What a difference a few weeks makes. Duluth is in the thick of the warmest March in recorded history. The high temperature has been above freezing since February 26. We’ve even bumped up against sixty degrees. As a result, our snow is all but gone, except for a dirty patch on the north side of the house that is shrinking daily. Last year, we had snow in the yard past Easter.
The grass has not yet recovered. It is dull brown, as flat and matted as slept on hair. But there is some give to the ground now, and the faint earth smell—life and decay—a welcome change from winter’s sterility. It seems cliché to gauge your life by the seasons. But it also seems perfectly natural. The changing seasons provide a backdrop to measure against, a change that prompts thinking about more and other changes.
Today the boys and I played in the yard. Eli is big enough to climb the small ladder to the playground; last year he more or less rode on our hips. Soren can swing under his own power, one of many things he can do on his own. Our boys are growing up. Eli, at two, parrots everything he hears in a lilting, sing-song voice. Soren, at five, questions everything. Both are learning to be independent, are already growing away from us, as they ought to.
Crows caw noisily from the red pines. Eli shoots back a perfect imitation that warms my heart. Last year at this time spring was a cruel joke; winter still held us fast and would not relent. At the cemetery where we buried my dad, the wind whipped the priest’s words away as soon as they left his mouth. The color guard blew a hurried taps and retreated to a van. Our own grief and solemnity was scuttled by the cold; we bobbed from left to right, drew inward, stomped feet, and fled to the cars the moment things ended.
For weeks afterward I felt that numbness, the cold having worked its way to my core.
This year, with my boys twirling in circles together, and falling in a heap in the brown grass, I can see that spring is the season of new life after all.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Prompt entry #6
I am drawn to wild rivers. Rivers are the highways of the boreal forest, and the canoe is the perfect vehicle. For me there is nothing like tracing a river from source to outlet, sampling its various moods along the way. When you dip your hand over the gunwale you can feel the river pulsing with life.
On placid stretches, we lie back and let the current do the work. The canoe becomes a piece of driftwood, pushed wide on the bends, spun slowly in swirling eddies. Putting paddle to water is a means of imposing your will. There is risk in this, as it can cultivate an attitude of fighting against the river. To paddle is to eventually learn that the river cannot be conquered; it is bigger and deeper and more powerful than we are. It is best to work with the river, to use the inexorable current to help us place our canoe where we need it. This can involve some paradox; if we are caught in a fast moving stretch of water, and need to move towards the left bank of the river without slipping further downstream, we cannot simply paddle harder to power our way over, though this is a common instinct. If we do, we will get flushed downriver more quickly, toward the very thing we want to avoid.
The best strategy is to paddle backwards, keeping even with the shore—neither slipping downstream or working our way back upstream—and to angle the stern of the canoe towards the place we want to go (in strong current the angle needs to be small, lest we get spun around). As we paddle to keep the canoe in place, the current catches on our angled stern and ferries us to the spot we need to be. At the first few backward strokes, when we are trying to halt the canoe’s momentum, we will feel as though we are fighting the river—surely this can’t be the right strategy. But when the current grabs that angled end and we sense ourselves being moved to the left without so much as a stroke in that direction, we know the river is on our side, that canoe and water are one.
At the approach of rapids, I get a hollow ache in my gut, something like an acidic spurt of acid courses through my system. I am not an adrenaline junky; the river is not my wild version of an amusement park ride. I hear the rapids before I can see them, like a train in the distance. As I gaze ahead, moving slowly now, careful not to drift past the point of no return, I spot the dancing waves glinting in the sunshine. We pull over, drag the canoe half out of the water, and make our way downstream on foot, hopping from rock to rock, or bashing through thick riverside alders. It is important to go all the way to the end of the rapids, no matter how laborious, and asses it from the bottom up, plotting a strategy and gauging landmarks as we go. If the rapids are too big or complex, it is time to take to the woods and hope for a well-worn portage trail. More than likely, however, the portage will be a faint meandering thing, thick with mosquitoes and chock-full of blown down trees. No matter. Better to spend a grueling hour to get past 100 yards of churning river, than lose our boat and gear in a capsize.
If we do decide to run it, there is always fear in the gut and a hollowed out feeling in the arms. Back in the canoe, at the top of the rapids where the current runs strong and black, before the frothy turbulence, nothing is as it seems. The landmarks that stood out so clearly from the riverbank are obscured by our water-level vantage point. Often, at the brink, one of us is forced to stand—a frantic, wobbly move—in a last attempt to get our bearings. By then we are committed, and plunge into the dancing waves.
