Last week a dear old friend, Mardy Wilson, wrote me from Fort Collins, CO, to say her son-in-law, Neil Kaufman’s first novel, “Upriver Journey”, was published, and asked if I would read and review his book. A few days later it arrived from Amazon, and being between books, Kaufman’s novel was opened to words of new and interesting adventures.

It was hardly surprising that his story was about both his home country along with his love of fly fishing. His tale of two Wall Street investment bankers being sent to Colorado and Wyoming for a week long wilderness and mental retreat was both intriguing and well written. His descriptions of fighting trout in various locations and waters was excellent, for Kaufman put a fly rod squarely into your hands from the cork grip to the pulsating feverish action at the end of the line. Few writers have taken one so deep into the backing.

Then, on page 399, two of his characters, wilderness guide Amanda and protagonist Michael, as they were discovering their mutual interests, found themselves on tubes on a small Wyoming lake when an incredible and magical moment in time occurred, and as his descriptive words unfolded so did a remembrance of a similar experience. It was an evening when Lake Linka exploded, of art mirroring life.

But first, here are the excerpts from Neil’s book that brought that memory to mind:

“Whips of moisture create visible currents in the air as they move between Amanda and me. Looking skyward, I see the sun’s orb bleeding through the fog like a cloaked spotlight. Refracted light illuminates the moisture, adding a shimmering quality to our surroundings.

“A set of concentric rings appears a few feet to my left and another directly in front of me, then two more the right. They seem too small to be fish. Perhaps we’re at the dew point as moisture is condensing into minute droplets falling to the water’s surface. I turn my cheeks to the sky, anticipating little flecks of rain that do not come.

“Another half dozen sets of small concentric rings disturb the otherwise still surface before the refracted sunlight catches on a tiny glistening fleck rising straight above the water. Two more appear. Suddenly, dozens of them dot the surface and the still water surrenders into little waves crisscrossing one another. Dozens become hundreds as the water boils with activity … with neither splash of water nor flutter of wing, thousands of tiny translucent mayflies ascend the surface of the lake … ”

His was a description of a wilderness morning while mine came late on a May afternoon on a Glacial Shield lake a few years before; on an warm summer evening much like when we met while visiting my former Denver Post colleague, Mardy. Neil and Mardy’s daughter, Erin, came to visit with us along with my son, Aaron, and his wife, Michelle, from Norway. I remember Mardy and I both so pleased our children seemed to meld so easily in friendship and conversation much as we had nearly 50 years before. Indeed, Neil and I would talk about fly fishing and the nearby rivers. And, now, nearly two years later, his book has arrived.

Indeed, the time of day on Mardy’s patio corresponded with that late May evening back in 2021 when Linka exploded in much the same way as Neil explains that magical, unexpected moment in his novel.  It was late enough on Linka that the sun was perfectly positioned as dusk neared. Linka is a shallow lake, especially along the outward southern bow, and is within the first reaches of the Shield. 

Across from the cabin where I was staying, and almost directly in front of the Griffin Farm toward the west of what is now in Nature Conservative-ship, the hatch began slowly with dozens of tiny pops of light glittering in the approaching dimness of dusk. On the surface, and rising a few feet above the blackened waters came the sparkling pops of light, first with a few, then a few more. It was astonishing to watch, and I quickly rushed into the cabin for the camera as more of the pops came, all highlighted and sparkling in the last remnants of the setting sun.

Dozens became hundreds, and hundreds became thousands all across the western surface of the shallow lake. Oh to have had my kayak in the midst of the mayfly hatch like the fictional Michael and Amanda, yet simply watching it occur was an awesome experience. Sparkles of light illuminated the surface, rising a few feet in the air, covering acres of the water. It was as Lake Linka was exploding with life, and it was. Moments later, almost as suddenly as it began, the hatch ebbed, much as Neil had described in his novel. Then it was over. 

Watching the mayfly hatch the night Linka exploded still makes me wonder if there was an incredible feeding frenzy as Neil writes about in his novel. Trout are rather selective eaters so to fish effectively you must “match the hatch,” which differs somewhat from warm water fly fishing where fly action is often manipulated with the rod or line. Was that hatch that came and ended so quickly beyond the consciousness of most of the Linka fish? Ah, the mysteries of nature. How would one know?

Unlike Neil Kaufman’s Amanda and Michael, my life of love on Linka ended abruptly a few months after the hatch and I’ve not returned. I’ll never know if that moment was truly unique, or if it was one of those being there at the right time moments. Does it happen on other Minnesota lakes? I’ve fished and canoed waters from the Iowa border to the Boundary Waters for years without observing a similar hatch, so I’m ever so thankful for that wonderful memory of the one magical moment of the evening when Linka “exploded.” 

