to sing the song from the musical “Oliver” when I see him. Sometimes I give in to the temptation: “Oliver, Oliver, never before has a boy asked for more…” We were blessed to be present at his baptism, at which he was perfectly composed and mellow. Not all infant baptisms go like that.
The Beloved Lucy and I developed a daily exercise routine in which she faithfully worked through the song “Chicken Fat” with me, as well as another video exercise routine I was trying out. How many of you remember the song “Chicken Fat,” sung by Robert Preston? I was explaining to my daughter-in-law that this was used in our elementary school as exercise music and decided to go ahead and play it, and as it played, I figured I might as well go through the motions. Little did I know that Lucy would be such a good sport about doing the exercises with me.
Touch down every morning – ten times! Not just now and then Give that chicken fat back to the chicken And don’t be chicken again No, don’t be chicken again.
Those of you who know the song are singing along and I approve. It’s actually a pretty good workout, especially for this older lady. My “sit-ups” were more on the order of “roll-ups,” and my “push-ups” were of the wimpy kind, but I think my jumping jacks were as good as when I was a sprightly young lass. Lucy’s attempts to follow along were unspeakably adorable. I’m not sure her parents appreciate me adding the phrase “chicken fat” to her vocabulary, though.
We went to a zoo and a YUGE corn maze while we were in that part of the country. I’m not good at mazes, so my strategy is to make sure I don’t get separated from people who know where they’re going. But for that, I’d still be lost in that maze somewhere and you wouldn’t be reading this blog post.
I’ll tell more about our adventures in the next post.
If this doesn’t get lost in the Great Maze of Blog Posts, I’ll probably delete it in the morning.
A friend gave us a tour of his garden. The flowers were on their best behavior, although some of them were definitely tired and heading to bed. The youngsters entertained and fed their own visitors. A splendid time was had by all.
I’m tired and heading to bed, too. I’ll think about deleting this in the morning.
Amazingly, when we made our way to Lake Bemidji State Park, we were on the last three parks of the ambitious schedule of 12 that my husband had made for us to finish in August and September of 2022. The plan was to hike Bemidji, drive to Itasca and stay at their lodge overnight, do the hike at Itasca the next day, have one more night at the lodge, and then finish off the hiking season at LaSalle State Recreation Area. You may be wondering why we forsook our lovely tent for this trip. Technology told us that the temperatures were going to get fairly low overnight and there was a possibility of rain. Now it all makes sense, doesn’t it?
Cleverly camouflaged hikers
The trail at Lake Bemidji was only 2 miles and was one of the few Hiking Club trails that isn’t a loop; it went out to Big Bog Lake and then back again the same way. In honor of the bogginess of it all, we will henceforth be calling this a “Bog Post.” Clever, eh? I wish I could tell you I thought of it, but that came from the funny mind of my hiking partner. He’s a witty fellow, I tell you.
The trail was wide to begin with and we almost immediately crossed over Highway 20 which was being worked on.
A bit more meandering through the woods and we came to a sign telling us that we were going to be entering the bog: The Bog Walk!
Naturally, one does not simply walk into Mordor – oh wait, I meant the Bog. If not for the boardwalk, you might end up like The Tollund Man, who was discovered in a Danish bog in 1950. There are rumors that he was a human sacrifice who ended up buried in the bog more than 2,000 years earlier, but I think maybe he was just on a hike and fell in. We can only speculate. And speaking of Mordor, it’s hard not to think about the Dead Marshes when walking through a bog. If none of these references make any sense to you, get going on reading The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien.
The Bog of Doom!
There was a sign telling us to make sure and stay on the boardwalk AT ALL TIMES and I thought, “Ha! As if I’d ever consider stepping off of it and going into the bog.” Then I saw something I wanted to photograph and realized that the best angle would be from farther back, just a little bit farther… Don’t worry, I didn’t step in to the bog at this time. But it was close.
There was a sign about the bog that was filled with poetic substance. Here’s an example: “An aura of mystery and beauty awaits you in the lowland bog. …The wind that causes the trees to sing and the upland vegetation to sway will seem absent in the more sheltered lowland bog. The quiet may be broken only by the repetitive song ‘Oh, Sam Peabody, Peabody,’ of the white-throated sparrow.” Wasn’t that positively inspiring? State park sign writers, you could take some lessons from that person. I just went to the internet to hear that sparrow’s song and although it took some imagination, I could almost hear the words.
Well, that’s enough of that little side excursion. I spotted the Great Bog Monster, too.
You see what a little imagination will do?
It’s a good thing we were walking through in broad daylight. There’s just enough Anne Shirley in me to think it would be very creepy to walk through it at night. And if you don’t know who Anne Shirley is, you’ll meet her in Anne of Green Gables, a book which you can read after you get done with LOTR. If you like her, then you and I are kindred spirits.
There aren’t a lot of blooming flowers this time of year, so I spent more time photographing tree branches (like those of the black spruce and the soft tamarack) and autumn colors.
