An oak savanna, such as the one under restoration at Sinsinawa Mound, blends prairie and forest ecosystems.  ​

​Many of the oaks at Sinsinawa Mound date back to the decades just before and after the Civil War.  Photo supplied by Sinsinawa Dominicans, Inc.

​Oak seedlings need sunlight to sprout. Restoration puts sunlight back on the savanna floor.  Photo supplied by Sinsinawa Dominicans, Inc.

Some of the oaks at Sinsinawa have reached the end of their lifespan. Thinning of the underbrush and small trees allows oaks to regenerate. Photo supplied by Sinsinawa Dominicans, Inc.

​The Dunleith Mounds of East Dubuque are visible on the bluff when traveling East across the Julien Dubuque bridge.

The rope hammock suspends visitors 25 feet above the Whiting Forest floor in Midland, MI.  Visitors can get an upclose view of birds.

       Suspended twenty-five feet in the air, my wife Dianne and I took turns lying back in an oversized rope hammock in the canopy walk amid the pine branches of Whiting Forest of Dow Gardens in Midland, MI. Beneath us strolled forest visitors, and among us flitted a range of Midwestern birds chattering about their fall migration plans. On this September weekend, Whiting Forest was hosting a major regional birding festival, but in between events we hung out for a while in the trees.
      Whiting Forest is part of the adjacent Dow Gardens, a botanical garden located on the former estate of Grace and Herbert Dow.  Herbert Dow was  founder of the Dow Chemical Company still headquartered in Midland, not far from Lake Huron. The Dows built their family home amid a sprawling property purchased in 1899.  In 1936, a few years after Herbert’s death, Grace created the Herbert H. and Grace A. Dow Foundation, and eventually turned the family property over to the Foundation to be operated as a botanical garden (with no direct ties to the chemical company).
       Today the 110-acre Dow Gardens boasts 35,000 annuals and 22,000 flowering bulbs laid out in geometrical patterns amid a wandering stream, ponds, and gently rolling hills. On this early autumn afternoon red Canna and Sunpatiens and yellow-petaled Brown-Eyed Susans popped brilliant against a light-blue sky. 
       The weekend we visited also featured a temporary outdoor metal origami sculpture exhibition by Santa Fe artists Jennifer and Kevin Box.  Amid the garden’s blooming treasures were origami-like sculptures of swans, butterflies, ponies, and bison.
          The 54-acre Whiting Forest became part of Dow Gardens in 1991—also by way of Dow family descendants—and was opened to the public in 2004.  The forest includes a mix of planted and natural regrowth red pines, tamaracks, and assorted hardwoods on lands that were logged in the 1870s and later reforested.  
      Kyle Bagnall, Advanced Learning Program Manager, calls the forest “a green oasis in an urban area,” although the city of 44,000 and surrounding area boasts several additional significant green spaces and wildlife refuges as well. Whiting Forest’s bird diversity is particularly pronounced, with native woodland species mingling with migratory birds in a flyway that emanates from nearby Saginaw Bay.
       In 2015, prior to Bagnall’s arrival, the Foundation commissioned the design of a handicapped-accessible canopy walk to bring visitors into the tree level and to overlook the surrounding landscape, pond, and apple orchards.  Ranging from twenty-five to forty feet in the air, the ¼-mile elevated canopy walk brings visitors eye-to-beak with birds at tree-top and mid-branch levels.  “Encouraging play at any age,” says Bagnall, the canopy walk also features two wooden tree pods and the rope-netted hammock for those wanting to nest for a while amid the pines.  
      When Bagnall came on board in 2017, he brought with him a combination of environmental education experience, birding enthusiasm, and historical awareness that perfectly suited Whiting Forest. With a college degree in Public History, he is aware of the need to preserve the legacy of the founding Dow family.  His environmental education experience was honed over twenty-two years at his previous position at the nearby Chippewa Nature Center. And birding has been in his blood since he was a small child, when his father would wake him for 4 a.m. local birding expeditions.  Kyle started making his own life-long birding list at age 10.
      At Whiting Forest, Bagnall soon set about planning the first Birding Festival for Dow Gardens. Like everything Kyle does, the event bustled with activity. Local and regional experts led over 150 participants to enjoy activities such as bird banding at Chippewa Nature Center, viewing herons, gulls and other waterfowl at the Nayanquing Point Wildlife Area, searching for woodland migrant species at the Pine Haven Recreation Area and Albert Szok Preserve, and scouting coastal birds along Lake Huron’s Saginaw Bay. Kyle himself blended history and nature, helping birders spot migratory species in Midland County’s historic cemeteries.
         Dianne and I hopped on board the two-mast Tall Ship Appledore, setting sail for Lake Huron’s Saginaw Bay, as part of yet another outdoor excursion.
        Indoor sessions included presentations on raptors, wetland preservation, “birding by ear,” and creating a bird-friendly yard.  Additional Festival workshops included nature writing, art, and photography. 
Culminating the festival was the keynote address by David Allen Sibley, author and illustrator of the New York Times best-seller The Sibley Guide to Birds, a work that participants look upon as the premier guide to birding.
 
        On Friday evening, nearing sunset, Dianne and I sat quietly at a table outside the Whiting Forest Café, while other festival-goers mingled nearby. Bagnall chatted with everyone.  Soon his phone buzzed, a text from birders in the nearby forest who’d spotted some specimens Kyle would want to see. 
       We all flocked, then, to the canopy walk, where the setting sun was bringing out new voices. Forty feet above the ground, we listened to the nighthawks.         
 
-- November 2019

The 1/4-mile  Canopy Walk at Whiting Forest of Down Gardens puts visitors at bird's-eye view.

​A pair of origami swans grace the Dow Gardens during a metal sculpture exhibit.

​The Dow Gardens of Midland, Michigan, is awash in color in the early fall. 

​Horseshoe Bluff at the Mines of Spain offers a vertical view 450 million years into the past.

           A geologist draws conclusions from the evidence and a writer draws a story from the details, Dale mused as we stood in line at Dubuque’s north-end Dairy Queen, about halfway through our recent geological road trip. 
            Dale Easley is a geologist who is also a gifted writer. I am a writer with a deep interest in geology. Over the years we’ve struck up a friendship that crosses disciplines and academic institutions (Dr. Easley is a professor of Natural & Applied Sciences at the University of Dubuque; I am an English professor at Loras College.) It was about time, I thought, to put his geologic vision to work on my home landscape. So we set out on an afternoon’s drive across Dubuque County, stopping at several locations to talk about rocks and homespun bedrock philosophies.
 
Horseshoe Bluff Quarry
            We are looking up from the base of Horseshoe Bluff, an abandoned quarry at the Mines of Spain, fronting a 200-foot sheer downcut through 450 million-year-old limestone formed in a shallow Ordovician seabed.
            Dale points out the neat horizontal layers. “One of the first things that I noticed as a geologist when I came here 15 years ago was that the rock layers were not folded like I’d experienced elsewhere,” he says, recalling the mountains where he’d schooled in North Carolina and Wyoming.
           In more stressed landscapes, rock layers have been twisted by the buckling and shifting of continental plates, he explains.  Midwest bedrock, on the other hand, formed in gentle ocean bottoms and then ever-so-slowly uplifted—today only 600 feet above ocean level 1000 miles from the sea—keeping the rock layers mostly intact.  Elsewhere in the Midwest those horizontal bedrock layers lay hidden from view, buried under the rubble and drift bulldozed along by the glaciers.  Here in the Driftless Area—bypassed by all but the oldest of the glaciers—the bedrock pokes out from the surface in bluffs and towers.
             Dale is a lot like this, calm and even-keeled, but, with a cup of coffee in hand, as deep as bedrock.
            .
The Mississippi River from Eagle Point Park
            “So what does a geologist see here?” 
            Dale frowns. “What I see is a lot of modifications made by humans,” he says, pointing to the lock and dam below us, one of 27 such structures on the Upper Mississippi built in the 1930s to maintain a 9-foot channel for barges through a series of stair-step pools. Commodity transportation may be more energy efficient by barge than by train or semi, but one thing for sure is that this is not the natural river.
            But then the geologist kicks into gear. “We’re looking at half a million years here,” he says, figuring the age of the Mississippi. The river valley we see today, though, was formed by meltwater surges from the northern glaciers only 15,000 years ago. Summer melt and ice-dam breaks sent water coursing down the Mississippi, deepening its channel through the limestone bluffs.
            “The river ran faster then, too,” says Dale. During the Ice Age, the sea level was 500 feet lower than today. As a result, the river ran more quickly along a steeper slope to the Gulf of Mexico. 
            When the glaciers had finished melting and the sea level reached its current level, the Mississippi slowed its pace, dropped its load of glacial outwash on the river bottom, and took to meandering through the deep flood plain it had carved.
            Our conversation meanders as well. We are in New Orleans, along this great river, where Dale taught for 15 years. And then we are back again,  alongside the Eagle Point Park fishpond, which, I explain to Dale, my father helped build during the Depression.