A portion of my heart was broken last year when news broke that one of my favorite state parks, my one time “home” state park … Upper Sioux Agency … was about to be closed. Immediately plans were made to make one last visit before the actual closing, which occured this past weekend. Somehow a mistake was made on my end for I thought it was in mid-March rather than February. While I will miss the park, there are now no misgivings about the future of that land for it is being returned to the Dakota tribe. For many good reasons.

This, though, doesn’t dismiss what many of my friends felt was long-kept secret in St. Paul, and a decision that was seemingly made minus local input.

Politics aside, I will miss this stretch of public park alongside the Yellow Medicine River, the teepees in a campground along with some beautiful wooded campsites next to the river, as well as the high, tree-lined hill beside the “pull out” on the upper end of the park that stretched along the Minnesota River. I cannot count the number of times fellow writer, Tom Cherveny, and I used that pull out to conclude canoe and fishing trips down the Minnesota. Oh, and of all those catfish and walleye caught in the upriver bends and at the confluence of the two rivers, that triangular strip of earthen prairie sod that came to an ever-narrower point with each spring melt.

My first time at the park was to cover what some 30 years ago was the annual opening area-wide high school cross country meet on a late August afternoon, held on the hilltop where the old agency building stood fast. Little did I know of the historical significance of that building and the park at the time, nor did I learn of the angst of the local Natives until years later when a carload burst through the admission gate during a park event held with an intention to recognize that history. “We ain’t paying to come onto our own land!” came the anguished cry. 

That cry served to awaken me to a realization that as we move into the seventh generation since the War of 1862 between the Dakota and the immigrant white settlers, some of which occurred right there on that very hill overlooking the joined river valleys, some nerves were still raw. Yes, this land retained ghosts of a deeply troubled past. 

Not long after that introduction via the cross country meets our family began visiting the park perhaps a half-hour distant from our small town to camp, canoe and enjoy the incredible mix of nature, all accompanied by that grand and rarely quiet singer, the Dickcissel. No matter how many times a trip was made from the campground to the confluence, and mostly by foot with either a fly rod or camera, the loud songster was perched on the adjacent farmer’s barbed wire, fencepost or treetop, chest protruded and head arched back, blaring an operatic prairie song from deep within it’s inches-deep, feathered soul! 

Over the years we took carloads of foreign exchange students to camp there, for they were usually quite excited to spend a night or two camping in an iconic teepee. They would generally pair off for long walks, often climbing the hill to the park office at the top, or meandering along that dirt road to the confluence beneath the songs of the Dickcissel. One morning I cooked a breakfast for the group that included a package of peppered bacon, and when Jordan, the first or second grader daughter of dear friends, came through at the front of the line she piled the entire stack of bacon onto her plate. She’s been known as the “bacon thief” in the 20 plus years since!

On one deeply dark moonless night artist Joe Hauger set up his sky-scopes and did his best to point out those invisible (to me) constellations high in the night sky. In the end I could connect the dots but simply couldn’t see the inwardly connective tissue, those mythical shields, robes and arrows. I suppose in a few years it won’t make any difference, although just once … once in my 80 plus years of life … I’d love to identify, see or simply acknowledge Orion or Scorpus, or any damned thing beyond the Big Dipper!

On another day another artist, Ashley Hanson, with the help of a cast of local river rats, created a “river play” that could only be viewed by canoeing along various stopping points of the Minnesota that concluded a final two acts at Upper Sioux. Somehow she convinced an at-the-time fellow country newspaper editor, Scott Tedrick, to star in the play dressed to the “nines” in a beautiful blue prairie dress! 

Yet it was the quiet times with my late wife, Sharon, and our sons, Jacob and Aaron, that I most remember, of walking down that dirt road with our fishing poles to the confluence, then coming back near dark often with a stringer of fish that I would fillet with the headlights of our car; of how we would sit quietly in camping chairs watching fireflies buzz in the dry prairie grasses, sipping cold beer or wine. Once on a very cold and sunny winter day we brought the boys down to enjoy the sled hill at the entrance when one trip of trudging back up that hill dragging both the sleds and a boy each was considered a one and done. Have canoe trips been mentioned?

It was here we witnessed our first of many Wacipis, powwows hosted by the Native Dakota in the horse campground on the other side of the park, complete with hot frybread, beautiful drum songs and jingle dresses. It was our introductions to the Native culture and wasn’t taken lightly. Ever.