Then there was this. Danger, Will Robinson!
I saw a plant that looked like a fright wig and to my shock, the Picture This app identified it as my old friend Spotted Joe Pyeweed from the hike at Glacial Lakes.
Oh, Joe! What has happened to you!? The ravages of age are cruel indeed. As I considered Spotted Joe and the transformation from beautiful bloom to fright wig, a song began to emerge. If you’d like to sing along, use the tune from the hymn “Fairest Lord Jesus.”
Spotted Joe Pye-Weed Worst name in all nature Pink clustered blooms On a summer’s day. Thee, I’ll remember Late in September When all thy glory turns to gray.
What with one thing and another, we made our way to the Big Bog Lake and sat for a spell, eating our Clif bars, chatting quietly so as not to disturb the “aura of mystery.”
The way back was just like the way there except slightly uphill. I didn’t notice it going slightly downhill the other way. When we got close to the end, I was rewarded with the sight of some blue jays flitting around in the open. Usually, they flee when a human enters into their space, but one of them stuck around and let me take a photo. Aww….
The robin let me get even closer. That berry looks good enough to eat!
Knee Score: 1 out of 10 on the way out, 2 out of 10 on the way back.
That’s a wrap. ‘Twould be a shame to delete all that in the morning, wouldn’t it? If it’s gone missing, look in the Bog.
I’m sure you’re all starting to feel a sort of “hiking-post” fatigue. I know I am! So here’s the next page of my project, “A Year at Providence Place.”
What a challenge this project has been for me! But I am enjoying the challenge. The thing down in the bottom right is supposed to be a bit of honeycomb dripping honey. Oh well…
I’ll probably delete this when my blog has o’er-brimmed its clammy cells.
First of all, let’s settle the issue of pronunciation. A friend had told us she thought it was pronounced “Kat-TEE-oh,” so the first thing we did when we got there was ask the lady at the park office. “Oh,” she said, “We all just pronounce it “Kathy-oh.” It’s a made-up word anyway – more about that later.
We packed up all our gear at Father Hennepin State Park and made our way over to Mille Lacs Kathio State Park, which is closer to the southwestern edge of the lake, starting the 3.2 mile hike around 9:50 a.m. It was 53 degrees, much nicer than hiking in the heat. The trail description mentioned the words “hilly,” and “one fairly steep incline,” so I decided to use my hiking poles just in case. Unlike the trail at Father Hennepin, the trail here would not take us anywhere near Mille Lacs Lake itself.
If you come to MLK, prepare to be educated as you go. There are about 30 historic sites of former Dakota villages, and archeologists have come along to do their thing in those. Lots of signs with information. You won’t actually see most of those sites on the hike – just a few.
We started out and didn’t get far before we were hearing the most jarring noises coming from somewhere in the park. It was clearly some sort of animal call, but what on earth? Were they in pain? It wasn’t long before we got to the first village, the Cooper Site, from which we could see the swampy Ogechie Lake and deduced that whatever was making that noise was out on the lake. Out in that reedy expanse, we saw some white waterfowl, which upon closer inspection proved to be swans. Well, now we know what trumpeter swans sound like. They could give peacocks a run for their money if there was a competition for most awful sounding bird call.
We wandered around the site reading signs and then went onward. Because of the Picture This app, we are beginning to feel like expert botanists, identifying plants and trees as we go.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at the next village, the Wilford Site, where there were more signs to read and more views of Ogechie Lake. We found out that the lake used to be a source of wild rice for the native peoples. At some point, the wild rice stopped growing (I don’t remember why – I think I took a photo of the information though), and now scientists and botanists are trying to find a way to bring it back. We wish them providential blessings in their endeavor.
There was also something called a “datum” at this site. I thought it was interesting but now I can’t remember why. I think I took a photo of that sign, too. We shall hope for some illumination on the topic when I review the photos. I’m too lazy to quit writing and go look at them now.
Read the sign to find out what the datum isThe DATUM
After leaving the noisy shores of Ogechie Lake, our trail brought us inland, “through the hilly hardwood forest of the Mille Lacs moraine.” Hilly, it certainly was. I was glad I’d brought the hiking poles. I now know that whenever the word “moraine” appears in a hiking description, it is virtually synonymous with “hilly.” Noted. Although you couldn’t describe the weather as getting hot (it was only 66 degrees when we finished), the word “humid,” would not have been inappropriate. I took off my jacket, which was the signal that all the mosquitos in the park were waiting for. They were especially pleased that my hands were occupied with holding the hiking poles, so they had unfettered access to my arms. Do I sound bitter?
