Long before he became a toddler, we took our son, Aaron, on a short hike through a small riverine woodland just south of Prescott, WI, on an October afternoon. He was in my arms, small yet eager, looking over my shoulder before uttering what my late wife, Sharon, and I claimed was his first ever word: “Preee” he said. It was, indeed, for the afternoon was chummy and sunny, the leaves colorful and the currents of the Mississippi River easing by slowly.

Now, entering his fourth decade, Aaron balances his writing and theatre training into stand-up comedy routines in both English and Norwegian in his adopted home of Bergen, Norway, while studying to become a nurse. In the process he holds fast to his love of nature on long hikes with his wife, Michelle, and their dog, Storm. When I offered him my newest word of his adopted language, he knew precisely what “friluftsliv” meant, a discipline he practices whenever possible.

Pronounced “free-loofts-liv”, this translates into one’s thorough enjoyment of nature. Friluftslive was popularized in the 1850s by the Norwegian playwright and poet, Henrik Ibsen, who used the term to describe the value of spending time in remote locations for spiritual and physical well being. If you’ve spent time in Norway, and especially in the breadth of Telemark County, which includes Ibsen’s home in Skien, the county extends from seaside villas into the heights of the mountains to provide ample opportunities to soak in as much friluftsliv as humanly possible.

I can now add “friluftslive” to the Japanese term, “shinrin-yoku,” which translates to forest bathing, into my limited vocabulary. Color me guilty of loving and practicing both disciplines. Forest bathing encompasses meditative disciplines while friluftsliv seems to simply embrace the enjoyment of being in and enjoying nature. Friluftsliv was a word that came from an American-Norwegian friend, Judy Beckman, during a recent house concert here at Listening Stones Farm featuring author-song writer-musician Douglas Wood and his accompanist, Steve Borgstrom. One of their songs, she said, brought the term to life, which I can thoroughly understand since Douglas’ music is ripe with references to nature and, well, friluftsliv. 

Enjoying the beauty and peacefulness of nature comes naturally for us here in Big Stone County on the Western “coast” of Minnesota. While we lack stave churches, mountains and fjords of Norway, we do have the last gasp of the mostly extinct prairie pothole biome, meaning we retain some patches of prairie along with having several potholes or wetlands dotting a somewhat rolling landscape. Nature settings in a natural environment.

How natural? It was here that the massive glacial Lake Agassiz, a large pro-glacial lake that spread across the upper regions of the northern tier states into much of the Canadian prairielands during late Pleistocene Era, and was fed by melt water from the retreating Laurentide Ice Sheet at the end of the last glacial period. When the ice dam broke at modern day Browns Valley, it cut a huge river channel deep into the width of what became a natural prairie extending across SW Minnesota and NW Iowa. At its peak, Agassiz was larger than all of the modern Great Lakes combined, and one could suggest that Lake Winnipeg, which is longer than our current Minnesota River, is a remnant of Agassiz. If one uses his or her imagination, the remnants of that glacial activity surrounds us here both in real time and as “ghosts” of the Pleistocene.

That break at the top of what is now Big Stone Lake created the Glacial River Warren, which came rushing through at speeds scientists estimate at more than a million cubic feet per second (CFS). Warren carved out a wide and deep gorge down to the bedrock that extended from the headwaters to Mankato where an ancient mountain range forced the water northward to what is now the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers. The Minnesota resides in the bed of the ancient glacial river. Some of that exposed bedrock looms today on the landscape within the Big Stone National Wildlife Refuge just south of Ortonville, as well as hidden pockets along the Minnesota River. Friluftsliv, anyone? 

Those “ghosts?” It doesn’t take much of an imagination to recognize where and how many of the huge potholes or lakes existed before ditching and tile draining. Some of that land, like our farm, has been converted back into some restored prairie, perfect for easing into a bit of friluftsliv-friendly sanctuaries.

Also resting in carved bed of the River Warren are two separate areas of Big Stone Lake State Park. The lower Meadowbrook portion is mainly a wide swath of prairieland hosting a healthy stand of prairie grasses and other native flora. Further north is the Bonanza area with both a hillside prairie and a beautiful oak savanna — places you can take a deep breath and find calmness. I frequently practice my forest bathing in the savanna.