Balltown Overlook
            From the Balltown Mound, at one of Iowa’s most iconic overlooks, the land drops quickly away across farm and field on its way to the Mississippi River.
            We in the Driftless see our landscape as a realm of rocky bluffs and steep valleys amid the glacially flattened Midwest. But Dale sees a flatland plateau downcut by erosional forces.  Looking past the river valley and scanning the horizon, focusing on the river bluffs and beyond, I can imagine a vast, continuous plain. Geologists call it the Paleozoic Plateau. In the midst of the plateau, however, the Mississippi River, its tributaries, and drainage ravines have gouged deep scars.
            Rising above the plateau are the mounds that dot the landscape. Not far from Balltown Mound is the Sherrill Mound, and across the river the Platteville Mound, Blue Mound, and Sinsinawa Mound. The mounds, Dale explains, are called “resistant remnants,” the only remaining segments of a limestone layer that has since eroded away from the rest of the landscape. 
            I like the concept of “resistant remnants.” It describes pretty well the pair of us who bicycle or scooter to class against the prevailing culture.
 
Fossil Outcrop at Graf
            I explain to Dale that when our kids were young and the Heritage Trail newly opened, my wife and I would take them to Graf, Iowa, for railroad stories and pie at Smitty’s Tap, but also to hunt for fossils at a nearby rock outcrop. Our bike bags would be heavier on the return trip.
            The sun is sinking low as Dale and I scuttle up to the base of this same outcrop from the side of the road. The rock is thinly layered, fragile, crumbly to the touch. The fossils are squid-like nautoloid cephalapods that lived 440 million years ago.
The limestone here is intermingled with thin layers of dark shale that formed, perhaps, during brief interludes when an ancient river delta shifted, spewing mud into the sea.
             I imagine it layering stories into the seabed.
                                                                           *                      *                      *
           The land is a text written in a wordless language.  The geologist translates it. The writer gives it shape.  And that is how the world speaks across the ages.
 
October 2019

The locks and dams on the Mississippi have altered the natural flow of the river. 

​The overlook from the Balltown Mound offers an iconic view of eastern Iowa.

​Rock outcrops at Graf, IA, are rich in fossils. 

​Dr. Dale Easley, professor of Natural & Applied Sciences at the University of Dubuque, offered geological insights across Dubuque County.  

​The ridges of western Iowa’s Loess Hills formed from wind-blown soil particles during glacial times. 

​Loess (pronounced ‘luss’) soils are like a fine, brown flour, and are easily erodible when the landscape is disturbed.

​Prairie flowers and grasses have returned naturally where the encroaching forest has been trimmed back. 

​A 45-foot observation tower at the Hitchcock Nature Center near Council Bluffs offers wide vistas and excellent raptor viewing.

​Backcountry hike-in campsites for single tents or small groups are available throughout the grounds, including some near the Hohneke Ponds.

​ The earth is ancient memoria. It holds within its layers every happening that ever was.
 – John O’Donohue
 
        The slopes of the lightly frosted path dropped steeply away into a stark winter woods. The narrow, curving trail was an esker in the Kettle Moraine State Forest South Unit in southeast Wisconsin. An esker, formed courtesy of our most recent glaciers ten thousand years ago, is a natural elevated path created by sediment dropped at the base of a melt-stream at the bottom of the ice. I remember its name by means of a visual alphabet: its twists and turns remind me of an “S-Curve.”
        Landscape is a text we can read. Stories accumulate here. I tick off glacial formations like squares on a bingo card as we hike through Kettle Moraine. A kame, shaped like the bottom half of an hour glass sand pile and formed much the same way from sediment dropped when meltwater plummeted down a vertical chute in the ice. A tear-drop shaped drumlin, fashioned from rubble dragged and scraped across the bedrock and whose arrowed edge points in the direction of the glacial crawl.
        Plus the two features for which the state forest is named: a moraine, the steep line of rubble pushed along at the front or side of an advancing glacier; and a kettle, a pot-shaped indentation in the forest floor formed by a huge chunk of calved-off melting ice. When the last of the ice chunk melted away, its indentation in the outwash floor became a kettle pond.
       Such is a reading of Kettle Moraine South Unit, a 22,000 acre state forest that stretches in a northeastly band for 30 miles beyond Whitewater, Wisconsin.
         My wife Dianne and I recently hiked on the Ice Age Trail in Kettle Moraine on a sunny but chilly winter day. More than thirty miles of Wisconsin’s 1,100-mile long Ice Age Trail wind through the state forest, roughly following the furthest advance of the last great glaciers. 
        The winter thus far had been mild, but a stinging wind swiping down from the north offered the imagination a hint of a glacial chill. But only a hint. In truth, the slight dusting of snow served mostly to offer some color contrast to the browned-out woods and brought the sometimes hidden glacial features into relief.
       In addition to glacial features, the forest chapters of oak, pine, and aspen punctuated with prairies, springs, and marshes offer habitat to coyotes, foxes, Cooper’s hawks, and sandhill cranes. Kettle Moraine is an Audubon Society Important Bird Area (IBA), home or breeding ground to 137 woodland, grassland, and marshland species.
       More of the Ice Age Trail climbs through the Lapham Peak Unit of the state forest, rising from a lowland boardwalk crossing over the marsh and scaling up through the woods to the peak. The trail passes alongside the 45-foot wooden watch tower capping the highest point in Waukesha County.
       But the land holds in its pages human stories as well and reminds us that our every footprint is inscribed in the landscape and is eventually swallowed by it.
       A hike through the Scuppernong Springs Trail near the north of the forest’s scattered holdings tells how humans have lived both with and against the landscape over time. Archaeological findings of arrowheads and flint flakes point to Native American encampments on high ground overlooking the marsh, the choice of location based on access to plentiful game and fresh water.
       White settlement altered the landscape. The 1½-mile trail brushes past the fading traces of an 1846 sawmill and the still-standing walls of a 1909 marl plant. Marl is a lime-based, grayish white soil formed at the bottom of glacial lakes and used as fertilizer and as building mortar. For six years up to 60 employees dug the clay out of the marsh, processed it, and put it on train cars on rail run specifically to the plant. By 1915 the plant was closed, the railroad abandoned, and the entirety left for the woods and marsh to reclaim.
       A 19th century cranberry bog and a trout hatchery flourished behind man-made dikes. These were removed in the 1990s to restore natural habitat along the Scuppernong River for native wild brook trout, beaver, otter, muskrat, and mink. The springs themselves can still be seen bubbling up from the marly clay bottom.
       At nearby Paradise Springs additional natural springs erupt where the water table is sliced diagonally by the rocky slopes. Thirty thousand gallons of fresh water per hour pour from the rocks at a constant 47 degrees, year round, into a scenic valley. The resources and scenery attracted both entrepreneurs and those seeking an idyllic escape from Milwaukee, about 40 miles away.  A ½-mile leisurely trail—much of it handicap-accessible, winds past the remains of a 1920s horse track and a water bottling plant that once produced the label “Lullaby Baby Drinking Water.” The plant’s foundations and cement stairway are all that remain.
       Beyond these lies the Fieldstone Spring House built in the 1930s to protect the spring waters. The Spring House originally sported a copper-domed roof. Roofless today, all that remains are the fieldstone walls and the spring as it emerges from the rocky hillside. The dammed-up pond still harbors trout. The grounds around the Paradise Springs Hotel, a popular honeymoon resort whose foundation ruins are located near the pond, once boasted a menagerie of peacocks, monkeys, and pheasants. All are gone now, except for the spring, the pond, and assortment of ruins and foundations.
        Historians speak of palimpsests, ancient and medieval texts whose base—whether parchment or animal hide—was so valuable that it was oft-reused. Old lettering was scraped from the pages to make way for new text, but the old still showed through faintly.
       Landscape is a palimpsest. Stories as ancient as the glaciers and first-peoples, as comparatively modern as abandoned factories and fisheries, and even as recent as today’s worn footpath sink back into—but still faintly grace—the land.
 