My last visit came long after Sharon’s untimely death when I came with a new woman friend with our newly purchased camper. We were to meet some of my Missouri family in the midst of their “Laura Ingalls Wilder” trip through the Minnesota and South Dakota prairie with my hopes that they would join us at Upper Sioux. Their’s was a different agenda, although we did meet for dinner in nearby Olivia. We two had ample time to explore the park in our wait, although this was years after a rain-dampened landslide had permanently closed the state highway between the lower campground and the hilltop headquarters. My hope then was to once again visit the canoe takeout but we found the long winding road down the hill chained off. Yet, the prairie was alive, and I would spend most of an uneventful afternoon playing photo “tag” with a yellow warbler. 

Yes, I again went fishing, and we were once again serenaded with an operatic prairie song by a feathered diva, yes, an ever present Dickcissel, and actually saw one of the few Meadowlarks in all my many years here in the “prairie region” of Western Minnesota. And, the Minnesota was sparkling in the late afternoon “Monet light” with beauty and poetic color, and I viewed that upriver bend unknowingly for the last time. The beauty preceded a deep sigh or two one has when meeting an old friend. Then, on our last day, much of an approaching evening was spent trying to create a good image of one of the teepees for a friend who lived in nearby Granite Falls. 

For many years … numbering close to 20 overall before moving upriver to Listening Stones Farm … the Minnesota River bottom was my home away from home, and Upper Sioux Agency State Park was my anchor. This is where I would come after crossing through the uncountable farm fields on mostly gravel roads to where the waters of confluenced rivers roamed, where old, soulful trees lined the banks and adjacent hillsides, where one could find nature’s beauty and sense the soulful depths of a riverine landscape. 

Now the old state park has been rightly reclaimed by Dakota for all those reasons and more, and it is time the rest of us moved along. I’ve heard the plan is to finally demolish the old Agency Building, a bastion to centuries-old ills of racism and genocide, and to close the former park to those outside of the Tribe. According to news sources, the Department of Natural Resources have discussed plans for a new state park within the area. Although there might one day be a replacement park, perhaps the word “replace” is the wrong word. In, these, my farewell thoughts, I must say thanks for many cherished memories.

Once again the wind is blowing. Gale force? Perhaps not, since that would be in a range between 34 knots (39 mph) to 47 knots (54 mph). At least not consistently. Yet the sound and feel is such that it is surely lifting soil and blowing dirt, and thanks to the recent thaw, not much of this continual erosion will be visible since snow provides a convenient contrast. Rest assured, though, that dirt is shifting and that some of it will blow into the adjacent road ditch and perhaps even the distant ditch across the road.

There are ample examples all across the western prairie region.

Down the road apiece, just past our little eight acre prairie, we have evidence of displaced dirt. Between the field and the edge of the road blown dirt covers what little snow that has yet to melt. Driving through the “black desert” — basically within the Hawk Creek Watershed in Chippewa and Renville Counties — dirt covered ditches on either side are a common sight on both highways 7 and 40. 

Unfortunately wind-blown dirt erosion is far from centralized since friends traveling beyond our state borders  have witnessed “snirt” … a word that combines “sn” of snow with the “irt” of dirt … in Iowa, Nebraska and Kansas. Recently some have taken to calling the eroded dirt “snoil” that combine snow with soil. Whatever the moniker, it is a tragic loss for now and especially for future generations who may be dependent on whatever soil is left to grow food.

One of my long time friends, Kurt Lawton, former editor of Soybean Digest magazine, suggests that every farmer and land owner should be required to read “Dirt: The Erosion of Civilizations” by David R. Montgomery. It’s a telling and fascinating book of non-fiction that describes the many “civilizations” that have been ruined and lost because of the erosion of dirt dating back before the birth of Christ. He also points out and warns that we are now farming (growing food, and yes, ethanol) in the “last frontier” of tillable soils, and adds quite pointedly that we’re still “treating our soils like dirt.”

It was after reading Mongomery’s book in 2014 that I began to collect roadside images of wind blown eroded dirt on snow that led to creating my Art of Erosion exhibit, which has now been in numerous exhibitions around the states of Minnesota and Wisconsin, from the annual MOSES (Midwest Organic and Sustainable Education Service that is now called Marbleseed) gathering in La Crosse, WI, to being included in the Water Works traveling exhibition from the Smithsonian. Add a few gallery walls and conferences to the list. A commonly heard comment in those varied exhibitions is, “ … this is so beautiful yet so ugly.”