********************************
On the last night of our honeymoon, close the terminus of where the river flows into Hudson Bay, 10 miles or so upriver from the little town with its little airstrip where we would be ending our trip, we camped on a small island covered in long, swaying grass. It was early September and the nights were getting cold. We went to bed early with that feeling of anxiousness and excitement that accompanies transitions. We had been on the river close to a month; our daily routine had become a lifestyle, as automatic as breathing.
Sometime in the night I awoke, unzipped the tent, and gazed out. Our tent faced upstream, only a few feet from the water’s edge. The river was swift and shallow, undulating in the moonlight and spilling past our little island on its course to the bay. Tomorrow we would rejoin the flow, but tonight we were perched on the edge of it. I looked upstream to where the river turned round a bend, and thought about the miles that had led us to this spot: the glass calm lakes, the damnable wind, the days of bright, unbroken sky, the calluses etched on our hands from thousands of paddle strokes. We had spent days paddling in silence, had learned to make decisions with an unspoken nod, had started conversations that lasted for a week or more. I felt sure, sitting there in the moonlight on that little island, that the river had worked its way into us somehow, that we were all forever intertwined. Though we would leave and fly away and the river would freeze and thaw and flow again, I knew we would still be able to draw strength from it, even years from then.
And I was right. We did. We do. I gave silent thanks to the river, zipped the tent shut, and went back to bed.
On placid stretches, we lie back and let the current do the work. The canoe becomes a piece of driftwood, pushed wide on the bends, spun slowly in swirling eddies. Putting paddle to water is a means of imposing your will. There is risk in this, as it can cultivate an attitude of fighting against the river. To paddle is to eventually learn that the river cannot be conquered; it is bigger and deeper and more powerful than we are. It is best to work with the river, to use the inexorable current to help us place our canoe where we need it. This can involve some paradox; if we are caught in a fast moving stretch of water, and need to move towards the left bank of the river without slipping further downstream, we cannot simply paddle harder to power our way over, though this is a common instinct. If we do, we will get flushed downriver more quickly, toward the very thing we want to avoid.
The best strategy is to paddle backwards, keeping even with the shore—neither slipping downstream or working our way back upstream—and to angle the stern of the canoe towards the place we want to go (in strong current the angle needs to be small, lest we get spun around). As we paddle to keep the canoe in place, the current catches on our angled stern and ferries us to the spot we need to be. At the first few backward strokes, when we are trying to halt the canoe’s momentum, we will feel as though we are fighting the river—surely this can’t be the right strategy. But when the current grabs that angled end and we sense ourselves being moved to the left without so much as a stroke in that direction, we know the river is on our side, that canoe and water are one.
At the approach of rapids, I get a hollow ache in my gut, something like an acidic spurt of acid courses through my system. I am not an adrenaline junky; the river is not my wild version of an amusement park ride. I hear the rapids before I can see them, like a train in the distance. As I gaze ahead, moving slowly now, careful not to drift past the point of no return, I spot the dancing waves glinting in the sunshine. We pull over, drag the canoe half out of the water, and make our way downstream on foot, hopping from rock to rock, or bashing through thick riverside alders. It is important to go all the way to the end of the rapids, no matter how laborious, and asses it from the bottom up, plotting a strategy and gauging landmarks as we go. If the rapids are too big or complex, it is time to take to the woods and hope for a well-worn portage trail. More than likely, however, the portage will be a faint meandering thing, thick with mosquitoes and chock-full of blown down trees. No matter. Better to spend a grueling hour to get past 100 yards of churning river, than lose our boat and gear in a capsize.
If we do decide to run it, there is always fear in the gut and a hollowed out feeling in the arms. Back in the canoe, at the top of the rapids where the current runs strong and black, before the frothy turbulence, nothing is as it seems. The landmarks that stood out so clearly from the riverbank are obscured by our water-level vantage point. Often, at the brink, one of us is forced to stand—a frantic, wobbly move—in a last attempt to get our bearings. By then we are committed, and plunge into the dancing waves.
********************************
On the last night of our honeymoon, close the terminus of where the river flows into Hudson Bay, 10 miles or so upriver from the little town with its little airstrip where we would be ending our trip, we camped on a small island covered in long, swaying grass. It was early September and the nights were getting cold. We went to bed early with that feeling of anxiousness and excitement that accompanies transitions. We had been on the river close to a month; our daily routine had become a lifestyle, as automatic as breathing.