-- January 2019

 
            The Wisconsin River roiled and churned and licked at its banks as we drove across the Highway 23 bridge at Spring Green. Recent recurring mid-September rains had emboldened the river with a relentless purpose.
            My son Brian and I were en route to the Spring Green Nature Preserve to meet up with our local hiking guide for the day, conservationist and author Curt Meine. Having gotten ourselves lost and fifteen minutes late, we flew into the Preserve parking lot with as much haste as the rushing river.
            Curt deflected my apologies: “What, so I had to spend a few extra minutes basking in this glorious morning?”
            The Spring Green Preserve embodies both sides of this morning: the gentle swaying of prairie grasses in the early autumn sun belies its thunderous beginnings.
            The Spring Green Preserve is a rare Midwestern sand prairie born perhaps 17,000 years ago in the waning glacial period when an ice dam holding back meltwater in Glacial Lake Wisconsin suddenly burst. The escaping waters carved out today’s Wisconsin Dells and surged down the Wisconsin River toward the Mississippi. “It must have been an epic flood,” Curt mused.
            Geologists speculate the rush may have been as quick as seven days, during which it flooded the valley and filled it with 100 feet of glacially pulverized sand from the glacial lake upstream. The Spring Green Preserve showcases an 1,100-acre sandy remnant of the outwash and of the blowing winds and dunes that followed.
            As Curt, Brian, and I entered the prairie, a host of grasshoppers flicked across the path ahead of us. As we walked, Curt often stopped us to point out Indian grass, whorled milkweed, blazing star, big bluestem, and little bluestem grasses.
The prairie sports both tallgrass and shortgrass species. Tallgrass like big bluestem is more prevalent in the Midwest where it thrives in the typical rich, black, soil. Here in the sand prairie it grows in the wetter lowlands.  Shortgrass like little bluestem is more common in the drier west. But shortgrass species like little bluestem are quite happy in Midwestern sand prairies, where the soil drains quickly, mimicking drier, Western conditions. Here it begins growing where the prairie rises to meet the bluffs that loom 200 feet above the floodplain .
            More unusual to the Midwestern eye, though, is the prickly pear cactus growing quite nicely, if low, in the Wisconsin sand. No doubt the cactus inspired the sand prairie to have been known colloquially as the Wisconsin Desert.
            Curt points to plant variations just beyond the hiking path. Sand blowouts—temporary exposures of sand caused by winds funneling up the river valley—create their own micro communities where conspicuous patches of prairie cottonweed wave in the wind.  Conversely, small groves of black oak dot the occasional sinks of wetter soil.
            The sand prairie provides niche homes to animal species as well. The Ornate Box Turtle is so rare that conservationists track their movements with radio-transmitters, making sure, for example, that the turtles are burrowed into the sand before the prairie is burned.
The prairie provides habitat for all sorts of crawling and winged critters with menacing names: tiger beetles, wolf spiders, black widow spiders, predatory wasps. The three of us amused ourselves for a while watching two beetles waddling along with a chunk of insect. We couldn’t decide if they were ineptly trying to cooperate or if beetle #1 was trying to steal the prize. 
For those who prefer avian wildlife, the sand prairie is home to dickcissels, grasshopper sparrows, indigo buntings, orchard orioles, and many other species that nest in the grasses or stop over during migration.  The Preserve is a favorite location for birding enthusiasts.
“This is the place to find the lark sparrow,” a grassland bird listed as a Species of Special Concern, Curt explains. “They like the open ground and patches of sand.” Not so the sandhill crane, another rare bird found in Autumn along the river. “We’re wetland birds,” Curt says on their behalf as we watch a pair circle the rim of the prairie and disappear beyond the terrace bluff. “This place is not for us.”
            Sand prairies made for challenging agricultural conditions because they drain so quickly and are not nutrient-rich. Even so, much of this habitat has been lost. Curt points out that today’s Spring Green Preserve was identified early on in the 1940s for preservation by conservationist Aldo Leopold and his contemporaries. Leopold “wanted to protect the best gems,” Curt says, and included this site due to its niche plant and animal communities.
Preservation didn’t happen overnight, however. The land was eventually purchased by the Nature Conservancy beginning in 1971, and restoration began shortly thereafter.
Prairie restoration and maintenance is labor-intensive. In the absence of prairie fire in the post-settlement era, sand prairies tended to be overtaken by red cedars. Many of the nearby bluff terraces are cedar-draped, but due to tree removal and controlled burns, the Spring Green Preserve looks more like it did in the early 1800s. Often times a burn will bring about its own reseeding, Curt adds, “releasing prairie seed already in the ground.”
            As we finish our sand prairie hike, Curt resituates us in the sand-rich Wisconsin River valley that resulted from the break in the ice dam holding back the waters of Glacial Lake Wisconsin. The Wisconsin River, he says, is known as the river of a thousand islands, always shifting “islands, shifting because the river floats on a bed of sand.” “The river is a paddler’s delight because it contains no dams for 92 miles, a direct result of the deep sand, Curt says, pointing out that “it’s hard to put a dam on a sand foundation.”
After the hike and a lunch, we depart in our separate directions: Curt to his nearby home; Brian back to Chicago where he lives; and me back home to Dubuque.
          I cross the rain-swelled Wisconsin River one more time and imagine its waters chasing me downstream to the Mississippi where it will crest past my hometown in a few days’ time.
As it has done through the ages. 

​-- October 2018

 ​    On either side of Devil’s Lake—bookending one of Wisconsin’s most-visited and largest parks—lie two tiny gems, Natural Bridge State Park and Parfrey’s Glen Natural Area.  At roughly 500 acres each, they can be easily combined with a visit to the more popular park, or can be enjoyed in leap-frog fashion, bypassing the crowds and parking hassle.
      On a late-autumn Sunday afternoon, we chose to leap-frog. 
      It seems we leap-frogged across the seasons and centuries as well.
 
NATURAL BRIDGE STATE PARK
     On a blustery, late-November afternoon, early winter was practicing at misery.  My wife Dianne and I had brought bikes along for a day-adventure in case we found some new Wisconsin back roads, but the north winds convinced us otherwise.  We left the bikes on the hitch-rack and instead hiked into the woods at Wisconsin’s Natural Bridge State Park.  The hardwood forest would provide some shelter.  Inside the woods it was late autumn again.
      The park, established in 1973, lies 15 miles southwest of Devil’s Lake.  Its namesake sandstone arch popped into view when we turned a corner on the Indian Moccasin Trail.  The natural bridge spans 80 feet across a valley, capping a 15-by-25-foot oval-shaped hole in the sandstone, eroded over the eons by wind and water.  The brown and yellow layered arch sits atop its bedrock base like a giant old-time telephone receiver on its mount.
      At the base of the arch, time had carved another indentation, a rock shelter that was home to some of the Midwest’s earliest inhabitants. At 60 feet wide x 30 feet deep, the rock shelter revealed its story to archaeologists through remnant meal-bones, mollusk shells, and fire-pit charwood dating back to 10,000 B.C.  Paleo-Indians sheltered at this site as the nearby glaciers retreated.  Ancient soot is still visible on the sandstone walls.
      A spur off the Moccasin Trail leads to a cliff face overlooking the edge of the glacier-free Driftless Region.  The bluff top prairie is graced with Indian grass and little blue-stem as well as  numerous ferns, and even cacti.
Back on the main trail and beyond the natural bridge lies a hardwood forest and a guided trail indicating how Native Americans used the forest plants and trees: quaking aspen bark for pain relief and poultices; witch hazel for skin irritants; wild black cherry for coughs and colds. 
       As we left the autumnal shelter of the woods, we re-emerged into the blustery winds.  Twelve thousand years ago we might have stocked the rock shelter with supplies for the upcoming winter.  Instead, we took refuge in the Honda and drove away.
           