Initially my images were centered around erosion in Big Stone, Lac qui Parle, Chippewa and Renville Counties of SW Minnesota. Since, more images have been added from Stevens, Swift and Yellow Medicine Counties. Some of my earlier images have been pulled from the original 24 as newer and perhaps more compelling ones have been gathered. There is seemingly no end to the addition of more imagery. A few year ago it I included a white farm cat clustered with dirt along with dirt-crusted, in-town Christmas decorations and stairways. Last year I framed a multi-image collection from dirt blown from a single field at graduated distances ranging from 100 to 400 meters, along with a second image where “waves” of dirt had cascaded down a hillside from a fall-tilled field from just over the rim. Little imagination was needed to view it as waves of an ocean beach. 

More images have been added already this winter and it’s only February, with nearly four months to go before seedlings are high enough to provide modest protection. A handful of these images were captured on a recent trip to my credit union in Dawson. Sadly, these poor farming practices continue, and perhaps even sadder is that apparently those farming the soils where I can count on gathering images every winter rarely do much about it. Are they blind to it? Overlooking or ignoring the damage being caused? As if soil is an unlimited resource?

Viewers of the Art of Erosion have asked about changes in the farm program that might mitigate the issues, or question why such tillage practices are continually being used. They worry, as do I and others, including Montgomery, about feeding future generations if the erosion continues. They ask about cover crops, which can be challenging to plant when considering both a compressed harvesting season and a shortened possible growing season for the cover. However, more and more farmers have noticed and are working to find creative solutions to keeping their soils in place including turning to crops like kernza, a commercially available and economically viable perennial grain crop that is a suitable ingredient for bread, cereals, beer, whiskey, and even ice cream. 

Perennials are a favorite of Jim VanDerPol, author of “Conversations with the Land,” who bemoans both the loss of perennials overall and the grazing of farm animals that would better protect our soils. His family farm, now being transitioned to his grandson, is a green isle in the midst of the aforementioned Black Desert. Poor animal prices, however, won’t convince so many who are dependent on the USDA farm program to switch their 24 row planters and combines for a patch of grass and a herd of cattle.

Perhaps the most inexpensive means is to simply leave the residue from the previous harvest standing. Untilled. Farmers, though, seem to balk at this by arguing that come planting season new issues might arise including a late winter or a very wet spring. Yet, what about the soil? “The soil is being eroded 100 times faster than it’s forming. And that kind of situation can burn right through the soil profile,” says UMass Amherst geoscientist Isaac Larsen. Those who have studied the erosion seem to unanimously conclude that this is unsustainable.

There is a cost involved. Jodi DeJong-Hughes, University of Minnesota Extension regional education specialist, sampled the top inch of snirt in ditches along Minnesota Highway 40, yes, the same one mentioned above, that through laboratory analysis and math revealed that this field lost $51.30 in nitrogen, $7.80 worth of phosphorus and $23.50 in potassium per inch of ditch acre. In other words, $82 plus change per ditch acre. These figures do not even include the most valuable soil components of topsoil (clay particles) that blow away before heavier particles settle into the nearby ditch. How do you assign a value to valuable soil organic matter, microbes and minerals that lie in a ditch? Yes, it’s dirt. It is also money. Anna Cates, a University of Minnesota soil scientist, says: “Every farmer who changes (tillage practices) references erosion as a motivator.” 

Snirt, or snoil, is a perplexing and costly issue that likely remains in the hands of individual farmers to recognize and rectify. It seems unlikely that an abrupt change will come from the USDA. Some Farmers have changed practices, yet it seems a majority have either ignored looking at their ditch banks or even considered the costs of erosion both in terms of crop inputs and actual loss of soil. I would hope it isn’t due to a complete lack of care, for this is it; this is our last remaining farmable topsoil on planet earth. 

It began with a blissful and brilliant feathered ember in the desert landscape. Contrary to what one might think, this was not a glamorous show girl on the famous Vegas Strip but rather a rare desert bird we found at the Henderson Bird Viewing Preserve on the outskirts of the city.

Days later we would visit Red Rock Canyon National Park where a more mundane appearing avian wonder would appear in my lens. In between there was lots of magic and wonder, and “seven” would be the magic number!

Let’s start with that “ember”, which the naturalist at the Preserve took a quick look at the image presented in the Nikon viewer and said, “Yep, that’s a Vermillion Flycatcher.” 

