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Doug Pederson’s Legacy of Wood and Art

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As a sawmill guy, wood artist Doug Pederson perhaps felt a tinge of financial joy whenever he saw me saunter through the door of his “Doug Cave” studio on the hill above Montevideo. He and other sawmill guys, and even the floor help at those box store lumberyard joints like Menards, might have sighed in relief. I’m the fellow who painstakingly looks through an entire stack of lumber before happily walking out with a board or plank that no one else would ever consider buying, character boards with odd knots and groovy grain, nicks and knocks and varying natural colors.

Pederson, who spent his Saturday morning signing copies of his newly published book of wildlife art and written thoughts in the courtyard of Java River, sold me a couple of “orphan” boards, and made at least another one into an incredible painting.

The back story: Several years ago an “ill-advised” couple talked me into building them a dining room table, so I called Don Schuck, a sawmill guy and wood artist up by Paynesville, to ask what he might have available. “Depends on what you want,” he said before suggesting he had some very nice maple that might work. 

With a free day my friend and I drove up and she thoroughly loved the grain and feel of the maple so that was a go. Don, though, had another board set aside knowing I was coming. He’s just that way. Besides having an incredible grain and color, it was also a wood that showed signs of chaffing. “Five bucks, and there isn’t another one like it you’ll find anywhere,” he said with the wiry, and perhaps, knowing smile.

Seated beside a copy of his new book, artist Doug Pederson signs a copy for a friend.

While starting to turn the maple this way and that … a key board with a dark wave resembling a flying crane would become the centerpiece … my orphan board was set aside. While intriguing, it seemed a bit short for doing much with it. One day coming in from the studio I passed this incredible board art painted by Pederson a few years before, a painting of bison where he blended the grain of the wood for the basis of a prairie mound. This is a fine example of his wood art and realistic wildlife paintings. This was a purchase either prior to or during an earlier Upper Minnesota River Arts Meander, an event he participated in from the beginning. 

After passing the bison painting the orphan was quickly placed in the pickup and we were off to Pederson’s studio where I waltzed in and handed the six-foot plank over to him. “I don’t care what you paint, Doug. And there is no deadline. Stick it someplace and see what comes to mind.”

And, I forgot about it. Literally.

Months later, perhaps years later, he called. Said he had finished a painting. That if I didn’t like it he’d come up with something different. After arriving at his studio he presented me with the orphan framed with an incredible scene of common and hooded mergansers frolicking in a rocky rapids, using the grain as waves, all framed by a branched and weathered river sprout fighting against the midstream current. A minnow is in the beak of one of the mergansers. Besides being so realistic and amazingly artistic, it was a Doug Pederson through and through. How could you not be impressed with his artistry, his magic with a brush and his keen respect of the wood grain there as a natural feature within the art?

Years ago I purchased this painting of bison where he used the natural wood grain to accent a prairie mound. His use of grain is a beautiful feature of his paintings.

Oh, there was also the time upon leaving his studio on a chance visit that he had chunks of scrap slabs in a battered cardboard box by the outside door. I picked one that possessed a lot of character, a thick piece of weathered walnut. Paid him a couple of bucks before handing it back with the same request. “Here, Doug. Paint me something.” A couple of months later he called. On the darkened slab of walnut he had painted pair of otters peaking around a debit in the wood he used as a stream-side stump. He had sliced the slab in two, using part for a base to anchor the half with the painting. A cool shimmering of bark with a perfectly placed knot surrounding the base pulled the whole piece together. Pure magic! Amazing artistry!

All of this along with a couple of spalted maple vases with wildlife portrayals came to mind as I pulled into the only parking space available within two and a half blocks on either side of the street for his signing of his newly published book, “The Art of a Hunter.” This was a book signing I couldn’t miss, not after all these years of visiting Doug in his studio, of hanging his paintings, and not after learning earlier this spring when his son, Brook, after he called for me to pick up some walnut lumber he had milled, told me that his father had some serious health issues. Too many years of unmasked breathing of fine wood dust and a horrible smoking habit.

Using mergansers and a wood sprout in the current, all in connection with the natural grain, turned this “orphan” board into a beautiful pies of art.

Despite a very chilly early September morning, the courtyard outside of Java River was standing room only. All the courtyard tables were filled with folks crowding along the side. Out on the sidewalk beyond the wrought iron fence they stood about two deep. Doug’s wife, Marie, who manned the shelves of the local library for years, and his sister, Marcia Neely, took turns reading excerpts as Doug patiently signed book after book as the line of patient friends and fans of his art continued to wade up to his table. He knew us all.

His book is a fine collection of his years of painting the prairie nature he so loves, and his many thoughts of man’s dealing with the creatures of nature, those hunted and those he lovingly observed over a lifetime as a prairie naturalist and artist. Just inside the cover are these words: “I have a hard time using the word nature as if it’s separate from humans. We are one and the same but we humans seem a little lost.”

Marie and Marcia talked about the processes this semi-reclusive artist and woodsman went through, collecting and creating the paintings included in the book before his sister told of how her now elderly and struggling brother suddenly became quite energized once he began writing the text. Perhaps it was a life enhancing experience. With help of a grant from the Southwest Minnesota Arts Council (SMAC), he and his family began curating the art and putting the text together in what became a 116 page collection. 

A walnut slab found in a cardboard box by his studio door was converted into a nice piece, with a pair of otters peeking around a flaw he used as a stump in the painting.

“Some of my best experiences happened while sitting in the woods or on the water with a camera,” he wrote. “I called it ‘catch and release’ hunting.” Something I have been doing for years, and like my long time friend, my outdoorsy-ness is more observing nowadays with my camera rather than actually paddling and fly fishing.

Times move along and there is no longer a “Doug Cave” on the hill just outside of Montevideo. Brook remodeled his and his father’s old wood shop studio a year or so ago to convert it into an Airbnb. For years Brook continued to work the family’s tree trimming business where much of the wood he and his father used for their respective art was cultivated. As times moved along, Brook no longer maintains the old family business. And his father? He just published a book on his life as a naturalist and artist, a fine reflection of his legacy of wood and art.

If interested, copies are $25 apiece and can be purchased at either Java River or by contacting Doug at scrimdp50@gmail.com/.