PARFREY’S GLEN STATE NATURAL AREA
            It was a good day to keep driving, so we sailed seven miles east of Devil’s Lake to our second stop at Parfrey’s Glen.
The glen, or valley, was settled in the mid-1800s, the fast-moving Parfrey’s Glen Creek offering power for an assortment of saw and grist mills.  It takes its name from its last inhabitant, Robert Parfrey, who ran a grist mill there from 1865 to 1876.  The site remained a favorite of visitors thereafter, and in 1952 it became Wisconsin’s first State Natural Area.
      Hiking upstream through Parfrey’s Glen is like pacing out a song that starts softly with violins, builds steadily, and crescendos with crashing cymbals, timpani, and bass drums.  The first quarter-mile edges gently enough through the prairie alongside a kittenish stream that tumbles out of the forest and hurries across scatterings of well-worn stones. 
      But the serene bottom-glen is deceptive. The change begins gradually, with the forested creek edge giving way to small outcrops that the stream burbles past.  From there, by twist and turn the path leads upwards into an increasingly steep splashing Jurassic-Park-like gorge of purplish quartzite. 
     In its uppermost reaches, the rock walls of the glen are 100 foot sheer drop-offs carved into the angular bedrock 12,000 years ago by glacial meltwater.   Potholes dot the ledges, round-shaped hollows in the rock scooped out by swirling boulders that had been caught up in the eddies of the rushing meltwater.
      This wasn’t the first time the glen had seen dramatic waters.  The walls of the glen are sandstone embedded with quartzite conglomerate—rounded pebbles and boulders seemingly cemented in the sandstone.  These were formed on tropical seashores 500 million years ago when equatorial storms tossed and smoothed the stones before they settled to the ocean floor and mixed into the hardening bedrock. 
      Cool summer seepage from the rocks creates a microclimate, harboring more-northerly, and often rare and threatened species of plants and animals like northern monkshood, false foxglove, cerulean warblers, and diving beetles.  
      On this November day the glen, protected and warm, felt like spring.  Green leaves still clung to the wind-sheltered trees.  Trunks and boulders were green with abundant moss.  Stream water rushed everywhere, cascading off boulders, pooling into rock-lined ponds, and sliding through the gaps. 
      The uppermost reach of the gorge is fed by a waterfall.  Here the stream exits a serene forest and plunges into the time hole before emerging calmly again at the lower end of the glen.
      Our hike wasn’t wall-to-wall people, but it wasn’t solitary either.  At the lower reaches of the glen we watched two young siblings testing their ability to hop-scotch across the stream atop a few exposed boulders while their parents encouraged them.  Further up the gorge, young couples crawled across the ledges and leaped across stream crossings. While an early winter wind blustered outside the park, inside the glen it felt like a new vernal season had just begun.
                                                                         *                      *                      *
            Summer days are meant for big parks with lakes for swimming and kayaking and long, challenging trails that work up a sweat.  In the off-season we chose to visit two tiny parks instead. 
            Almost forgotten, Natural Bridge State Park and Parfrey’s Glen took us to forgotten time as well,  leap-frogging us across the seasons and across the ages.
 
-- Kevin Koch
March 2018

      Bird specialist Jon Stravers and I are driving through leaf-strewn dirt roads along the river bluffs of Alamakee County.   We bounce over a few ruts, occasionally pausing to peer through the woods at the old oaks and hickories where Jon tracks cerulean warblers each spring and summer.  But in general our movement is upward, ascending through the forest to a cliff face where Jon has constructed, rock by rock, a 1000-stone raptor effigy.
        Stravers, who lives most of the year in Harpers Ferry, Iowa, conducts bird-nesting inventories for the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, the Army Corps of Engineers, Yellow River State Forest, and other environmental groups and agencies.  His work has resulted in much of the region encompassing Yellow River State Forest, Effigy Mounds National Monument, the Upper Mississippi National Fish & Wildlife Refuge, and Pikes Peak being designated a 35,000-acre Globally Important Bird Area (IBA) in 2014.
        Parking where the road ends fifty yards from the overlook, we swish through fallen leaves till we emerge at the cliff-face with its view clear to the east, save for one tenacious old cedar clinging to the limestone edge.  “That gnarly old dog, how long do you think he’s been here?” Jon rasps.  Stravers, with a headful of unruly gray hair, rumpled outdoor clothing, and cargo pockets filled to the brim, looks at home in these woods.
        Before us lies the 35-foot wing-spanned stone raptor, its left wing a few dozen feet from the overlook.  It looks much lighter than its rocky weight, as if it might take flight at a moment’s notice.
The spacious forest is both home and migratory haven to a wide range of birds, including coopers hawks, scarlet tanagers, and Jon Stravers’ favorites, the red shouldered hawk and cerulean warbler.
         Stravers’ bird inventories, for example, have identified 190 territories of the cerulean warbler, which is in 75% decline nationwide but thriving in the Driftless. The Effigy Mounds-Yellow River IBA provides habitat for over 100 bird species, including tropical migrants that seasonally inhabit the area. The IBA also includes nesting sites of rare and reintroduced raptors like the peregrine falcon.
       Across the river, Wyalusing State Park is included in a separate Wisconsin IBA program, adding to the overall bird sanctuary.   But, says Jon, “The birds don’t pay any attention to political boundaries, and I try to ignore some of that as well.”
                                                                             *                      *                      *
         On our way to the stone raptor, Jon stopped to point out the 30-inch diameter cottonwoods, ancient oaks and black walnuts that his cerulean warblers live among.  Their choice of tree “perhaps has something to do with tree structure and topography–open spacing in the upper branches,” Jon said, exercising his Audubon thinking.         Then Jon engaged his mystical side: “Or perhaps it could be the cerulean recognizing the wisdom of an ancient tree.”
        Cerulean warblers migrate to the Driftless Area from Venezuela, Colombia, Bolivia, Peru, and the northern Amazon.  Jon marvels at the mystery: “How do they find their way over 3000 miles, a forest bird crossing the Gulf of Mexico trusting the compass in their heart and the elders of their clan?”
       The cerulean warblers usually arrive around May 5.  In May and June, as early as 4:30 a.m. Jon is at the Yellow River Forest or nearby to be in the best location when first light arrives.  He has been tracking about 200 ceruleans in the region, learning where they nest and how they defend their territories.  “They talk differently when they court, when the eggs are laid, and when their chicks are hatched,” Jon explains.  After the young reach adolescence, the parents stop singing and the family unit blends into the surrounding clan of warblers.  They leave Yellow River by the end of August to return south.  
       Jon is as much caught up in the mystery as the science of migrating birds.  “I’m trying to figure out what draws them in, what brings them back.”  The mystery, for Jon at least, largely resides in the Driftless landscape, particular the region encompassing the Yellow River State Forest and nearby Effigy Mounds National Monument.
        “Something happened to me where I first visited the bird effigies at Effigy Mounds,” he says, describing the nearby national monument along the Mississippi bluffs that protects almost 200 Native American mounds, including 30 in the shapes of bears and birds.  “I loved that view, that feeling, that remoteness when nobody else is up there.  There began a longing within me to be close to that place.  Though I knew little about the people who built them, I felt connected to them.”
       In 2015 Stravers first began building a stone raptor on a cliff overlook.  His current raptor sits atop Andy Mountain near Harper’s Ferry.   On his regular travels along the forest roads, he picks up fist- to lap-sized rocks and hauls them to the overlook, where he places them, stone by stone, in the outline or interior of the growing bird.  Like the mound-builders who placed heart-stones collected from far away at the center of their effigies, Jon has also collected rocks from Idaho, where his daughter and grandchildren live, and added them to the raptor.
      He has built similar stone raptors in northeast Iowa, Idaho, New Mexico, Arizona, and Florida in places where he senses a sacred landscape.
        Today Jon pulls a new stone from the back of the car to place on the wing.  Some stones, he says, are placed for symbolic value (such as the red stone at the raptor’s heart), while the rest are placed for the shape and fitting of the rock. 
       “I come here to become centered,” Jon reflects after placing the stone.  “We all need ‘spiritual exercise’ like we need physical exercise.  It only works if you consistently practice it.” 
So we place a new stone on the effigy, turn back to the car, and descend through the gray and golden light, giving space for the spirit of the raptor to take flight.