When I first saw the brilliantly bright red flash among the brown winter-ish leaves of a tree against the deep blue sky, my first thought was that I’d seen a Scarlet Tanager. Here? In the desert? Yet, the feathering seemed too rough and the body too compact for a Tanager. Actually the Vermillion Flycatcher is considered rare for that area of the desert according to the Field Guide to Birds of North America published by the National Wildlife Federation. Apparently it is much more common further south in Mexico than north of the border, and especially as far north as Las Vegas.

It would be one of seven new birds I’d add to my Audubon list from our week-long visit to Vegas. The naturalist at the Henderson also identified my second one as an American Pipit. Although most of what we viewed at the Preserve were waterfowl, capturing two new birds on our first excursion was rather special. Perhaps our being there mid-day meant the shy waders had left for quieter waters, and the smaller songbirds were clustered within the foliage. There was ample plant growth surrounding the nine pools of water within the compound.

Toward the end of our stay, on a drive through Red Rock Canyon, I was able to photograph the seventh, some ground-and-brush hugging Rufous-Crowned Sparrows. The idenity came once we returned home and compared my photos with the birding guidebook. 

The other four? As guests of Roberta’s brother, Craig Schultz, and his partner, Anita Murrell, we saw and photographed Dark-eyed Juncos, Red Breasted Nuthatches and Eurasian-Collared Doves, and briefly saw a Great-Tailed Grackle on their patio where Anita is the chief seed distributer. The first three would fly in almost as soon as she dribbled the grain onto the concrete, and the grackle made a brief landing on an overhead patio beam before immediately pivoting and flying away.

Some of you might be chortling about now about this old man recounting a trip to Vegas is explaining his excitement of viewing seven new birds. Rest assured there were many special and magical moments although none at the tables or machines. Take “Mystére” by Cirque du Soleil, which more than matched their “O” that we saw several years ago. Cirque du Soleil has so much magic going on that it’s difficult to embrace it all, and the artistically athletic beauty just kept on coming from seemingly all directions. Literally. 

We also spent a long morning viewing an AI enhanced art show at the Arte Museum, and I especially loved the rooms called “Forest”, “Waterfall Infinite” and “Garden Light of the Master Pieces”, the latter of which mixed art from the Orient along with some works of the Impressionist artists. What a wonderful way to lose yourself in wonder and music, and yes, the magic of which for me is an unexplainable technology. Honestly, I find technology brutally boring for the most part, yet this AI creativity was nothing short of amazing.

This was my fourth or fifth trip to Vegas and the first that wasn’t business oriented. This was simply a visit, and not a single dime was dropped into the gambling devises. We had a couple of lunches and dinners out, and a dinner show complete with fine musicians and singers who were friends of Craig and Anita. So it wasn’t completely devoid of entertainment. All that and I still came home with seven new birds for my Audubon list! 

Of all of our stops of interest, though, visiting the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area was on visual par with the Arte Museum. Just a bit west of the city, the park is located in the Mojave Desert where towering geological features include red sandstone peaks within the Keystone Thrust Fault, all rising high from the desert floor. A fine 13-mile scenic drive through the park offers pullouts and special viewing areas along with a wonderfully wide shoulder where you can pull over for photography or to simply breathe in the surrounding beauty. Computing the size of the featured geology is almost inexplicable until you notice a human climbing one of the reddish walls, being a mere miniature “stick creature” pressed against a huge slab of mountainous stone. That adds an incredible perspective.

Besides the contrast in color and the size of the formations, a spiritual sense seemed to resonate within, tugging at the soul like having your toes pulled from below in a deep pool. Native Petroglyphs can be found among the rocks, and had we arrived earlier in the day we could have taken the paths to view them. The lateness was all on me, for I convinced Craig and Anita to go in the late afternoon for my preferred photographic light. And once again, the late afternoon light didn’t disappoint.

At one of the pullouts I noticed a split tree trunk that had appeared to have suffered from an earlier fire. Blackened and mysterious, I visualized using it for contrast and composition in framing the bulbous rock formations. While traipsing through the mesquite, desert marigolds and other plants to the Y-shaped log, a group of the Rufous-Crowned Sparrows played a bit of hide and seek, hiding within the branches and foliage. It was enough to test one’s patience, yet a few images were caught of the teasing avians. They would become the seventh and final new bird in my count. And, I got my visualized image of the log.

On our flight home I was hopeful that our plane would head west from airport as it appeared most of the planes we had seen over the past week had done, and if so, that I might capture a sky-high overview of Red Rock Canyon. Fortunately I was blessed, for we had a beautiful overview that added a wholly different perspective of how such a huge and dominate landform seemed so small in the overview landscape of the surrounding desert.