Sometime in the night I awoke, unzipped the tent, and gazed out. Our tent faced upstream, only a few feet from the water’s edge. The river was swift and shallow, undulating in the moonlight and spilling past our little island on its course to the bay. Tomorrow we would rejoin the flow, but tonight we were perched on the edge of it. I looked upstream to where the river turned round a bend, and thought about the miles that had led us to this spot: the glass calm lakes, the damnable wind, the days of bright, unbroken sky, the calluses etched on our hands from thousands of paddle strokes. We had spent days paddling in silence, had learned to make decisions with an unspoken nod, had started conversations that lasted for a week or more. I felt sure, sitting there in the moonlight on that little island, that the river had worked its way into us somehow, that we were all forever intertwined. Though we would leave and fly away and the river would freeze and thaw and flow again, I knew we would still be able to draw strength from it, even years from then.
And I was right. We did. We do. I gave silent thanks to the river, zipped the tent shut, and went back to bed.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Prompt entry #5
Ah, the flush of a toilet. What could be easier? Pull a lever and the refuse swirls away forever. No need to think about it. Gone are the days of the outhouse, the sprinkling of lye, the pervasive odor, the mound of refuse so disgustingly visible. The sewage treatment plant; it is one of the sure signs that we live packed together. Sewage treatment is inherently a good thing, of course. 80,000 people congregated in one spot are bound to produce a lot of shit and piss. But our own implementation of that sewer system was far from perfect.
Duluth has a sewer run-off problem. Houses built before 1970 had foundation footing drains connected directly to the sanitary sewer system which, during periods of heavy rain or melting snow, can overload the system, producing sewage backups that eventually make their way into Lake Superior.
Like many environmental problems, there isn’t one simple, easy fix, nor is there one culprit that can shoulder both the blame and the cost. Should the cash-strapped city of Duluth pony up or should its cash-strapped citizens? I wonder, though, about the decision to hook the sewers up this way in the first place. Was it an act of ignorance? An expedient short cut? Short term thinking? Or was it simply an honest mistake?
Since the majority of Duluth is perched on a hilltop overlooking Lake Superior, sewage run-off finds a quick and easy path directly to the lake. Given Lake Superior’s size, it is tempting to think that our sewage overflow is mere drop in the bucket; the fact that Lake Superior is the cleanest of all the Great Lakes makes this a tempting mindset to adopt. But, of course, we must act. After all, what better example can there be for environmental irresponsibility than to foul up the source of your own drinking water with excrement.
The outhouse carries some of the same risks. If improperly constructed or placed, it can leech harmful bacteria into the water supply. Of course this happens on a one to one scale, providing the outhouse builder with an incentive to do the job right. A well placed outhouse, one that does not receive too much use and is placed in the right soil, will harmlessly break down the refuse. There is a lot to be said for this simple, organic solution. There is even something to be said for the smells of an outhouse, and the view to the outside world an outhouse normally provides. It is a humbling reminder that we are of this earth, that we, too, are animals that piss and shit. That our waste must be accounted for.
Duluth has a sewer run-off problem. Houses built before 1970 had foundation footing drains connected directly to the sanitary sewer system which, during periods of heavy rain or melting snow, can overload the system, producing sewage backups that eventually make their way into Lake Superior.
Like many environmental problems, there isn’t one simple, easy fix, nor is there one culprit that can shoulder both the blame and the cost. Should the cash-strapped city of Duluth pony up or should its cash-strapped citizens? I wonder, though, about the decision to hook the sewers up this way in the first place. Was it an act of ignorance? An expedient short cut? Short term thinking? Or was it simply an honest mistake?
Since the majority of Duluth is perched on a hilltop overlooking Lake Superior, sewage run-off finds a quick and easy path directly to the lake. Given Lake Superior’s size, it is tempting to think that our sewage overflow is mere drop in the bucket; the fact that Lake Superior is the cleanest of all the Great Lakes makes this a tempting mindset to adopt. But, of course, we must act. After all, what better example can there be for environmental irresponsibility than to foul up the source of your own drinking water with excrement.