A PRAIRIE RESTORATION
By Kevin Koch
 
            Daryl guided the prairie burn like a sheepdog nudging the flock around the bend and tucking it into the valley.  He dribbled out the first flames from his drop torch along an edge of winter-browned tallgrass, forcing a line of fire to crawl against the wind for 20 feet until it petered out.  Then he circled back across the prairie and drop-torched bits of flame along another line.  This flame roared to life and rode the wind with soaring abandon till it reached the previous burn line and sank away.
          Dave Cushman, the owner of this private patch of prairie, had hired Daryl Parker of Tri-State Habitat Specialists, to conduct a safe burn on the 453-acre property. Dave had invited a few friends to help out, which mostly consisted of walking along the burn line and tamping down any flames that threatened to go rogue.
          This was Dave’s second annual prairie burn on his Jackson county property.  Along with restoring natural tallgrasses and wildflowers, he has constructed ponds for wildlife, built berms to minimize erosion, and revitalized the health of acreage’s forests.  Managing a prairie woodland ecosystem in the absence of the full range of natural inputs is a bit like a sheepdog’s task: nudging here, tucking there. 
           Dave and his wife purchased the property in 2001.  The previous owner had put much of the hilly, erodible land that that had been farmed continuously since the 1840s into the Conservation Reserve Program (CRP).  But, having retired the land, the former owner was ready to retire himself. 
          Dave’s intentions for the property developed gradually.  The CRP lands at the time of purchase were planted in bromegrass, a non-native shallow-rooted grass that holds the soil but can be easily reconverted to agriculture. Bromegrass does little to attract wildlife.  But Dave was increasingly drawn to the land’s original survey from the 1840s that recorded elk, deer, and wild turkey in an oak savanna landscape.
          Dave and I toured the property in late fall, bouncing along mowed paths in a pickup truck, winding among the prairie, ponds, and edgewoods.  A rooster pheasant waddled out into the path in front of us, strutting down the lane, reluctant to fly off, though he finally did.  “He must have someone interesting back in the grass,” chuckled Dave. 
            The 196 acres that have been restored to prairie are divided into three sections, one of which is scheduled for burning each spring.  As we circled the prairie, the three sections were easily distinguishable.  This year’s burned acres were vibrant with big bluestem, side oats grama, switchgrass, goldenrod, coneflowers, blackeyed susans, prairie dropseed, and other prairie grasses and wildflowers.  Last year’s burn was healthy as well, just a bit more unkempt.  The third parcel, never yet burned but scheduled for next spring, was in definite need of a haircut.
           Dave hired local forester and grassland expert Kevin Oetken to help with the conversion to native prairie grasses and wildflowers.  Dave doesn’t like using chemicals on the land, so the first step pained him, but was necessary.  First, the bromegrass had to be mowed low and killed off with herbicide in the fall and following spring.  Once the bromegrass had been removed, the next step was to plant a 39-seed variety mixture of native grasses and wildflowers in the late fall.
          Around the same time, the Natural Resources Conservation Service (NRCS) approached Dave about building berms and ponds to reduce runoff from the steep-sloped property as part of a plan to reduce erosion throughout the region and limiting runoff.  Over the last few years Dave has constructed four ponds and 10-12 berms and basins for erosion control. 
          The ponds, Dave says, “are wildlife magnets.”  As we drove past we noted a ring of beaten-down grasses around each pond resulting from the wildlife drawn to the water.
          Next, Dave turned his attention to improving the timber stands of oak, hickory, and walnut by removing scrub trees so that the hardwoods can flourish and replenish. He has recently planted some American chestnut trees.
          Dave’s father was a forester, and he and his brothers grew up with a love of the outdoors.  “I probably spent 30 weekends a year from the time I was 5 or 6  hunting, fishing, and hiking while growing up.”
          Dave and his family—across three generations—enjoy hunting on the property, but also enjoy watching the re-established wildlife. “Before the restoration,” Dave says, “we really only saw red-winged blackbirds out here.  Now we see orioles, wrens, red-tailed hawks, tanagers.  There are deer, pheasants, lots of butterflies.”
          One hundred fifty years of farming on the steep-sloped acres depleted much of the topsoil, but over time, the prairie will restore the soil.  Deep native roots aerate the soil, providing places for organisms to grow, which feed insects, which in turn feed birds and butterflies and draws back a wider array of wildlife.
         “I don’t think that this property should ever be put back into production,” Dave says, contemplating future plans to assure this.
          Dave is proud of what has been accomplished on the farm, but insists the story of his prairie farm is not about himself, but about the land.  In addition, he points out that his prairie is an isolated plot.  “Corridors of native plants are needed,” he explains, in order to attract migrating and nesting birds, butterflies, and more.  
          A month before Dave and I bounced along the grassy lanes in his pickup, I had come out to the acreage on my own.  It was the first I had seen the property since Daryl had managed the fire and the straggling band of helpers.
          That April I had seen a scorched, black earth unfolding behind a sweeping orange and golden prairie fire.  Now, in early fall, the golds and oranges were back—in brown-eyed susans and compass plants and golden rod, and in the monarch butterflies that flitted about like so many prairie plants with wings.
 
-- Kevin Koch
December 2017
 
 

 THE  PORCUPINE MOUNTAINS
By Kevin Koch
 
     Growling thunder and a darkening sky to the west put a quick retreat to our second day’s hike on the Escarpment Trail in the Porcupine Mountains.  The rush lay in contrast to the leisurely lunch my wife and I had enjoyed on an outcrop 500 feet above the Lake of the Clouds a few minutes earlier. 
     The Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park offers a dose of both urgency and calm as it stretches 60,000 acres along the south shore of Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula, Michigan.  The primacy of the present moment quickly dissipates into the eons here.
       Known colloquially as the Porkies, the range rises 1000 to 1600 feet above Lake Superior, forming parallel ridges a mile or so inland.  The parallel ridges are separated by glacial lakes, marshes, and old-growth, virgin forest.  From a fire tower at the crest of the Summit Trail, the highest point in the Porkies, the ridges undulate from peak to peak, forming a silhouette against the horizon that supposedly reminded early inhabitants of the hunched-up back of a porcupine.
     Dianne and I spent most of our hiking time on the Escarpment Trail, whose sheer basalt cliffs drop precipitously into the Lake of the Clouds.  It was a clear day on our first hike, so the lake reflected the deep blue of the seemingly-near sky instead.
     The escarpment—the term meaning a long, steep-sloped ridge—was formed a billion years ago when the earth’s crust began to pull apart in this region, forming the Midcontinent Rift. Volcanic magma rushed in to fill the void.  Uplifted 40,000 million years ago, the escarpment layers were later scoured by glaciers.  As we hiked along the ridge, we could still see scratch marks left on the exposed bedrock by the grinding glaciers.
     The Porkies are home to over 30,000 acres of old growth virgin forest, including the largest stand of hardwood west of the Adirondacks.  Towering eastern hemlocks—100-foot-tall, short-needled pines—shade large sections of the forest floor, preventing other trees from getting established and resulting in a “clean” understory from which the hemlock trunks arise like cathedral columns.
     Human habitation came early to the Porkies, with archaeological evidence dating back 8000 years.  The Ojibwe were the last indigenous peoples of the region.  The initial Euro-American appearance was quick, furious, and destructive.  Large swaths along Lake Superior were logged until the remaining old-growth forest was preserved when the Porkies were declared a wilderness park in 1945.
     Copper mining blew through the region like a wildfire as well.  Although intermittent mining dates back thousands of years, the mid-1840s saw a short-lived copper mining rush.  We hiked the Union Mine Trail through the bottomlands where interpretive signs point out the eroding evidence of an 1846 company mining community.  In October 1846 a miner named William Spaulding wrote home that “everything seems to prosper at this location; we are not only turning out copper, but children.  Mrs. Shin gave birth to a whopping baby boy today.” 
            The boom ended quickly.  The tone of Spaulding’s February 1847 message home foreshadowed the gloom that would soon overtake the mining community: “A man by the name of Baily was found frozen to death 4 miles from the mouth of the Iron River.”  The Union Mine was abandoned later in 1847 due to slumping copper prices.  It was reopened briefly in the 1860s and early 1900s, but each time closed quickly due to the vagaries of the market and limited ore deposits.
            The Union Mine trail led us past several mostly disappeared shafts as well some small waterfalls. Indeed, one of the biggest draws to the Porcupine Mountains—and to the Upper Peninsula in general—are the innumerable cascades.  The topography of the region creates a small “continental divide,” with waters south of the park embarking on a leisurely 2300-mile path to the Gulf of Mexico while waters from the Porkies plummet the few short miles to Lake Superior with great urgency.
            Our campsite was near the Presque Isle River.  Here the wooded Presque River Trail edges alongside numerous jagged waterfalls and bouldered rapids.  Further downstream, the river tumbles through a basalt valley, pounding through narrow draws and doubling back on itself to carve out “potholes” in the black rock. 
            Finally the Presque Isle River eases out into Lake Superior.  Our introduction to the mouth of the river came at sunset.  We caught the lake in summer calm as it drew the sun down into its belly.
            Lake Superior is, of course, the largest of the Great Lakes, but with depths reaching to 1330 feet, it could hold the waters of the four other lakes combined.  The most northerly of the lakes as well, its waters are bone-aching cold.  I swam briefly along the shoreline, hugging the top six inches as much as possible to float along a thin, sun-warmed layer. 
            The deep, clear Superior waters can turn urgent quickly, though, with November gales notoriously welling up to pull down yet another forlorn shipwreck.
          Both urgency and calm vie for the upper hand in the Porcupine Mountains.  Adrenaline pumps in proximity to a rushing waterfall while a quiet lunch on a basalt cliff outcrop above the Lake of the Clouds soberly reminds you of the power of the ages.
            But in a small corner of the Porkies—in a section added later and not subject to the park’s environmental protections—new exploratory drillings for copper mining erupted in the winter of 2017, accompanied by the usual voices pitting jobs against preservation. 
            Is there an urgency here?  Is there a long view?
 