They say that there is something quite special in rolling a lucky seven in Vegas, so coming home with my own “lucky seven” was heavenly. So much fun, magic and beauty, all in one week! As late newsman Whoopy Warrings used to write in closing each of his short paragraph “locals” for our country weekly, “ … and a great time was had by all.” 

Local historian, Judy Beckman, remembers when what our locals call the Lake Road was a bit more interesting than before it became “Buckthorn Lane”; back in the days when mums and apples drew folks to the area perhaps as much as the perch and walleyes in Big Stone Lake. 

“Apple trees were ubiquitous,” she recalled “Part of the reason for that is that one of the main ways folks could get land was through the Tree Act, for which you had to plant so many trees and have them live for a certain amount of time. If one had to plant trees, you may as well plant something from which you could get fruit. At one time, based on electrical usage, Dragt’s Fruit Farm (now the campgrounds) was declared the largest apple orchard between Chicago and Seattle. Also at Eternal Springs there were about three acres of mums! Cars lined the highway on fall weekends for u-pick mums at $5 an armful.”

Although the mums are long gone, if my count is correct, only two apple orchards remain, both further up the highway.  “In those days the hills were grazed, and you would see sumac … which you could see through. Not anymore,” she said. Driving what is officially ST HWY 7, long since paved over the historic ruts of a wagon wheel trail, the weedy buckthorn has literally taken over. Densely packed along with non-native as well as native tree species for the length of the highway to the Bonanza portion of Big Stone Lake State Park.  

Perhaps now times and views are “achanging” … bit by bit. This began a few years ago with the “freeing the fen” effort along a mile and a quarter of the state highway fronting the lower prairie section of Big Stone Lake State Park. Now the city of Ortonville has joined in the cleanup effort by clearing off buckthorn brush and invasive tree species on the hillside of Nielson Park thanks to a Department of Natural Resources grant. Nielson was the home of a beautiful hillside-clinging stairway that weaved up the steep hillside along with other stone-work amenities found in the park, all gratis of the old Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the 1930s. This beautiful, timeless resource was hidden completely from view. No more.

Let’s begin up the road apiece with the freeing of the prairie fen, an effort that began about six years ago with the removal of hundreds of weed trees and acres of buckthorn from this 500-acre portion of the state park prairie. A view is now open down to shores of Big Stone Lake. Park manager Terri Dennison said the fen was discovered a bit ahead of the clearing work and that workers were conscious of caring for the delicate, alkaline-rich, peat-forming wetland, fed by a groundwater spring. It takes thousands of years for a delicate fen to develop, much like its rainwater-fed cousin, the bog. Escalating climate change, man-made tampering and water quality issues seemingly threatens both. 

Initially it was surprising when the conservation workers (Conservation Corps Minnesota & Iowa) suddenly appeared and began the process of freeing that section of the state park from the fortress of trees and buckthorn that basically hid the lower section of the park prairie from view. Huge piles of tree trunks and debris were piled and allowed to thoroughly dry before being burned this fall. Tree removal work is still a work in process, Dennison said, although progress has reached a point where the prairie will be burned this spring. Fire protection swaths have already been cut along the edges. 

“We realized that CCMI was not able to keep up with the buckthorn removal along with the trees,” said Dennison. “So we started doing contractor contracts to remove both the trees and the buckthorn. I think we’ll probably have some more cutting work along Meadowbrook Creek, or at least have CCMI take out the rest of the buckthorn.”

On a recent hike through the area with assistant park manager, John Palmer, the fen was pointed out, for it remains largely hidden by dense prairie grasses and other forbs. No, the fen isn’t readily visible with standing water as a bog might be, yet he hopes the planned burn will more fully free the fen. “We might see the small white ladyslippers return along with other plants unique to a fen,” he said.

It was equally as shocking when on a drive into Ortonville about a month ago to find the Lake Road partially blocked as workers downed and removed the choking buckthorn, huge pines and other non-native trees hugging the steep hillside that revealed the old CCC stonework, including a beautiful rock bridge I had no idea even existed. Then they moved to clear the portion facing downtown. Left to be cleared is a space between the two cleared areas. The nakedness of the hillside is stark.

A friend whose house is adjacent to the hill closest to downtown section admitted being completely shocked of the seemingly thorough denuding of the hillside, for she loved the trees for both their beauty and privacy. “What’s going to happen now?” she asked. She’s not the only one asking.

According to the local Ortonville Independent, the entire area will be reseeded in late February and early March with some 80 different prairie grasses and forbs. 