Prairie Harmony

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A delightful hum is providing us new music here at Listening Stones Farm. It comes from near a sidewalk from four years ago, and it comes from a native prairie garden we created beside the sidewalk a year ago. Across the adjacent patio are a pair of “strip” gardens of native plants where “blanket” flowers have created a mid-summer dominance, Across the patio is our “triangle” prairie garden where compass plants have for years bullied their way to crowd out nearly everything else. Tall and rising from the square stems are the yellow blossoms.

Bees and other pollinators have come in droves to feast on the multitudes of pollen from these plantings. Before all of this color and blissful natural harmony our lawn, a boring landscaped carpet of green covered our yard. We would have a few weeks of sparkling yellow dandelions dotted with bees. That was about it other than our nearby prairie restoration.

Initially elusive, the yellow swallowtail eventually allowed some photographic moments!

Adding to these gardens are a couple of shaded pollinator plantings alongside the house where in the past we would have had an early flush of beautiful red columbines. Initially these native plants hugged the north side of the house, then I took a spade and transplanted a few inside a little space existing inside an ancient sidewalk someone years ago laid into the soil next to our solarium. I don’t know how far the sidewalk extends. When planting the shade-friendly prairie plants we purchased from the Lac qui Parle SWCD last summer I realized a lot of the sidewalk was buried beneath the lawn, and that the concrete walkway reached at least to where our rooted horseradish dominates.

We also have our terrace garden that stretches along the west side of the house that faces the county road. Huge granite boulders were plugged into the landscaped rise where various prairie natives were planted in a narrow nook of exposed soil that is separated from the lawn with landscape fabric. Like a prairie, every year is different, and like the other plantings, weeding is constant chore.

A pair of monarchs tantalized before landing near one another.

So we have bees and other buzzing pollinators completely surrounding our home. That’s the music we hear. A hum of a natural orchestra highlighted by a variety of songbirds, from wrens to a pair of yellow warblers with a catbird and mourning doves adding a sense of sweet percussion.

Yet, I’ve not even mentioned the butterflies, whose flights might be inaudible to human ears. At least mine. 

Right now we have numerous monarchs flitting around that were recently joined by a beautiful Eastern tiger yellow swallowtail. It seemed the red admirals settled in first, sneaking in quietly, along with a variety of fritillary species. Other random species have been in and out, and I’ve found it difficult to keep up with all these beautiful visitors. Dainty cabbage whites, with their little dots displayed on the wings, have sneaked in as well

A view of three of the gardens … our new one to the right planted a year ago, the “triangle” to the left with the tall compass plants, and the peeking strip garden next to the studio.

So many of the native flowers are now in bloom that our eyes feast on color from yellow to white, bright orange to glittery purple, so when you add all of these flitting, flying colorful blossoms of butterfly wings with the hum created by the variety of bees, it is all a wonder to behold.

As mentioned, we also have eight acres of grassy prairie basically surrounding our home, although since a misguided though “helpful” neighbor mistakingly mowed down a post-burn incredible flush of flowering natives years ago, some of the joy is missing. Those flowering plants have never recovered. Oh to have retained all that incredible color within the mix of both cool season and warm season prairie grasses, our prairie would be a wonder. This was an unfortunate mistake that has haunted me ever since.

Red admirals were our first butterflies in our new pollinator plot.

Hopefully we aren’t done with our pollinator efforts. A house-long narrow strip of lawn exists between the house and terrace garden that is begging to be converted. This section is barely wide enough for the mower and simply looks awkward and, well, a bit naked. This has been a transformative strip for years. Initially a couple of large bushes existed beneath the kitchen window that we pulled out to make way for blueberry bushes. Those new plantings never caught hold, and it’s been barren except for lawn grasses ever since. 

Hopefully someday one of my favored native prairie plant friends will come for a visit to offer advice for selection and placement of plants for that area. My reaching out hasn’t worked so far, although I’m still hopeful. Why? One only needs to look at our newest pollinator plantings along the sidewalk to understand why. Because of my ignorance that patch is completely backwards. Huge bushy plants are so dominate along the sidewalk that many of the smaller species have been crowded out, or are hidden in the background. Anyone with knowledge of those plants would no doubt guffaw as did a carpenter who witnessed my first attempts at hanging drywall. 

While the butterflies add joyous color, the bees and other pollinators create the hum of the orchestra.

Fortunately the butterflies and bees don’t mind, even if we humans are crowded off the sidewalk en route to my art studio. Yet, there are those moments utter joy. 

Earlier this week I took a momentary break on our newly refurbished deck with a cup of cold sun tea when I noticed the swallowtail hovering over the blossoms. Over the past weekend I had noticed it and went to fetch the camera, though when I stepped off the deck with camera in hand it lifted quickly to fly in flitting defiance to parts unknown. Now it was here, painstakingly maneuvering through the blossoms. A pair of monarchs were traipsing between the various enclaves, and I caught sight of a red admiral on the closer blossoms.

This strip of lawn just above the terrace garden will hopefully be transformed into another vast prairie planting yet this late summer or fall.

So I fetched my camera. This time all of the butterflies were cooperative, including the moody swallowtail, and so were some bees. Our plants? They seem to bask in their respective glory, posing time after time. Eventually a round was made to each of the various gardens as a lovely calmness eased over me. With it came with the realization that over a short period of time we have created so much more than that springtime flush of dandelions, and that we can now count on hearing the hum of pollinator music over and over again, accented with our bevy of birds, creating a natural symphony as sweet and soothing as a Bach’s concerto.

Isn’t that what it’s all about? 

The Balm of Dawn

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Initially I was rather discouraged, and perhaps “rather” isn’t quite strong enough to convey my feelings. You see, I had visualized an image for a week or so after we discovered that the beautiful meadow of cone flowers in the Big Stone National Wildlife Refuge had bloomed, long enough ago that many blossoms were already showing their age. Crinkled petals, some showing brownness on the edges of the delightful pink. In short, there wasn’t much time left to capture my idea.

My intentions were rather simple, for I’ve envisioned a simple softness of fog with the defusing warmth of a rising sun providing a bit of hazy backlight to this expansive meadow of pink. Summer fog, which happens frequently in the lowlands of the prairie, isn’t uncommon over the wetlands and prairie around dawn much like it does in the Boundary Waters, rivers and lakes. This meadow is just up the rise from the broad waters of the West Pool, which is a flooded basin managed for protection of waterfowl and other aquatic avians.