           
 
 

            Christie is trying to disentangle the call of the Bobolink from the web of bird song at the Valley of Eden Bird Sanctuary. “Hear that beep-boop-beep?  It sounds like R2-D2!” she laughs, likening it to the whirrings of the lovable Star Wars robot.
            My wife Dianne and I are guests of Christie Trifone-Simon, Director of Development for the Jo Daviess Conservation Foundation (JDCF), hiking a one-mile loop of the organization’s newly acquired 410-acre property located southwest of Stockton, IL. The rich range of habitat at Valley of Eden—tall and short grass restored prairie, brome grass, hardwood and orchard forest, wetlands and intermittent streams, and Rush Creek—are home to over 70 as-yet-identified bird species, including 15 species listed in “need of conservation” and/or “state-endangered.” 
            The result on this mid-June morning walk is a symphony of bird song.
            JDCF is a private non-profit organization in northwest Illinois’ Jo Daviess County that protects and restores environmentally significant lands based on the support of members, donors, and volunteers.  JDCF currently owns over 1,100 acres of woods, prairie, marsh, and archaeologically significant lands throughout the county available to public access, and they help other owners establish conservation easements on private lands as well.  
            Christie, who has led us on hikes before, is her usual enthusiastic self.  She points out a pair of bobolinks perched on a prairie bush swaying in the breeze.  The Bobolink is a migrant bird that spends part of its year in Panama, Christie explains.  A grassland bird, it has been in decline in recent years as more land is cultivated and developed.
            We also spook up a Meadowlark and several Red-Winged Blackbirds as we walk.  The blackbirds’ nests in the grass “look like a woven piece of art,” Christie says.
            As we turn a bend along the trail, we encounter the forest edge and a whole new set of birds.  An oriole is swooping among the orchard trees and a woodpecker is drumming a deadwood tree stump somewhere out of sight.  
            The list of rare or threatened species also includes Henslow’s Sparrow and Dickcissel on the prairie grasslands, the Great Egret in the marshes, the American Woodcock and Yellow-Billed and Black-Billed Cuckoo from the forest, and the Brown Thrasher and Savanna Sparrow in the edgewood.
Future plans for the property include bird watching and photography blinds. The bird sanctuary has drawn the interest of organizations like the Audubon Society.  It could well become a destination site for birders, says Christie.
            “It’s like a symphony of bird calls out here,” Dianne says, and suddenly the conversation turns to the aesthetics and psychological benefits of nature. 
            “The experience of nature is about sight, sound, texture, and colors,” Christie responds.  She tries to get kids, especially, to see nature up close.  Her sentences sometimes stop mid-stream as she points out swallowtail, monarch, wood nymph, and skipper butterflies that have fluttered across her train of thought, calling out to be noticed.
            The Monarch, Christie says, has a special relationship to the milkweed, and she takes us off the trail midsentence to show us the plant.  Monarchs feed off its milky sap, ingesting cardenolids, which in turn make the monarchs toxic to potential predators.  The loss of grassland milkweeds has contributed to the steep decline of monarchs.
            Everything in nature is woven together, and Christie leads our attention next to the underside of the milkweed leaves where ants, she explains, are “farming” aphids. The ants herd the nearly microscopic insects, protecting them from predators and feeding off the aphid excretion called honeydew.  “Look at the size of those ants’ mandibles,” Christie says with delight and amazement as she unfurls the milkweed leaf and examines the ants up close.
            We trade the microscopic view for a broad sweeping vista from the upland forest edge down through the valley grassland and across to the woods and farm fields that rim the horizon.  From here the wide range of habitat and land use is apparent.
From beyond the trail but still within the sanctuary grounds rises the lowing of cattle.  Another unusual feature of the Valley of Eden sanctuary is that cattle will continue to graze certain areas to keep the forest from encroaching on the short grass habitat that some birds require for nesting.  A farmhouse and cattle shed will also continue to grace the sanctuary entrance to help visitors “appreciate the history of our farming heritage,” Christie adds.
            Indeed, the Valley of Eden takes its name not from the Biblical garden but from the family name of its past owners who farmed the land.  But the bird sanctuary will be donated anonymously to the JDCF by its current owner who has been actively restoring the land the past 25 years, including planting prairie and new stands of hardwood forest.  Having seen habitat disappear elsewhere in the country, the owner has worked to preserve and improve the grasslands and woods that sweep across this sun-drenched valley and uplands.
            “The intention of the donor,” says Christie, “was to create a sanctuary for birds of many habitats.  We intend to carry on that dream forever.”
The Valley of Eden Bird Sanctuary will be open to the public sometime in 2018.
            There is plenty of work to do in the meantime.  A new road and gravel parking lot had just been laid down the week before our visit.  Volunteers can get a sneak preview by offering to pull weeds, manage a bluebird trail, take part in birding inventories, help with wildlife interpretation, and more.
            A symphony of bird calls trill across the grassland at the Valley of Eden Bird Sanctuary.  Bird interweaves with butterfly, ant with aphid, cow with grassland, and grassland with forest. 
And as with any good orchestra, each instrument is part of the song.