“It will take a few years,” admitted Ortonville Mayor Gene Hausauer, adding that in the end the city-owned park will look like it did when he was growing up some 70 years ago. “It takes awhile for the roots to set in with the prairie grasses but it’s going to be beautiful.”

Hausauer admitted that some townspeople were shocked and complained about how the work initially looked. “I tell them to look across the lake from the hillside park to where the old ski area was in Big Stone City, for that’s how it will look in a few years. A green hillside in the summer, brown prairie grasses come fall and winter. Plus you’ll have the beauty with wild prairie flowers. I think people will really like it when they see the final results.

“That stonework is just beautiful,” he added, “and there are people around town who didn’t even know it existed until the buckthorn and crowded weed trees were removed. The stonework was done in the 1930s before I was born. We may hopefully get another grant to repair some of the damaged stonework that has been exposed thanks to the project.” 

Perhaps in time Hausauer and others will then climb the stone stairwell meandering up the hillside to enjoy prairie smoke, coneflowers and a host of other native prairie forbs in full bloom overlooking downtown and nearby lake. Just as others may venture through the state park prairie further up the Lake Road to see and enjoy small white ladyslippers and other forbs common to a natural fen. 

Both projects have attacked the fortress of invasive buckthorn and other non-native species that had gained a troublesome foothold for many a mile. Though both projects extend for less than a couple of miles, I’ll readily admit that it will be nice seeing something along the roadsides besides the impenetrable buckthorn; views that a few prairie flowers and big bluestem will certainly cure.

Back in my daily newspaper days we were asked at the end of the year to choose a favorite image we had made over the past year. Each of us would weigh the circumstances and possible challenges surrounding each of the images as we made our choices. This was especially true if you took the assignment to heart, and most of us did. Nowadays I’m under no such restrictions, and for the fifth year in a row I’ve been determined to choose my favorite 12 … a dozen among the several hundred images stored in my files from my year in the natural world.

It began by brainstorming, if you will. My initial collection featured some 84 different images which may be cause for laughter among my photojournalistic comrades. Whatever!

Although none made the final cut, there were images from five different Northern Light displays although I had slept through at least two displays and was clouded out on a couple of others. Accumulative, there were at least nine different Northern Lights displays through the year including two each in April, November and now December.  

Which is part of the fun of the exercise. Interestingly, my accumulation of deer images for the year was down significantly. No such issues with birds. Among the many images were birds I hadn’t photographed before, including a Western Meadowlark, White-faced Ibises, Indigo Buntings, Starlings, American Avocets, Catbirds and Bluebirds, to name a few. It seemed that every trip to a different state park would garner images of Catbirds, Yellow and Yellow Rumped Warblers. There were photographs from numerous trips to capture Sandhill Cranes throughout the year, most notably a special photographic expedition at Crane Trust in Central Nebraska for the annual spring migration with nature photographer, Cheryl Oppermann. We also made two trips to the Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge for both Cranes and Swans. 

Wildflowers came through once again as I seem to follow their numerous flora seasons beginning with Pasque Flowers in March. We didn’t make a bog trip this past year, though, although autumn tree and sumac opportunities were both numerous and thoroughly appreciated.

And, you can’t live within the Horizontal Grandeur without capturing big sky images, especially those that capture the ambient light created by both sunrises and sunsets. Monet would be a happy prairie painter!

Several camping trips were made to different Minnesota State Parks along with a two week trip to Iceland and Norway, where every day seemed to offer an array of different waterfalls.

It was a blessed year, and a lot of “tough” decisions were made here on a snowy, gloomy wintry afternoon. My last 30 images were incredibly difficult to pare but I eventually made it down to 24. The last 16 took a long stretch of time. So many choices! A reflective image at Lac qui Parle State Park was very hard to eliminate, along with a nice broadside flight of a Bald Eagle. Some of the images fell into my “photographic poetry” realm, meaning that the feel and texture offered an “impressionistic” mood thanks to the beauty of nature. 

So, here you go (my 12 along with bonus images from Norway and Nebraska. All the rest were made in the prairies and woodlands within a day’s drive from Listening Stones Farm!): 

And now, for my bonus images:

We awoke to a visual treasure replete with magical wonder and science, of myth and beauty, that came for a brief visit. Too brief, if I must say so myself. Please excuse my personal thoughts of labeling this winer wonderland of near perfect whiteness as a “feather frost” while most label it as a hoarfrost. Some equate this crystalline and near immaculate beauty of an early morning visit with that of Northern Lights. Who am I to argue, for both are magical and fleeting moments of wonder and joy.