A Cormorant skips across the waters of the West Pool with a dawn breakfast in its beak.

Then, there’s this: It has been awhile since I’ve ventured out for pictures before dawn, somehow losing the habit of being up to greet what the late naturalist and photographer Edwin Way Teale called “nature’s finest balm.” Yes, dawn. Perhaps it’s an “age thing.” 

My dream of a foggy image is somewhat different since I’ve photographed these cone flowers religiously since moving to Listening Stones Farm a dozen years ago. After a scorching day the thought of a rising fog had me up and into the pickup about a half hour before sunrise. My intensions and excitement took an immediate hit because a dense cloud bank was covering the eastern sky. Since I was already up and headed to the Refuge, why turn back? 

Despite my disappointment I still eased from the truck with my trusty Nikon and wandered through the grasses and flowers making a few half-hearted images. Hardly anything worth remembering. My files are loaded with cone flowers from this meadow, including a really nice senior picture of the daughter of friends. Which wasn’t the point. My visualization was the point.

I could spend hours watching Black Terns ply the waters.

Perhaps Teale’s entire quote is worth noting: “For the mind disturbed, the still beauty of dawn is nature’s finest balm.” Taking this to heart would be my new challenge. 

After a deep breath, birds of various species were seen skimming across the still waters of the West Pool while above me Cormorants were scurrying by to their secret potholes, prehistorically shaped fishers silhouetted against the colorful, cloudy canvas of sky. Solitary Great Blue Herons made curved-neck flights across the muted skies. The skies were alive! It was then I remembered catching the gaping mouth and awkward warnings from a female Night Hawk on a distant outcrop. This didn’t have to only be about cone flowers and fog.

At the far bend of the motor trail I caught a Cormorant bounce-splashing across the surface with a small fish firmly captured in its beak. Kingbirds and a Bobolink moved across the grassy prairie trying to hide from the cameraman. Ring-billed Gulls and Black Terns provided nearly an hour of entertainment at the bend of the motor trail, playing in a nice reflected, colorful light. Terns were attempting their athletic poetry of dipping their bills into the waters as they sped across the surface. This alone can capture my attention for time on end.

Flights of White Pelicans are usually delightful to observe.

Of course, being in the refuge meant White Pelicans were around, although far fewer in numbers than the cormorants. The two fishing pals make an interesting contrast in almost all ways … color, shape and beauty of flight. They seems to ply the same spaces in search of nourishment with the Cormorants diving out of sight and the pelicans often teaming up to corner their prey. It was here at the bend of the motor trail where both frequent. Last autumn I caught hundreds of pelicans in military-like formations crossing the West Pool in murderous mayhem. Squadrons of them, numbering several across, all easing eastward across the waters. The next day there wasn’t a pelican in sight. Apparently I’d stumbled upon a last feast before migration.

Eventually it was time to move along so I drove around the last big bend toward the riverside parking lot hopeful of catching perhaps a wood duck. This portion of the Refuge is along the debris choked Minnesota River. I would find a single Pied-Billed Grebe in a limb reflection and a Green Heron that posed beautifully for me. All that remained was that protective Night Hawk.

It’s always a joy to see a Green Heron, and usually they’re more skitterish.

This was certainly a delicate mission for you don’t want to unnecessarily rile up nature, and particularly such a rare bird. We had initially spied her over the weekend when we had stopped at a flat outcrop to show a former exchange student ball cacti and were confronted by the “hissing” female. While Night Hawks are graceful and incredibly stunning in flight, hovering high in the sky before diving at nearly breakneck speeds, on land their extremely weak legs make it a challenge to move. 

She was still there and immediately flopped across the granite to defend her well hidden nest. Hastily I made about a half dozen images while standing several feet away where I hoped not to be considered a serious threat. Although I tried to be quick and unobtrusive, I had no desire to cause her unnecessary strife and tension. 

The increasingly rare Night Hawk, awkward on land, defends her nest near the outcrop.

Thanks to the various birds, including the awkward Night Hawk, my dawn foray was delightful and successful. Teale’s “balm” had worked wonders. And since my dear mother once gifted me with his “Journey Into Summer” as a teenager, here’s one last Teale passage that perhaps summed up my feelings: “Our minds, as well as our bodies, have need of the out-of-doors. Our spirits, too, need simple things, elemental things, the sun and the wind and the rain, moonlight and starlight, sunrise and mist and mossy forest trails, the perfumes of dawn and the smell of fresh-turned earth and the ancient music of wind among the trees.” 

Amen!

That Hue of Blue

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Several years ago while driving toward Blackbird Trail, that winding sweetheart of a drive through the Tamarac National Wildlife Refuge near Detroit Lakes, my eye caught a lone beauty of an interesting flower that I couldn’t believe was either “native” or “wild.” Yet there stood a beautiful lone blue iris, radiating and standing tall against the greenish nearby native marshy plants … with exception of the adjacent gangly cattails.

Was this some sort of garden remnant? Did someone luckily hoist a bulb into the marsh from the graveled road? 

After returning home a little research confirmed the identification, noting that Minnesota actually has two closely related “Blueflags” or native blue irises with territories divided on a loose geographic border drawn horizontally across the state from our largest city. Iris versicolor is the northern and predominant species from the Twin Cities up into Canada while Iris virginica similarly reaches from the Twin Cities south toward the Texas coast. 

According to the scientific explanation the upstate species is typically more richly pigmented on the outer sepal edges, fading lighter towards the “throat” with veins prominently tinted toward a faded greenish yellow. While microscopic characteristics might cause a botanist to giggle, the northern iris is typically a darker blue than its faded cousin. There! Science has spoken. 

Now here is a bit of poetry, thanks to Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” — “Then we had the irises, rising beautiful and cool on their tall stalks, like blown glass, like pastel water momentarily frozen in a splash, light blue, light mauve, and the darker ones, velvet and purple, black cat’s ears in the sun, indigo shadow, and the bleeding hearts, so female in shape it was a surprise they’d not long since been rooted out.” 