We will also make several nature friendly trips over the year to various state parks and NWRs, especially Sherburne and Tamarac. Earlier this week we drove to Sherburne for a last-of-the-year viewing of sandhill cranes. Visually beautiful, and adding to our pleasure was the “music” provided by both countless swans and cranes, accompanied by shrill “sallow flute” piped in by numerous bluejays along the way. Friluftsliv, anyone? 

Friluftsliv may be practiced here at Listening Stones as well, for we make several walks a week with Joe Pye through our own restored prairie. Now, in November, golden stems of six foot tall barren Big Bluestem offer us saber-like arches to meander through. In summer numerous species of native flora add color and a haven for pollinators and various bird species. Stopping ever so often, we may watch the frensied flight of a flushed pheasant, or spy goldfinches munching on thistle seeds. Even now, as November lingers, ring-billed gulls glide over the prairie, their feathers gleaming like sparkling silver. 

In these trying times, with wars raging in Ukraine, Gaza, Afghanistan, the Central African Republic, Ethiopia, Libya, Mali, Somalia, South Sudan, and Syria (have I forgot any?), along with an extended attempt of a Nazi rising within our own nation, I find a heightened need to seek whatever peace nature seems to offer. A sweet sanctuary for soothing a weary soul. Maybe my baby boy described nature best so many year ago: “Preee …” Indeed. “Friluftsliv” couldn’t have come into my consciousness any sooner. 

Ah, November. Come on, surprise us. Give us some glimmer of hope heading into the depths of winter.

Your staunch wind had settled in causing the blueish smoke from my smoker to tangle within the breeze rather than dancing wistfully above the port holes, yet inside the small salmon slabs seemed to be taking it well. This followed an evening attempt to catch a Northern Lights display which we ditched within moments at the top of our prairie, for the clouds even curtained off the moonlight. After tending the smoker this came from a friend from Ely who wrote, “What’s up with this month? Sun never shines. November is dull. But like the ‘moose turd pie joke’, I love November.”

I don’t know the joke, and I grasp to find much love for this dullness, lack of sunlight and the ever present wind, for as Edwin Way Teale pinned, “How sad would be November if we had no knowledge of the spring.” 

Yes, November is our prelude of winter. Medical folks claim January is the toughest month for us mentally here in the North Country, although I could offer a strong argument for November after such a colorful October. At best November could be considered a subtle month, a time when you seek even the tiniest glimmer of color and hope. Our colorful leaves have long blown away into the prairie grasses by those sturdy and seemingly relentless winds, and those gray skies seem empty now that most of the bird migrations have sped through our neck of the prairie. Yes, we still have some ring-billed gulls adding a glitter-like whiteness and beautiful glides through this otherwise muted grayness. 

Then, this happened. Like an unexpected peak of the sun and an umbrella of blue overhead, we were overjoyed when notified by friend, Lisa Thorson, that a 100 or so swans had descended one gray and chilly evening onto nearby Lake Eli. Swans? On Lake Eli? Was this our surprise?

Lake Eli, located on eastern defining edge of nearby Clinton, seems rather unencumbered by canoes or kayaks, so yes, the swans came as an exciting and welcomed surprise, for not much seems to happen around here outside of the annual county fair and hosting what townsfolk call the “world’s longest lasting ice golf tournament” on the shallow lake, one that has been held annually ongoing for 30 some years and draws a few times more than the town’s population each January. For their Arctic Open, holes are drilled via ice auger, then marked by recycled Christmas trees instead of poled golf green flags. 

Yet, there they were. A hundred or so swans offering us both grace and beauty by dropping from the migratory sky to cheer us on a chilly November weekend. We jumped from bed early Sunday morning to hopefully catch the swans in a prairie “sunrise” — for if our sun had broken through between two dense banks of clouds that would have been considered quite a blessing in itself.

As it was, the sun was held captive for at least another hour while the swans held forth in the misty morning. Their collective squawking filled an otherwise quiet morning sky, swan music accented by a few sudden departures that came across as brushed cymbals on a soft jazz piece as long white wings slapped the cold surface of the 160 acre lake when a few select family units lifted from the frigid waters. 