           To the relief of some and the disappointment of others, a midwinter storm had skirted north of Dubuque, leaving us with just an inch of snow atop a gritty layer of ice.  So when the weekend arrived, my wife Dianne and I drove an hour and a half northeast to cross-country ski at Blue Mound State Park near Mount Horeb, Wisconsin. There, the storm had muffled the woods with a fresh nine inches of snow.
           Muffled, I say, because every tree from the fattest oak to the slenderest sapling had been slathered in a snow-spray that dampened sound across the 1,150-acre park.  The snow still clung to the trunks and limbs three days after the storm.  Spruce and pines on the hill-top ridges bowed under the weight.
          The cross-country skiing was ideal on the newly groomed paths.  We started early, with the parking lot nearly empty.  Our skis made only a slight slicing sound.  Our breaths came quick and light. A woodpecker throbbed in the distance.
          At Blue Mound, ten miles of cross-country ski trails wind through forests of oak, maple, hickory, walnut, willow, and pine.  Limestone boulders toppled from the mound litter the forest floor, mottled by green and brown lichen and striped with bands of white chert.  The trails offer occasional heart-quickening downhills as antidotes to some long uphill climbs.  A patch of prairie along the way bares the sky beyond the woods.  Then, in the distance, the trail disappears again into the dark mouth of another stand of pine.
          Due to alternating layers of limestone and shale, Blue Mound is awash in four-season springs.  The pausing skier can listen to the gurgling of fresh water springs trickling through the snow.
          Two observation towers at the crest of the mound offer wordless vistas taking in Madison 25 miles to the east and Baraboo 50 miles north.
Quiet pervades the woods, allowing the slightest of sounds to eke through.
                                                   *                      *                      *
          Blue Mound looms silently in the southwest Wisconsin landscape.  It takes its name from the atmospheric conditions of winter cloud and summer haze that give it a slight bluish hue visible for up to 50 miles. 
          The highest point in southern Wisconsin at 1,716 feet, Blue Mound is one in a series of tall knolls that dot the landscape in a general northeast to southwest line, including the Belmont Platteville, and Sinsinawa mounds in southwest Wisconsin, and Balltown and Sherrill mounds in northeast Iowa.  The domes are remnants of a hard Niagara dolomite limestone surface bedrock that once sat atop successive layers of shale, sandstone, and older limestone in a slanted plane reaching 1,000 miles back to its namesake, Niagara Falls. 
          Although the landscape may be mute, it still manages to whisper its past.  A “tree marker” on one of the trails is a centuries-old white oak shaped as a sapling by Native Americans to point toward the summer solstice sunrise.  Burial mounds in the surrounding landscape harken back to an even more-distant human presence.
         The first Euro-American settlers arrived in 1828, first to mine lead, then to farm. Although the park was not established until 1959, the mound gained an early reputation as a peaceful refuge.  An 1870s Dane County guidebook said, “Persons desiring absolute quiet, pure air, and water cannot find a more suitable spot wherein to pitch their tent.”
         But Blue Mound hasn’t always been so quiet. The Military Ridge Bicycle Trail that passes near the foot of Blue Mound is a faint echo of the 1881 railroad that once whistled through the nearby town of Mount Horeb.  In the 1890s, visitors took the train to watch horse races at the top of the mound.  The racetrack imprint is now an oval road at the top of the mound connecting the watchtowers.
         Blue Mound continued as a bustling place for decades.  In the 1940s and 50s it sported a ski hill on one of the mound slopes.  Snowmobiles used the park up through the early 1980s.  The machines were never banned as such, but eventually private sledding trails leading to the park were closed off by local landowners, and without enough trail routes within the park to make it worth the while, snowmobiling disappeared from Blue Mound altogether.
          In recent decades, with over 20 miles of hiking, mountain biking, snowshoeing, and cross-country ski trails, Blue Mounds State Park has developed a reputation as a silent sports sanctuary across the seasons.  Birders come for a glimpse of the 75 nesting bird species or the 150 species that migrate through spring and fall. Hunting is restricted to tracking the annual succession of spring, summer, and fall wildflowers.
          It remains to be seen—or heard—whether the silent sanctuary will survive the return of snowmobile trails to the park in the near future.  Opposed by the Friends of Blue Mounds who raised over $500,000 for the park in recent years, but supported by snowmobile enthusiasts who lamented a lack of public snowmobiling opportunities in the Madison vicinity, the reintroduction of snowmobile trails was recently approved by the Wisconsin Natural Resources Board after the decades-long hiatus.
                                                    *                      *                      *
          After two and a half hours of cross-country skiing, Dianne and I were surprised to find the parking lot had filled as we completed our loop by noon-time.  We had not noticed an influx skiers on the trail as the morning had worn on. 
         And there was still a hush over Blue Mound.    -- February 2017

            From a distance I know it must be the ice cave.  The upper lip of its limestone maw is encrusted in frost, the result of the cave puffing its warm breath into the valley. The snow is too deep for skiing through Jones County’s Lost Canyon, so I’ve donned snow shoes and plunged down into the woods to find the annual drip-ice shapes.
            I am fascinated by water in its frozen form.  Etched into frost, swirled into snowdrifts, clinging like garland to trees, or polished into ice formations, winter’s frozen water is like time stopped. It may be months before last week’s snowfall will melt from the hillsides.
            When I reach the cave opening, about three feet tall and six feet wide, I drop to my knees to peer inside. Before me stand dozens of crystal clear, haunting shapes encased in ice.  On the left must be a miniature Merlin captured in a spell. In the back, a see-through hound sits on its haunches.  I could start a pilgrimage rush, as the drip figures right in front of me are none other than the Holy Family in a manger. 
            And from the dark corners of the cave I hear water plinking, plinking, plinking in the warmer recesses of the earth’s lungs.
            Iced-over waterfalls offer another wonder, and for that I take a quick drive to Wisconsin’s Governor Dodge State Park to view Stephens Falls.  In summer its plunge-mist cools the valley.  Here in winter the waterfall is preserved mid-tumble, a moment of flow hardened and stilled like a photograph.  Water still trickles behind the thinner panes, catching and dispersing slight shards of light, reminding me that stopped time is just an illusion.
            At the Mines of Spain I’m headed off-trail on snow shoes again.  Just beyond the cliff face the slope softens slightly into a steep wooded hillside.  Even with my snow shoe crampons I’ll still need to latch onto tree trunks to hoist myself up the bluff.  The payoff is a few more ravine climbs ahead: a pockmarked field of hundreds of lead mine pits on a river cliff.  The unbroken snow proves that no one has been in this thick forest for some time, here where miners labored in the 1830s.  When they left, the forest regenerated, but otherwise time has stood still amid the abandoned mines.  The oldest oaks date to the end of lead mining.
            Cross-country skiing across the farthermost bridge at the Swiss Valley Nature Preserve, I stop to watch the tussle between time frozen and time flowing as rounded snow mounds hold out against the quick-running trout stream.  I wonder how clear water can look so dark against the snow.  Higher up in a hillside woods, a recent wet snow still laces the burr oak limbs stretched laterally across the forest. Heavy white clumps weigh down bushes and brambles in the understory.  Slight breezes puff away the accumulations until, in a day or two, the woods will be just another sea of brown in a weary, rotting snow.
            I’m not an ice-fisherman, but if it’s not too cold I’ll tip my cap to those whiling away the hours in shanties splayed out across the river.  Me, I’ll wander down to the Mississippi on the lookout for bald eagles with their snow-capped heads perched as still as branches in the upper reaches of the river forest.  They, too, have fishing on their minds.  Instead of poles they’ll use their talons to snare a reckless bass come lumbering up to sip the air from an ice-free pool.
            From above the river, at Eagle Point Park, I’ll contemplate the jammed ice floes interlocked and solid across the wide expanse above the dam.  I’m reminded of a sleepless night on a jet across the North Atlantic.  While everyone else slept, I gazed down across a sweep of icebergs backlit by a dusky orange hint of sunrise and thought, this is the loneliest place in the world.  Sometimes a winter’s glimpse of the Mississippi River can feel the same.
            To ski or snowshoe at night is more enchanted than lonely.  Once I skied among some blue spruces on the hillside near my home under a moon-lit sky.  It was warm inside the clump of trees, so warm that I thought about kicking off my skis, molding the snow into a back rest, and stretching out to watch the moon-clouds pass.  I didn’t, though.  The spruces on the outer edges were buffeted by an increasing wind, and their branches, heavy with snow, pawed and bobbed like nervous steads.  They were warning me of a changing weather.
*                      *                      *
            Snow and ice are water held in place, a stymied flow, like stilled time.  Maybe this is why some people think that winter is long. 
            I’m writing today from the warmth of my kitchen. The evergreens along the driveway are heaped in powder, and the snow-piles between them are deep and still fresh-looking.  I leave the dried-out husks of flower heads on the hydrangeas all winter long to trap the snow and bow in the wind. Sunny winter days like this are rare, but usually crisp and cold. 
            I am writing a few days before the winter solstice when the sunrise halts its winterly southward trek.  For five days the sunrise will hold still against the horizon, and then begin inching northward again. 
            The shadows across the snowy lawn are lengthening.  The snow’s not going anywhere, for now, in the deep freeze.  But the sun will dip, the weeks will pass, the season will warm, and the frozen water will let loose and flow again, all in due time.
            It’s happened before and before and before.  I know it.  Maybe as I grow older that is why I marvel that for a short while each year, water freezes in place, time stops, and even the sun comes to a momentary halt.