Science, or blown glass like a pastel splash of velvity water, these beauties stand awash in the nearby greenery of Tamerac, catching a wandering eye like a thin metal washer drawn instantly to a demanding magnet.

While we had a free day and a will of once again hopefully capturing blooms of both the yellow and showey ladyslippers that bless this northern refuge, I also held hope that we might catch the wild blue of irises in bloom. All three wild flowers came through splendidly along with a host of other colorful wild flora. We were blessed. 

Not so much by the fauna, however. Not one songbird, including the fluttering and shy warblers, allowed me a moment. While the swans were cooperative, we had some near misses along the way: a grouse with three chicks slithered like spies deep into the trail grasses before scooting out to escape my hungry lens into the dense woods. This was just moments before I caught sight of a beaver in my rear-view mirror tugging a six foot willow branch by the clamp of his teeth while charging across the motor trail in a beaverish waddle. Like the spy-like grouse, it dragged the branch through the dense woody underbrush while successfully remaining obscured by the leafy branches. We then came over a rise to find a bald eagle posed perfectly on a branch of a dead tree. I quickly raised the camera although apparently not rapidly enough. My image was of the perfectly weathered grayish branch, a bunch of blue sky and the feet and butt of the rising raptor. Ah, but those wild irises!

It was in the midst of all that commotion that we finally came across the irises. In three distinct locations, each marshy, each different and distinct from the other. On our last sighting a broad curved broad grassy looking leaf of a plant would have made a nice arc over two near perfect younger blossoms. Without hip boots, though, my idea of making an image with a composition of the plants beneath the arc of leaf simply didn’t work. A thought of wading into the marsh with the hordes of mosquitoes was as much of a deterrent as was the possibility of sinking knee deep into the muck. Even laying onto the gravel didn’t provide the angle I envisioned. It was what it was. Welcome to nature. And those were the last of the dozens of irises we came across.

Our first batch was quite numerous, and I actually let out an exclamation of delight when they initially came into view. Time had played a role in their aging, however, with spent blossoms hanging blackish along with those struggling to grasp their fading beauty. What can one do when faced with these situations in nature? You simply do what you can. Between this incredible array of blossoms and those arching above the arc, we found another set that hadn’t aged so distinctly. Being partially shaded, it seemed, might have helped. This batch allowed me to play with light and depth of field, those tools of our odd trade. Perhaps too much time was spent attempting to create a bit of art from such a wonderful blessing of nature.

Yes, it was delightful to once again see the rich blues of the irises, along with the white and pink of the showeys. Those vivid colors of the yellow ladyslippers and the bright crimson of the columbines added joy as well. My partner, Roberta, suggested on our way home that I was smiling. Internally there was certainly a sense of peace and joy, that those six hours of drive time had been well worth the effort. 

Sometimes these seasons I photograph, be they birds, trees, prairie grasses or native flowers, help me check off a mental list. Do I need more images of wild turkeys fluffed in sexual desire, or the first poking of pasque flowers through dormant grasses after another long and dreary winter, or of those lady slippers I chase from the prairie to the northern woods as was the reason for this drive, or even the pastel waters of little black cat’s ears in the sun? As a naturalist and photographer, though, these are seasons of life, of nature, of the knowledge that for one more year all is surviving nicely in the natural world. Myself included. So yes, I was smiling! 

A Letter of Love

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Dear Audrey and Asa:

Although you don’t know one another you have more in kinship than you perhaps realize. Ties with Italy comes to mind, although I write of a deeper kinship appreciation for each of you. Audrey, you blessed me years ago with the sense of hope that is celebrated on the shortest day of the year, while you, Asa, convinced me of the joy in celebrating the gift of life on summer’s longest day. Two solstices a half year apart. 

Believe me, you two strong and beautiful women of commitment, grace and joy, who have devoted both your private lives and careers to the betterment of all mankind and our planet, for you have each humbled me. Through the years I’ve tried to honor your gifts by capturing imagery to express those two necessities of life.

2025

You, Audrey, came as a prairie activist offering a glimpse and an appreciation of a geological past that now haunts us deeply … if we are simply aware enough to pay heed to the mere ghosts of a distant geological past. Back when grasslands stretched across the lands of what is now a vast nationwide patchwork of commodity crops, back when meadowlarks and bobolinks were as common as household sparrows, when visions of bison and antelope seemed on par with today’s white-tailed deer, and when prairie wetlands dotted the landscape as numerous as the clouds they reflect on days of perfectly calm waters. Yet, it was even a deeper past that touches me in the darkness of Decembers … that of light, of a pagan celebration that acknowledges the coming of days of longer light, of hope. 

You and Richard Handeen have religiously built huge bonfires on your rural Montevideo organic farm where we hovered besides burning logs to roast thin slices of venison and huddled close to the flames reaching skyward into the vast darkness. Usually you provided us with two large fires. One near your warm summer kitchen, often filled with music being created, and one deeper into the woods where we sat on straw bales with mugs of Cabernet and glanced through naked tree limbs for glimpses of the moon or those telling stars of Orion. Over the years as my sons grew into adulthood, your Winter Solstice bonfires and camaraderie rivaled Christmas.

2024

Certainly the celebration of hope on this long, dark night grasped my interests long before meeting Asa. I now marvel of how well you two could be sisters, each aiming for hope while reaching for a clearer and better world despite the many obstacles, of how you each give tokens to both the openness and closures of the light of life. 

Asa, you came to us when we were regional coordinators for EF Foundation for Foreign Studies, a non-profit that brought high school aged exchange students to the States, of providing a sharing of family life with a stranger from another culture as if the teenager was one of our own. That’s what happened, time after time. And it was during this time, especially during the heady summer work of finding willing and suitable host families that you invited us to EF’s Boston headquarters for encouragement and, yes, a celebration of your dear Swedish Mid Summer tradition. That nod to light and joy. The Summer Solstice! Most of those celebrations were held in the EF headquarters along the Charles River and across the bridge from downtown Boston. One memorable summer you took us to your home where Rufus did the culinary honors. 