While such a migratory moment wouldn’t garner much attention on the other side of Minnesota, here in the prairie this was wonderfully unexpected, for Lake Eli is not Weaver Bottoms in the Mississippi River. There thousands of swans migrate to the open water each autumn thanks to the bountiful feeding areas in the backwater shallows. Lake Eli, with an average depth of five feet, can offer similar meals for the migratory waterfowl before freeze up. Around here many of the smaller wetlands are already coated with a layer of ice, and both Eli and Big Stone Lake will soon follow suit. By then the last of the swans and other waterfowl will be headed elsewhere leaving behind a stilled silence as we head deeper into winter.

We arrived as dawn settled in to find a large flank of the flock floating across and along the distant bank, much too far for my lens even in decent photographic-friendly light. Not in this low light, dawn-ish haze. Further up the highway we found a good number clustered against the edged water next to the highway. As we neared, though, they began easing away, meandering into the heart of Eli in clusters, some in small select family units or as a larger grouping, their long necks gracefully rising and turning to watch as they sought safety from a rogue photographer. A few took to the air to fly down the length of the lake or overhead. 

As the early morning light grew ever brighter the birds with their beauty and sounds were fine fuel for the soul. Ambient colors began to tint the mostly stilled surface waters. All those thoughts of a gloomy, cold gray November morning seemed to ease away as deep breaths came naturally. How can such a moment seem both calming and exhilarating? Especially as a cold November morning?

I couldn’t help but wonder, though, where the swans will go from here once the lake freezes over? If they even stay around that long? Perhaps to my home state of Missouri, where a couple of Novembers ago en route to our family Thanksgiving we detoured off the Interstate into the Loess Bluffs National Wildlife Refuge in northwestern corner of the state where we were pleasantly surprised to see swans by the thousands supposedly overwintering in the backwaters of the Missouri River. Swans and snow geese, both, and it was a breathtaking sight. 

For now, though, they’re floating on small Lake Eli, where on a cold January morning volunteers will trudge onto the iced-over surface to drill holes for the Arctic Open before motoring down Zero Street and the other streets and avenues in town to retrieve discarded Christmas trees. Although the swans will be long gone we’ll remember how they so unexpectedly came to give us, as poet Mary Oliver wrote, “an armful of white blossoms” —  reminders of the beauty of life on an otherwise cold and blustery November morning. 

His email was to invite me to visit his “forest”, adding a tantalizing suggestion of how it would be good for the soul. It was mid-September, back when the days were warmer and the sun seemed to paint most everything with a hint of a golden autumn hue. “It’s in the middle of a section just off the road,” wrote my friend and fellow writer, Brent Olson. While not knowing quite what to expect, it wasn’t going to be Thoreau’s Walden Pond!  Different writers, eras and environments, yet a similar need and desire. 

Some may know Brent beyond our neck of the prairie. He writes a weekly column called “Independently Speaking” he posts online and to an incredibly large number of subscribers near and far, and he has a growing shelf of books he has written. Seven at last count. Mostly essays with a novel or two wedged within. 

When we first met a few decades ago he was giving a reading from his first book at an evening chow feed in the old school in Milan as part of the annual Upper Minnesota River Arts Meander. At the time he was still proudly growing pigs which made him the second hog farmer I knew of at the time to have published a book. I thought briefly that perhaps that was a missing link in my own writing career, that I should be raising pigs. I might add that this was a fleeting thought.

Since I’ve moved into his neighborhood and we’ve become friends, I didn’t take his invitation to his 35-acre cottonwood forest lightly, for I was more than slightly intrigued by both his offer of a walk in the cottonwoods and of soothing the soul. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised Brent had a “forest,” for a few years ago he took issue with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for busily removing trees from their restored prairies in an effort to reduce perching possibilities to hawks and other predatory birds of waterfowl and to restore the land to their long removed heritage.

“I happen to like trees,” came the comment from the avowed prairieman. 