I was keeping an eye out for that “one steep incline,” but after encountering five of them, I quit counting. Perhaps it all hinges on the definition of that word “steep.” Kris kept up a merry pace and I, as usual, was taking more photos and lagging behind, stopping occasionally after one of those steep inclines to catch my breath. The whole trail, all 3.2 miles of it, was in the shade, by the way. Very nice. While we’re having a breather, I’ll let you in on why the word “Kathio,” became the name of the park. A Frenchman named Duluth was trying to write the word phonetically that the Dakota Indians used for their great village, something like “Izatys,” but also seen sometimes as “Isanti.” So far, so good. Then someone else, who probably doesn’t want to be named, translated Duluth’s journal and in a moment of spectacular inattention, came up with “Kathio,” which doesn’t sound anything like the original word, nor does it mean anything. How embarrassing for him that his big mistake has lived on in the name of the park. He’d cringe, no doubt.
Rustic bench – nice!
I realized that I was no longer hearing the cicadas. I guess the Day of the Cicada is over already. We soldiered on through the moraine and many steep inclines later came to the end, definitely a “hallelujah” moment for me.
As we were driving out of the park, Kris decided to stop at the 100-foot observation tower and climb to the top. There was no discussion about whether or not I’d like to join him – no words were needed. I stayed in the car and did the Wordle O’ the Day.
Knee score: 6-7 out of 10. Equivalent of 14 flights of stairs.
I’ll probably delete this when the trumpeter swans quit playing their awful music.
On a bright mid-September day, we set out to conquer Father Hennepin State Park, which sits on the southeastern edge of Mille Lacs Lake. Fellow Minnesotans, did you know that Mille Lacs is the second largest lake in Minnesota? Only Lower Red Lake is bigger. This kind of trivia is sure to win you points in some circles, but probably not in mine.
We were camping at Father Hennepin, so we set up camp first and then set out boldly, picking up the trail right in front of our campsite. For those of you who care about these details, it was a little after 4:00 p.m. and 68 degrees, but the hike was a paltry 2 miles and we were going to be building an appetite for our pork chops and pesto pasta supper. We were told in the trail description that we should watch for bald eagles perched in the large trees, so our eagle expectations were high. Come along!
We got momentarily distracted by a dock along the way. Kris likes to walk out on these and think the thoughts of a fisherman. I conducted myself as usual and took photos of things that interested me.
We came to a nice little playground and swimming beach with lots of information about the park.
I grew up in Hennepin County and rode the bus downtown to Hennepin Avenue, so my curiosity was piqued by the man whose name was spread so far and wide. In fact, when I did a little internet research on Father Hennepin, I found out that he left his name behind wherever he went and places named after him can be found in Illinois, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, New York and Ontario, Canada. He was born in Belgium in 1626, became a Catholic priest, and eventually answered the call to come across the pond as a missionary in 1675. In case you didn’t do the math, that means he was 49 years old. What an adventurer! He wrote a few books about his experiences, too, but before you get all excited about that, the reviews are mixed; there are some who think Father Hennepin’s ego caused him to inflate and exaggerate what he wrote. Ha! Who would ever do something like that? 😊
We continued on our hike and I continued to look up occasionally to see if our eagle expectations would be met. Eureka! Could this be the eagle we were looking for?
And then we started up a path and saw some deer, which almost never happens on these hikes. We stopped, certain that any other move on our part would send them all scattering into the woods. But the deer at FHSP are apparently quite used to having humans around. They continued to eat as if we weren’t there and we took lots of photos.
Tree: “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” Autumn’s calling card
There were plenty of maps to guide us along the way and before you knew it, we had arrived back at our humble home, the Tent of Requirement.
While Kris tended to the meal (he does all the cooking while we’re camping!), I busied myself with taking more photos. It’s what I do. Later the sun set beautifully over the lake, and we finished the evening with a campfire.
Starting the coals is quite an exciting affair!
Knee score: 1 out of 10 (wearing knee huggers). Fairly level trail, much of it paved.
I’ll probably have to delete this in the morning due to my inflating and exaggerating habits.
I just finished reading the book The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It’s a post-apocalyptic story, not my favorite kind of story. The main characters, a father and son, are never named, nor described. There’s been some sort of world-wide catastrophe and this father and son are in what’s left of the United States, trying to make their way further south and toward the ocean where the father hopes to find others like them, the “good guys.” The father is fiercely protective of his son and they have to be constantly on their guard so they don’t fall prey to roving bands of savage people who will do anything to find food in this ashy, fruitless world – even to the point of cannibalism. I tell you, it’s not a pretty story.
But this father-son relationship left an imprint on my mind. In the midst of this bleak and harsh existence, they cling to hope, they “carry the fire.” The father knows he is dying and must trust to whatever goodness there is left, either in heaven or on earth, to take care of his son when he is gone. He continually imbues his son with hope, even when things look hopeless.
It’s hard to forget a story like that. We were camping recently at Father Hennepin State Park and sometime before sunset a father and son came and sat on a bench overlooking the lake. All I could see was their silhouettes and the image brought back to memory that father and son of the book. They stayed there for an hour or more, just sitting companionably together. It was so sweet and poignant a sight for me. If I ever read that book again (a big “if”), that’s the image I’ll have in my mind.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning, when the blog posts of this world are in silhouette against the sunrise, carrying the fire.