2013

A Summer Solstice comes just a few days before the anniversary of the passing of Sharon, my wife of 32 years. For me there seemed a link between the two and I started looking back at those celebrations with both joy and admiration while seeking a deeper awareness of light. Sharon would have loved those Mid Summer moments when chairs replaced hay bales, and sunshine held off darkness as glasses were clinked and smiles and fellowship were shared with friends from around the world. So I thank you, Asa, for that correlation, for that way of celebrating not just the light and joys of life, but also the memories of the brightness of being.

Nowadays I make an effort to honor the Summer Solstice in much the same manner as I have the Winter Solstice. For both I find myself “chasing” light to in some way capture the essence of light and nature in a form of positive joy.; to create an image I believe you each might want to hold for a moment, to perhaps smile and offer a word of grace and fellowship between that light, nature and mankind. 

2021

Hopefully in a some small way this capturing of light, the essence of our sun, comes across pleasantly and with the joy intended. Rarely do I begin my effort with a particular image in mind, although my Summer Solstice this year began with a lone tree on a prairie hillside. Would the sun lower in a way that would create an interesting image? Would the composition work? Would the stand alone tree be bathed with joyful light? Would joy be portrayed?

While all that might seem strange I can recall at least two instances when trying to capture light for a Winter Solstice came down to a momentary and sudden glimpse of colorful light mere moments before the darkening dusk. Struggles have occurred with the Summer Solstice imagery, too. A grouping of hovering swallows were caught in a near circle above the Minnesota River to save one day, and over the year storms have entered the pictures. But, isn’t that something you might expect in life? Despite all of our will to celebrate? Be it hope or joy? That there are storms?

2015

It has been a long while since I attempted a “love” letter, and this one is perhaps a measly attempt at one. Yet I feel I owe you each an appreciation for your individual efforts for the betterment of our lonely planet, especially in these times of national and international turmoil. I feel I owe you each a great deal of gratitude for making me notice a need to appreciate and celebrate both hope and joy. Aren’t those are what the celebrations of the two solstices are about?

Sincerely,

Your Friend Forevermore

Flirting With Destiny

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Was destiny in the cards? Serendipity? On a morning when I felt it best I be out of the house I ended up in familiar digs, leaving a favored fishing spot to raise my camera once again in nature. Funny how that works. This venture began with an eye toward an eagle’s nest near the Marsh Lake dam, one I’ve photographed a few times over the past several weeks. This is a haunting setting, a nest built high within the branches of a weathered and whitened row of cottonwoods alongside the wetland. Weathered and whitened cottonwoods line both sides of the slough.

Although the rain hampered the vision somewhat it was still easy to see the eaglets that are now perhaps as large as their parents. Both were hopping on the gigantic wooded nest, stretching their broad wings high and wide. Briefly I wondered if one would actually take flight. Across the wetland the parents were perched side by side keeping eyes on the youngsters across the way.

Swallows were buzzing around, and I loved the old log and its reflection. Would a swallow do a dip? Yes! `Stark and simple.

Then it was to the dam itself where I quickly became engrossed in trying to capture Black Terns dipping their beaks into the surface of the Minnesota River. A few weeks ago at the Sand Lake NWR I just missed capturing a swallow doing the same. In the midst of working the terns a glance skyward caught a huge pod of white pelicans gliding gracefully overhead toward Marsh Lake. Trying to capture an image from inside the cab of the pickup tested my recent lack of yoga. 

An umbrella of densely packed clouds were joined by rain pelting the windshield as I headed up the rise toward the fish-bone-surfaced gravel road. A quick glance across the lake revealed a vast horizon of acres of deep green vegetation stretching across the formerly carp infested shallow waters. A shrouded haze stretched across the vegetated waters as my thoughts turned to capturing a long string of gliding pelicans, their white bodies and black wing tips easing across this plain of aquatic flora, contrasting with the green foliage and bluish haze.

It was author Shiva Negi in his “Freedom of Life” who suggested that intention determines destiny. Would this be the time and place?

A sunset over the headwaters of the Minnesota River was blessed by two swallows, an anxious wait since the sun was sinking quickly.

While holding that thought I tucked tail and headed past the eagles toward down the county gravel. Thanks to my dear partner, Roberta, and her desire for “new roads,” I took a left at the “T” thinking I might be closer to the highway home than if I took my normal route. It was a dead end, so I maneuvered the pickup around and headed back toward the Marsh Lake road. Does intention determine destiny? There it was again, so I turned back onto the dam road to see if perhaps another pod of pelicans might glide across the lake toward the island they inhabit. That mix of stark green and bluish haze was just too strong to pass up. After  arriving at the dam, I backed the truck down the pathway on the dike and eased the window down to wait.

Within moments another long and sweeping pod of pelicans came easing across the windshield, stretching long across the horizon just as I had imagined. And, yes, they were headed up the lake in a near perfect composition. Destiny? Serendipity? Nature in perfect symmetry and harmony; an image that spoke of natural poetry!

Serendipity, for this was simply a beautiful surprise finding the swallows so perfectly placed!

Moments later, as I was heading home, thoughts of how various species of birds have blessed my images over the years by inexplicably turning mundane landscapes toward a higher level. Each time, I recalled, it was a matter of melding the natural composition with the help of some natural avian enhancement. Over the years I’ve had great help from swallows. Twice near the headwaters of the Minnesota River, and again on a foggy morning over Stoney Creek just east of Ortonville. 

Two old photojournalism adages came to mind: Animals, be they human, birds or otherwise, are creatures of habit, so if they do something once they most likely will do so again; and, always be prepared by planning your image around available light and composition. Those pelicans were a case in point, but so was focusing on a floating log believing a swallow would once again dip to sip nearby. Could I await the cruising swallows during a beautiful and calm sunset at the headwaters of the Minnesota River?

Serendipity? I believe this differs from destiny because it is typically just blind luck. Which brings me to the sweet swallows that somehow miraculously appeared in my Stoney Creek image. It wasn’t until I was back home processing a morning shoot that I actually noticed two swallows perfectly situated within the image. Even without their help, the composition, lighting, snaky fog hovering over the bend of this shallow creek would have made a fine image. That pair of swallows took it to another level. Pure luck!

Destiny? As if Negi was correct on his definition of the word, the pelicans appeared to ease across the Marsh Lake horizon!