While that may sound like a contradiction, it makes Brent sort of a rascal within the premises of the prairie where for many, trees are viewed with about the same reverence as pimples on a teenager’s cheek. His reputation is that of a principled man with a streak of stubbornness, for he seemingly has no fear of paddling against the flow. Making a mark as he’s done for years with both his writing and his community service in committees, organizations and as a Big Stone County commissioner, as a politician he understands the need for a graceful compromise.  

His independent nature often forsakes previously agreed upon tracks of “suitable” timing for moving things along. He’s more likely to write a grant to jump differing timetables than convention might suggest, or to take a Bobcat afield to inadvertently build a picnic table from a huge slab of polished quartz he had lifted from a slag pile of a local tombstone manufacturer with grunts and hernia fodder into the bed of his pickup. Once home he headed off into his prairie with the slab and eight angle iron pillars he pilfered from an old grain bin to create a rather sturdy picnic table. That table now anchors what is basically a grassy triangular pheasant haven on the peninsula within a beautiful undrained and shallow 150-acre wetland he calls Olson Lake. “For the pheasant hunters,” he claimed. 

Ah, the lake and now a forest? As a third generation owner of the home farm, Brent has followed his family tradition of keeping the shallow wetland intact. On the shores of that “lake” he recently completed the construction of his “writer’s shack” from piecemeal and family relics. It’s a cozy little enclave and wood heated in the winter. Like Thoreau’s cabin, the shack is decidedly basic. By now, perhaps, you’re getting the gist, for his forest, like Olson Lake, stands as a rather defiant metaphor to common acceptance of his prairie peers.

His little forest is located a few miles to the west of the Olson home place. “My forest is the middle of the section,” he explained as we drove toward the dense cottonwood plantation. “Back then when the trees were pretty small I asked Fish and Wildlife if I could keep the trees. They didn’t seem to care back then. Now I’m being told to cut them all down. I won’t. My spirits are always lifted when spending time in here.”

The worn tracks through the cropland surrounding the trees give evidence that his spirits are often lifted.

Many of the cottonwoods are immature, small enough you can encircle the trunks with your two bare hands. Yet, you can almost imagine how his forest will look in 20 to 30 years as competition for light and soil nutrients begin to take charge, crowding out the weaker, smaller trees. Natural succession and selection. Century old cottonwoods around here stretch high into the sky with gnarly limbs towering over competitive species in the dozens of farm groves. Which of the hundreds of cottonwoods that surrounded us within his forest will reach such character and status? All part of time, natural history and mystery. Brent seems content to allow nature to take charge.

Many of the trees on this beautiful sunny afternoon bore golden leaves, while others held onto a summer greenness making for interesting color contrasts. Intermingled among the cottonwoods were a few picturesque mature willow trees near a small and “dormant” wetland. A bed of cattails gave it away. Despite an ongoing drought, the cattails, willows and cottonwoods left stranded seemed healthy. 

His forest, seemingly obstinate in its prairie setting, has a lively and lovely denseness despite the drought, and when in the midst of the timber you are surrounded by such a density of trees the adjacent prairie and cropland cannot be seen. Though we were less than a quarter mile from a county highway, and over a ridge from a major U.S. highway, the trees seem to buffer the outside noise. Thoreau’s wooded enclave? While it’s beautiful with a hillside of oaks and maples alongside a tranquil lake, those triangular woods are surrounded on two sides by multiple lane highways with the third hosting a major bed of commuter and freighter railroad tracks. Outside of his “sleepy” Concord, an incredible imagination is necessary to sense Walden Pond being peaceful and quiet, a haven for the soul.

Here in Brent’s woods you feel a need of taking in a deep, natural breath to allow the surrounding nature to settle into higher sensory levels. Sound, for one, soothed the soul as bird songs joined the soft background music of the shimmering cottonwood leaves. Adding another layer of sensory appreciation was a soft woody scent from the nearby cottonwoods. Not quite apple buttery. A hint, perhaps. As we weaved our way back through the trees toward the pickup, Brent’s “forest” was holding its own here in the midst of an otherwise rather flat and nondescript prairie. He was correct. One’s spirits could be lifted here.