The outhouse carries some of the same risks. If improperly constructed or placed, it can leech harmful bacteria into the water supply. Of course this happens on a one to one scale, providing the outhouse builder with an incentive to do the job right. A well placed outhouse, one that does not receive too much use and is placed in the right soil, will harmlessly break down the refuse. There is a lot to be said for this simple, organic solution. There is even something to be said for the smells of an outhouse, and the view to the outside world an outhouse normally provides. It is a humbling reminder that we are of this earth, that we, too, are animals that piss and shit. That our waste must be accounted for.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
place entry #5
I am out tonight under the full moon, peering from behind a birch tree. The birch tree’s curled and peeling bark reminds me of the wallpaper in my hundred year old house. The sky is clear, the moon luminous; beyond the faint city glow lone stars pulse in the blue-black night. The moon is bright enough that the trees throw their shadows across the snow. I strain to hear movement, the scrape of claws on bark or the crunch of hooves on snow, but only register the blood whooshing in my ears, a sort of non-sound sound, like the hum from noiseless stereo speakers, an almost preternatural stillness that allows you to hear the inner functioning of your own human machinery.
The world is a John Muir print, black, white and grey; snow, shadow and moonlight. Winter is minimalist in that way. Winter conceals. The colors of the world seem to hibernate along with the bears, and the wan light leeches away what little vibrancy remains. Last week I came upon a photograph of our yard in the summer--the trees thick with leaves, the technicolor grass, the whole scene messy with life. I stood there with the picture in my hands, dumbfounded. What part of the world is this?
It seems impossible that an animal would break this silence; my own footfalls on the walk out felt like sacrilege. Again this week I approached the pines indirectly, taking the snow-packed path at the edge of the property line, through the cluster of wrist thick poplars. Moonlight pooled in the leafless woods.
I hesitated when I drew near the pines. The space beneath was ink black and undecipherable, devoid of moonlight. I imagined deer bedded down there, curled up like dogs in their hoof scraped beds. I stepped gingerly towards the darkness, my eyes alert for any movement, but the effort left me feeling more oafish and lumbering. Nothing stirred. I stood in the darkened grove. After a few minutes my eyes adjusted. Even so, I felt the urge to be back amidst the moonlight. I plodded on and took up residence behind the thigh-thick birch.
I scan the still woods. To my left I see the orange halo of a far off streetlamp. To the right, my own yellow porch light glows like a lantern. A dog barks. Now that I am still, I hear the Doppler rise and fall of far-off traffic. I imagine this spot in summer; the leafy woods blotting out the streetlights, frogs croaking, birds chirruping, squirrels rustling, mosquitoes hovering in the warm air. The night animals—raccoons, skunks—scurrying about in search of food. Tonight all is still, the world laid bare. Winter can reveal, too. The illusion of my wild five acres shatters like a chunk of ice dropped on the hard ground. I turn and walk back to the house.
The world is a John Muir print, black, white and grey; snow, shadow and moonlight. Winter is minimalist in that way. Winter conceals. The colors of the world seem to hibernate along with the bears, and the wan light leeches away what little vibrancy remains. Last week I came upon a photograph of our yard in the summer--the trees thick with leaves, the technicolor grass, the whole scene messy with life. I stood there with the picture in my hands, dumbfounded. What part of the world is this?
It seems impossible that an animal would break this silence; my own footfalls on the walk out felt like sacrilege. Again this week I approached the pines indirectly, taking the snow-packed path at the edge of the property line, through the cluster of wrist thick poplars. Moonlight pooled in the leafless woods.
I hesitated when I drew near the pines. The space beneath was ink black and undecipherable, devoid of moonlight. I imagined deer bedded down there, curled up like dogs in their hoof scraped beds. I stepped gingerly towards the darkness, my eyes alert for any movement, but the effort left me feeling more oafish and lumbering. Nothing stirred. I stood in the darkened grove. After a few minutes my eyes adjusted. Even so, I felt the urge to be back amidst the moonlight. I plodded on and took up residence behind the thigh-thick birch.
I scan the still woods. To my left I see the orange halo of a far off streetlamp. To the right, my own yellow porch light glows like a lantern. A dog barks. Now that I am still, I hear the Doppler rise and fall of far-off traffic. I imagine this spot in summer; the leafy woods blotting out the streetlights, frogs croaking, birds chirruping, squirrels rustling, mosquitoes hovering in the warm air. The night animals—raccoons, skunks—scurrying about in search of food. Tonight all is still, the world laid bare. Winter can reveal, too. The illusion of my wild five acres shatters like a chunk of ice dropped on the hard ground. I turn and walk back to the house.
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