That, I believe, is the difference between the two. There isn’t much you can do about serendipity while destiny requires knowledge, patience and a will to succeed. Certainly there is some luck involved. Would another pod of pelicans come back over Marsh Lake that morning? Having seen two different pods fly in that direction gave me hope that another on might come through. I was more than willing to wait awhile, and truthfully, it was less than a minute after I’d parked. This was one time when patience wasn’t needed. I knew the image I wanted and had placed myself in position if and when it might happen. 

Just as Negi had proposed. My intentions had won out resulting in a pleasing image. No, this wasn’t the first time where my feathered friends have helped me create an image that I’d mentally conceived, and I can’t thank Mother Nature enough for all these gifts and blessings she has granted me through the years. Certainly I’ll take serendipity when offered, yet I’ll opt for destiny when intensions are warranted. 

Hope Within Mourning

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This wasn’t an intentional gathering of us “brothers from different mothers,” although we were together to honor the passing of a special woman we considered as one of the “mothers” of our shared advocacy and love of a muddy and polluted Minnesota River. We stood in the commons area of the church, some in our jeans and worn, aged shirts probably scanned an hour beforehand to see if they were stain free. 

Several moments into our mutual greetings and acknowledgments of our few fishing stories, Audrey Arner, another long time clean river advocate, walked up to suggest,  “Guys, this is like old home week.” Indeed, we were a familiar bunch, had been for years. All around us were so many others who have been part of the advocacy.

Among them was Butch Halterman, a long time “river rat” who was well respected as a Montevideo senior high science teacher for his unrelenting knowledge, spirit and resolve; a man who for several years escorted groups of high schoolers in canoes from the headwaters all the way to its confluence with the Mississippi. 

An overview of the siltation from both Hawk Creek and Yellow Medicine rivers that have choked off the original channel to the right, leaving a deep siltation between that and the new channel to the left.

There was Ron Hanson, who has written a few tough songs he must be persuaded to play, who lives alone in the nearby prairie where he grows some impressive long-thorned cactus plants. A narrow but simple path snakes through the rooms and narrow hallway past the seemingly hundreds of evil looking cacti, and a dire warning that this isn’t a place to bend over emerging from a bath.

Up from New Ulm was Scott Sparlin, who was instrumental in organizing a clean river group called the Coalition for a Clean Minnesota River. Butch, Ron and I had at one point served on the board of a sister river cleanup non-profit called Clean Up the Minnesota River (CURE). Noticeably absent on this day of mourning was its long time CURE leader back in the day, Patrick Moore, who recently had moved to Montana with his wife to be close to the families of their two daughters and grandchildren. 

Back in the “old days” when dozens of canoes and kayaks were on the prairie rivers in May.

Our church gathering was to honor the late Shirley Werhspann, wife of Del. Collectively they were as responsible and as active with the Minnesota River cleanup efforts as the rest of us. Moore actually credited Del as the muse for creating CURE, initially under the auspices of the Land Stewardship Project. All this organizing came in conjunction with a ten-point action agenda to save a threatened river offered by then Gov. Arne Carlson. It was a heady and strong effort for more than 20 years.

“I no longer feel apart of the river,” Butch admitted, although he still has a cabin of sorts and a landing just downriver from Preen’s Landing. Yes, he still fishes both in the open currents and on the ice. “Used to be a brotherhood, a family of us, and we were all on the river. No more.” 

Nowadays, not so much. Perhaps age is part of it, moves another. So has the politics and change in the direction of CURE. “It’s now electric cars,” he laments. “Not so much about the river.” 

An evening of catfishing on a bend of the Minnesota River.

Indeed, not much has improved since all this started back in the early 1990s. Indeed, the river seems to face even greater threats. At Skalbakken County Park, for one example, standing in the picnic shelter back then would have seen the river channel ripe against the tree-lined north bank to the far right of the shelter. Heavy boulder riprap was peppered along the bank beneath the shelter to protect the park from being washed away by the incoming flow. Thanks to some extremely wet years, patterned tiling and an insistence on flushing spring melt from fields of commodity crops, the channel is now to the far left as siltation several feet deep has closed off the original channel. Between the former and present channels, this thick “island” of silt now has emerging willows and prairie weeds sprouting. Further down river the increase of flow has sliced a new channel through the riverine prairie, speeding waters past many of the former serpentine bends to create shallow oxbows.  

So much change, so rapidly, that Heraclitus’ statement, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man” rings both too close and truthful. Yes, the river has changed and so have we, as we, individually, enter the last one percent of humanity. In a few words, “We’ve grown old.”

“River rat” buddy, Tom Kalahar, fishing on a Minnesota River sandbar.

There we stood, the group of us along with some other grayed river advocates, awaiting an official mourning of a woman known as an “animal whisperer” and forceful advocate of a cleaner river and environment. Our little group had met numerous times in her kitchen talking river politics over her delicious home baked cookies, of how to better our efforts and how to remain strong while surrounded by a seemingly uncaring and unbending agricultural community. At one point she worked on Congressman David Minge’s statewide staff working as a local organizer and scheduler. Shirley was as strong politically as she was so kind hearted to us, and to her horses and other pets. For years she and Del ran a boarding kennel that was highly praised thanks to her tender and loving care.

Minge, it should be noted, helped craft perhaps the strongest soil conservation program along with Iowa Senator, Tom Harkin, called the Conservation Reserve Enhancement Program that placed nearly a million acres of vulnerable farm land into perpetual retirement. He was also on the original CURE board of directors.

A closeup image of clean water from a protected tributary as it enters the muddy Minnesota River.

In time we ambled in for her last rites, taking seats, singing hymns and offering prayers. Later, in the church basement over a lunch of a tatter-tot hotdish, our conversations continued. Among them came the offerings of new promise, of a river wide conference scheduled in Mankato, where the muddy and polluted river takes a severe turn northeast toward the confluence with the Mississippi. Like in the past, the “old” Butch, Audrey and Richard Handeen were all encouraging us to once again to join together with Scott and the downriver folks to inspire change and better conservation efforts — some 35 or so years since the first such efforts.