Certainly all this magic is backed by science, so perhaps we should get that out of the way. Technically these frosty conditions are created when water vapor condenses on solid surfaces that are below freezing, such as our bluestem prairie, stems of dormant faded flowers, stark tree branches of winter, and, well, nearly all solid surfaces. Science call this process a sublimation, created when warm moisture in the air starts condensing around frozen nuclei — a prairie or woodland, for instance. Once this process begins, the moisture in the air goes directly from a gas to a solid. In this case, when ice crystals form on various frozen features. All of which is dependent on calm air for these formations of complex, lacy deposits.

Our “vapor” here in the prairie is usually caused by fog coming in, as portrayed by poet Carl Sandburg, on “little cat feet.” Obviously we are nowhere close to Sandburg’s harbor and cityscape where his haunched fog silently and briefly settled before moving on, but the same phenomenon happens here in the prairie, too. His tribute to the beauty of fog might have happened before Sandburg settled to the woods of Vermont, although surely he experienced hoarfrosts outside of Burlington. This time the fog snuck in around here during the early morning hours, although it may happen at other times of the day. Such conditions are more typical on clear and cold winter nights.

Our wonderland of perfectly white frost feathers was so heavy the stems of big bluestem were weighted over to nearly kiss to the ground. Our trees glistened even with the sun being hidden by the dense blanket of fog. Popping through the glistening frosty whiteness were clumps of reddish crabapples to dapple hints of color to an otherwise frosted landscape. We were surrounded by an awe-inspired winter wonderland. 

One might wonder if such beauty has a mythical history. Certainly, for since we were children we’ve heard of Jack Frost. Beyond the science and artistic beauty, feathery hoarfrosts are thick with legend. The term itself is from old English that suggests the feathery ice crystals offer an appearance of “oldness”, of long strands of white hair and beards of elderly geezers. 

There is some thought that the legend of Jack Frost originated from Viking folklore, that his modern name is an Anglicized rendition of Jokul Frosti, or “Icicle Frost,” son of the Nordic wind god Kari. Jokul was a nymph-like creature who painted beautiful frosty patterns on windows during the night and was a personification of the chill that arrived with winter and nipped the noses of children with his icy bite.

Scandinavian mythology paints a picture of a frost giant that brought not only bitter cold but the black doom of winter that symbolized the end of the world. In northern Russia and Finland, an almighty deity known as “Frostman” commanded the weather, and was given sacrifices by reindeer herders to persuade him to lessen the severity of blizzards. The villagers would leave bowls of porridge for the Frostman to ensure their crops weren’t touched by the damaging frost. Elsewhere in Japanese folklore, Frostman was a malicious character, the brother of Mistman, who were both keepers of the frost and dew. 

Jack Frost is well known but barely understood in modern culture. Most people envisage the elfish creature that decorates the night with beautiful silver patterns that melt with the sunrise, and in old England “Jack” was a name or term given to jokers. Over time, he has shed the fearsome demeanor that came with the frost giants of Norse mythology. Something as beautiful as sweeping hoarfrost or delicate ice crystals surely couldn’t have been summoned by a menacing omen of everlasting winter. 

Much like Northern Lights, hoarfrosts are typically fleeting. A brief breeze will cause the frost to flake and scatter like falling snow. In the sunlight this takes on a wholly different beauty as those airborne “diamonds and pearls” Hannah Flagg Gould described in her poem, “The Frost” in the 1800s come to life. It’s all very magical, even those rare “wonderland” moments that somehow escape to last most of a day. However long one might last, they are still magical in their innocent beauty.

While I don’t recall having feathery frosts as a child growing up in Northeast Missouri, I’m sure we had them. We surely have them here in Minnesota, and they rarely shrink from wonderland status. One January day during one of the most snowy winters since moving to Minnesota some 40 years ago, I drove through the hill and valleys around here taking images of snow and frost, capturing pheasants and wild turkeys deep within the elements. A gray mist of fog hung around, and the few fences that remain and the abandoned groves of past dreams were all coated with the feathery finery. Shawls of splendidness. What a lovely and unexpected day.

Usually, though, hoarfrosts have become special memories by mid-morning. It was again this week. Yet I find it fun to wander about with a camera just like I do come nightfall and a chance to record the solar waves of an Aurora Borealis. Perhaps it’s just me for I just love the mysteries of our natural world, of the peacefulness nature offers in the face of so much worldly man-caused greed and turmoil. Sometimes you just need an unexpected flight of Canada Geese to fly overhead on a cold, rainy winter afternoon, a stunning display of Northern Lights, or to awake on a morning to a vista painted in feathery whiteness.