While the effort is hopeful, is there still enough fight and resolve to make a difference? Perhaps Scott Sparlin has a new youthful grouping than we found in the church that morning. In the old days, when we were young, those resolves weren’t even a consideration. We simply made up our minds and took to the river, in canoes, in meetings, gatherings at various county parks, and group paddles on not just the “mother river” but also the five tributaries. We fought with protests and in the courts, and we took our battle to St. Paul. We worked with other down river groups all the way to Lake Pepin on the Mississippi.

An evening moment on a quiet bend of the Minnesota River.

Back home on the rivers, my late wife, Sharon Yedo White, one of our exchange students (Luise “Lucy” Hille of Germany) and I all earned our “Prairie Paddlers” patch then granted by CURE — a colorful cloth patch signifying that we had successfully paddled all six of the upper prairie rivers.

Those were the days. On a single weekend in May we would gather in dozens of canoes and kayaks to paddle the rivers, then in September we would close the paddling season with a relaxed fall trip just as the leaves would be coloring, which they seem to do earlier close to the river, when the air would be a bit crisp with the approaching waters reflecting a blueness and sense of clarity we all hoped would someday be normal. Back when the river was a part of each of us. Now, perhaps, a new hope will emerge.

On Thursday, June 12, the 17th Annual  Minnesota River Congress will meet at the Kato Ballroom in Mankato starting at 6 p.m. Sparlin continues the batttle as the facilitator of the event, which besides two strong panels will feature Joseph Barisonzi, Minnesota state vice president of the Izaak Walton League, as a speaker. His topic: “The River Can’t Wait.” Barisonzi also is curator of the chapter’s Kouba Gallery in Bloomington, MN, where my current exhibit, “Haunted by Waters” is now on display — a fitting coincidence. 

Grasping Joy

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Can someone find joy in the South Dakota mudflats? It was Dutch theologian Henri J.M. Nouwen who suggested that joy doesn’t simply happen, rather that is it is something we must choose. Or, find. This thought surfaced recently and caused me to think of what in nature could give me joy. Nature is where I typically turn when that spark of joy is necessary for soothing the soul. 

This thought happened to occur in the midst of a conversation about American Avocets I was having with our head librarian, Jason Frank, who is a dedicated birder and naturalist when he’s away from the stacks. We were chatting about my inability to find one of my favorite shorebirds when he suggested the mudflats around Sand Lake NWR about two hours west in NE South Dakota. With an empty afternoon ahead of us, we headed west.

First came the Avocets, which we found in a flooded field depression not far from Houghton just a few miles from the Sand Lake Refuge. That pair would be the first of a beautiful handful of shorebirds that would occupy our afternoon, and yes, all contributed to blissful joy.

Ah, an American Avocet — our target in the search for joy!

Yet, it was the Avocets that drew us across the prairielands. I’d been missing them. Literally. Earlier this spring there was a brief gathering at the Big Stone NWR where Frank had spotted and photographed a flock he found wading alongside the river. Knowing my love, he had alerted me the following afternoon with his photographs and pinpointed where they were wading. I rushed to the Refuge only to find a locked gate and smoke rising from the thousands of acres of prairie grassland. A spring burn was underway, and continued for the next day or two … just enough time for the flock to fly elsewhere.

Refuge biologist Brandon Semel noted a week or so later that we are actually on the very eastern edge of their natural territories. This was after I had spent a few trips searching the area wetlands where I’d photographed them last summer. Which led me to this more recent conversation with Frank. Like, “Where can I find Avocets?”

Nearly all the flats had sandpipers.

My attraction to these beautiful waders is a strange love story. Back when I was in a forgettable career stretch with a Minneapolis-based ad agency, I found a piece of cottonwood at the studio of a wood artist friend, procured a few wood carving tools and went to work whittling away both wood and ad agency aggravation — whittling away the late night hours when I should have been sleeping. It was during this hobby moment I came upon photographs of this brown-headed beauty of a shorebird with the thin, upcurved bill. My carving was of a rather non-nondescript assemblage of a shorebird and nowhere close to an Avocet. One slip of the knife would have quickly made their narrowest of bills another shaving.

The sandpipers continued to fly first one way, then back.

It wasn’t until a couple of years ago while on the annual Salt Lake Birder’s Tour that I saw my first real life Avocet, thanks to Lac qui Parle SWCD manager Rhyan Schicker. Just before the annual kickoff breakfast she told me there were several wading in a flooded farm field just east of Marietta, home of the annual birding mecca. I rushed out and there they were, even more beautiful in person than in the guide books and magazines. I returned over the next few days for more photographs. Then, the next couple of summers they hovered around here, particularly near some mudflats up by Barry, MN. Not this year, though. We’ve had no rain so the lowlands are bone dry.

Frank suggested the Sand Lake possibility. Over the years this interesting refuge has yielded some nice images, although many hours of stalking the “teapot” flying Woodcocks went sorely unfulfilled. Although our little afternoon foray started with a bit of disappointment when we discovered a formerly quite active Blue Heron rookery abandoned. Finding the Avocets turned the tide. Fortunately no highway patrol came upon us, and that the motorists who whizzed by were so understanding and kind. We had parked as close to the road ditch as possible with my lens sticking out the window, yet half the car was still in the road.

Finding this Black-necked Stilt was an unexpected joy!

Our luck and joy would continue. As we came upon the eastern edge of the Sand Lake Refuge we found different flocks of Sandpipers, each being skitterish and prone for quick flights and returns. Then we happened upon a solitary Black-necked Stilt. Far more common to the American Southwest, the guidebook offers only a pencil thin width of territory this far east. We were in it. Joy!

Between the Stilt and the Sandpipers we were enjoying all the offerings as we crept along the shallow waters. When Sandpipers can wade without the water touching their bellies, they’re wading in quite shallow waters. With the taller birds like the Stilt and Avocets it’s difficult to judge the depths. So we merrily wiled away the afternoon before we happened upon pair of White-faced Ibis further down the road. 

As a final capture were the White-Faced Ibis, sharing a mudflat with a sandpiper.

With our past years of wet spring weather the Ibis seemed fairly comfortable around our area of Minnesota. On that Salt Lake tour a few years ago numerous Ibis were seen at several sites, their bills, unlike the Avocets curved  downward. They flew in mini-V formations from one standing water site to another. This  year? Not a single sighting until we happened upon them in the Dakota mudflats, where they meandered thoroughly unconcerned with the odd guy with the long bazooka of a lens sticking through the car window. Nor was the solitary Sandpiper keeping them company.

Perhaps it would have made wonderful sense to stick around until sunset. However we decided to move on toward home and leave the birds behind in their shallow mudflats. We had been greeted by an Avocet prelude and given benediction by the Ibis, which might mean very little to many. For us sitting in our car on this roadside nave, there was a thorough sense of joy within the high skies of this prairieland “cathedral.” As Nouwen had suggested in his writing, we had chosen our sense of joy and had gone to find it.

Unbroken Gifts

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Poet Mary Oliver penned this on the beauty and joy of Trout Lillies claiming they’re a “gift that can’t be broken.”  Often those “gifts” are hidden as if a Mother Nature was intent on hiding something special for Christmas. Such were my thoughts as we sauntered down the boardwalk steps toward Hidden Falls at Nerstrand-Big Woods State Park in search of this rare gift. It was a promise that seemed bleak when we passed two older women who on their way back up the hilly path. 

After greetings were shared, along with some good wishes for the one who admitted she was making her first state park adventure since a hip replacement surgery, she asked, “So what are you photographing?”

“Hopefully some Trout Lillies,” I said. 

“Oh, my! You’re much too late! They’re long gone,” she said rather adamantly.

Suddenly a Sandhill Crane flew across in front of us.

What discouraging news, for our heading to the park on this late Sunday afternoon was in search of the delicate and beautiful native wildflowers sequestered within a mere three county area at the iceless lip of the Driftless. Nerstrand-Big Woods is one of the few remaining public locations. Officially, they’re endemic to the Cannon River and North Fork Zumbro River watersheds in Rice, Goodhue and the extreme northern edge of Steele County. We were where we needed to be.

This unexpected photo journey was part of satisfying my need of venturing into nature, a feeling that has been clawing at me for awhile. We were in the Cities for the artist’s reception of my “Haunted by Waters” exhibit at the Kouba Gallery located on the sacred grounds of the Izaak Walton League on the bluff overlooking the Minnesota River. This is about an hour north of the Nerstrand-Big Woods. Yet, even before leaving home my sights were set on the Sherburne NWR for Sandhill Cranes. Sherburne is my “Mall of America”, and if Trout Lillies could be added to our weekend foray, the gifts would be astounding.

After a dire warning, we found Mary Oliver’s gift.

We left Listening Stones Farm early Saturday morning for the three plus hour trip to Sherburne and made it just in time for a quick and picturesque picnic lunch beneath the canopy of towering oaks. We were then off into the motor trail, a “timeless” meander that makes one wonder about the limited vision of others as we were seemingly constantly being passed by other cars speeding by. Were they oblivious to the colorful yellowish Hoary Puccoons and early blooms of deep blue Lupines, or the nesting swans and hopeful sightings of the nearly perfectly camouflaged Sandhill Cranes? 

Admittedly, we were moving rather slow, fighting our initial disappointment of being past the halfway point without a single crane sighting. About then we spied a pair feeding near a far distant wetland. Too distant for a workable photograph. Then, suddenly, one flew across the road right in front of us and was caught mid-frame! Rejoice! Seconds later, its mate followed. Another smile. After that the crane sightings increased significantly, particularly on the due south straightaway of the motor trail where dozens were found feeding in a swampy prairie meadow. One even played “king of the hill” by standing erect on a muskrat lodge. 

Yes, I erred to step across a rope barrier, but, hey …

At one point, though, after photographing numerous prairie-based wild flowers, I mentioned it was too bad we hadn’t seen any Trout Lillies. An instant Googling of its natural history indicated we were far from their natural habitat yet within the limited time frame of their blooming. A temptation had been launched. What could be better than capturing Sandhills and rare Trout Lillies along with being honored for an exhibit of my water images?

It wasn’t until a lull in our artist’s reception that I suggested to Roberta that we venture to Nerstrand-Big Woods. The park was only an hour south, although it was in the opposite direction of home. Our’s would be a long and late trip home. She was game especially since she had often camped at the park with her late husband, Harland, whose disabilities prevented them from actually visiting Hidden Falls. Now she could catch the falls, and me hopefully, the Trout Lillies!

That was where we were when we encountered the two women and their dismal warning. Strangely enough, moments after our passing and further along the trail my eye caught some strange looking elongated white triangles clustered within the plant canopy. As I was focusing my lens Roberta asked, “Are those your Trout Lillies? Look underneath them.” Sure enough, for below those triangles were the characteristic yellowish, white tendrils. Nirvana!

Oh, yes … Hidden Falls at Nerstrand-Big Woods State Park.

So indeed, we were not too late. A sense of relief eased over me, for despite the woman’s forecast, a friend, Ted Suss, whose farm is nearby, had told us after we’d decided to venture to Nerstrand-Big Woods that there were “Trout Lillies everywhere.” Up to this point, though, we had been “skunked.” No, they were no longer everywhere, so the two women had almost been correct, for the plants were near the end of their blooming cycle. Yet, what joy. What a gift! 

And, Hidden Falls was not disappointing despite the small water stream. When we first arrived a young teenage couple sat quietly and lovingly, arms and emotions entangled, watching and listening to the cascading falls in a silent euphoric state of first love — that overwhelming feelings they’ll likely not experience again. As we two couples shared a splendid and reverent moment, another couple, about half our age and twice the age of the teenagers, burst from the trail with their teenage son. They suddenly stripped to their skivvies and leapt into the chilly waters, laughing and splashing as if they were children. Though the quiet was lost, the teenager lovers giggled, as did we. Their’s was a celebration within a moment of life … as was ours and the loving teenagers. 

Our parting image from Sherburne, the “king of the hill!“

Eventually we turned to head back toward the parking lot, stopping when we reached the small patch of lingering Trout Lillies. Perhaps I broke a park rule by stepping across a rope barrier to kneel into the greenery for a closer, low angled image of Oliver’s delicate gift. 

It was an image that sealed a treasured weekend; Roberta finally seeing her long desired view of Hidden Falls, and me with my varied moments of nature. Those images of Sandhill Cranes and Trout Lillies added greatly to my celebration of personal joy with the exhibit; some hopefully expected, another unintentionally gathered — all gifts that will keep on giving!