--Published in the Dubuque Telegraph Herald, 1 January 2017

          So what, then, is a spiritual landscape?  Quite often when I use the term, whether in Ireland or in the Driftless, people look at me quizzically and try to send me to the nearest outdoor shrine.  And while I have been moved by many such a place—such as the Mass Rock located a half-hour’s uphill hike from the nearest road in the Maumturk Mountains to provide safe worship in the penal times—such places only scratch the surface of what I mean, or think I mean, by a spiritual landscape. 
          The following principles have been guiding my thinking about sacred place—in Ireland, the Driftless, anywhere.  They are related to Ireland’s Celtic past, although they are not exclusively Celtic.  Nonetheless, they give me a new lens through which to view my own landscape.

1. The landscape is spiritual.  I speak with a woman who has witnessed the winter solstice sunrise as it lit up the interior of Newgrange, a Neolithic tomb near Dublin.  A no-nonsense historian who had previously viewed the structure simply as an astronomical site, she says, “But when you get in there and it actually happens…you begin to see the power of the sun and your connection to it.  You realize this is your moment with the sun, individual and personal.”  -  In the Driftless I walk about the Effigy Mounds near Marquette, IA, with bear and bird-shaped ceremonial and burial mounds above the Mississippi, and I feel the earth nearly bursting with meaning, even if the precise intent of the mound builders has been lost to time.
   
2. The Creation is good.  While many a theologian has tried to drive a wedge between the spiritual and the physical universe, the Judeo-Christian tradition begins, unequivocally, with the Genesis story of God acknowledging each day that the creation is “good.”  So in the River Shannon the salmon bring both knowledge and sustenance.  -  The Mississippi River knows no salmon, but it is the most important migratory flyway of North America.  We have polluted and strapped down both rivers, but they retain a wildness despite our vain attempts at controlling them.  (But if the creation is “good,” how then to explain natural disasters?  While the creation is often good to us and for us, it is nonetheless a good unto itself and to its creator.  The good of creation is not defined solely in human terms.)
3. The Holy may be found in ordinary, bountiful places.  The most peaceful place on earth (I have decided) is the monastic ruin of Glendalough, set in a lush, beautiful valley in the Wicklow mountains, whose twin lakes no doubt presented the 6th century monks with plenty of fish and whose mountain flanks offered deer and wild boars.  -  Sticking with religious houses for the moment, the Driftless offers similarly peaceful and holy sites at Sinsinawa, Mississippi Abbey, and New Melleray Abbey, each set amid land of plenty and ordinary beauty.  But other landscapes are holy as well.  The prairie, too, is an ordinary place of holiness, where beauty and the sacred is found in a tiny patch of ground as opposed to the grand and overwhelming.
4. The Holy may be found in austere, remote places.  But sometimes one must go to the ends of the earth and to the rocky outpost to encounter the Holy.  The Aran Islands combine the rocky barrenness of the Burren with the remoteness of islands just visible from the mainland.  To these islands flocked Ireland’s early Christian monastics, particularly as they began their spiritual journeys.  They needed to find themselves before they could found monasteries.  The remote places include the personal interior encountered in stark silence.  -  Trempealeau, Wisconsin, with its deep summer green along the Upper Mississippi may seem neither austere nor remote, but imagine it in winter as an outpost colony of the Cahokian civilization near present-day St. Louis in 1100 A.D.  What compelled these people to travel 500 miles upstream and establish a village, and to build huge ceremonial platform mounds on the river bluffs? What austerity did these people find in their first Driftless winters?
5. Animals are Fellow Companions.  In the Celtic tradition, animals were messengers from the gods and even from the Christian God.  People could shape-shift into animals and then return to human form.  Even a St. Patrick legend tells of the missionary and his band appearing as a herd of deer as they pass by the army of a local king opposed to Patrick’s Christian evangelizing.  Pope Francis in Laudato Sí, writes, “Each of the various creatures, willed in its own being, reflects in its own way a ray of God’s infinite wisdom and goodness. Man must therefore respect the particular goodness of every creature, to avoid any disordered use of things.”  And so I wander about Connemara, Ireland, in the National Park that is plentiful with living things—butterflies, birds, sheep, cattle, rabbits, foxes—no snakes! But there are carnivorous plants!—even in places like the bog that at first glance appear lifeless.  -  In the Driftless I accompany ornithologist Jon Stravers as he studies red-shouldered hawks and cerulean warblers, and builds his own stone effigy of a hawk on a Yellow River State Forest cliff overlook.
6. Time is elastic and cyclical in the Thin Places.  “Thin Places” is the name for those places in Celtic mythology where the veil between our world and the otherworld is thin and transparent, and may even be crossed.  In such places our usual sense of time is distorted.  In the Thin Places we may see time from nature’s viewpoint, not from the human’s.  So in the rocky Burren time stretches out across the stony limestone pavements, and lakes (turloughs) disappear overnight like magic when the water table drops.  In between the barren limestone blocks grow a vast assortment of wildflowers.  Everything seems “off” and timeless—abundant life amid the barren rocks; marine fossils exposed to the present-day sun; Neolithic tombs amid this April’s most tender wildflowers. – At the Kickapoo Valley Reserve in the Driftless another kind of timelessness prevails in a bluff-surrounded valley of rare plant and animal species and Native American artifacts that were intended to be flooded by an ill-fated plan to dam the valley.  The past and present continue simultaneously, having dodged the dam construction that would have reduced all to no-time.
7. The landscape is storied.  In certain places, one can’t help but feel the story of what has transpired at that location.  In the Wicklow Mountains on a solitary bike ride I encounter—at some distance from the road—a memorial to a civil war victim murdered at that place, and I likewise think of the long tradition of Irish rebels hiding from the British in the Wicklow Mountains.  At the Doo Lough Pass in Connemara, the story of famine victims dying alongside the beautiful Doo Lough (Lake) haunts the path if you get out of your car long enough to feel its presence.  -  In the Driftless the concluding massacre of the Black Hawk War hangs in the air at the battle site between Prairie du Chien and La Crosse.  From the battle bluff and the river shore and even from a steamboat, the U.S. Army and militia mowed down Sauk warrior and civilian alike, with accounts of women with children on their backs being shot as they attempted to swim the Mississippi to safety.  You cannot visit this place without feeling the weight of its past.
8. Poets summon the stories from the land.  The land may be storied, but it requires humans to give shape to its tales.  At the top of Knocknarea sits a Neolithic passage tomb that Celtic tradition transformed into the legendary Queen Maeve’s grave, giving a home in the landscape to the colorful if problematic queen of the Tain, Celtic Ireland’s key epic story.  Poets occupied one of the key positions of respect in Celtic Ireland, and writers are still held in high esteem there.  – At the edge of the Driftless (just beyond its technical boundaries) lies the Leopold Shack, the humble summer and weekend dwelling of America’s most influential nature writer, Aldo Leopold, and his family.  Leopold interpreted the earth’s story, sounded warning against the abuse of the landscape, and called upon us to develop a “land ethic.”

 
          These principles no doubt raise the question of just what kind of spirituality am I engaging in here. My Christian friends may see me as consorting a little too closely with indigenous and New Age beliefs.  New Agers may find my fascination with Christian monks hopelessly dated and irrelevant to the current times. Non-believers may not get much beyond my discussions of geology and the glacial periods.
          But I tend to see more similarity than difference among all of these.
          Understand, I am not saying they are all the same.  I am a Christian, an active Catholic.  My personal beliefs are more idiosyncratic than dogmatic, but I’m not important enough for anyone to have held my feet to the fire (so to speak, in the modern era at least). But the knowledge and curiosity about  pre-, non-, and-post Christians hasn’t made me any less fond of the Jesus who told his followers that if his Father so loved the lilies and the sparrows, is not his love for us even greater.
          But spirituality is not dogma.  Spirituality of the landscape across all of these traditions invokes a sense of awe, wonder, and sense of something both deeper and greater than the physical universe (itself a marvel and a great, good thing). 
          Neolithic man marking the solstices and equinoxes for practicality’s sake but most likely with something grander in mind—otherwise why not just line up two rocks with the sunrise and call it a day?  Pre-Christian Celts—and their indigenous brothers and sisters everywhere—assigning the powers of nature to the gods and goddesses.  The early Christian Celts interpreting these beliefs in ways consistent with Christianity (rather than denouncing, forbidding, and denigrating indigenous beliefs, as has been all too often the custom of Christian evangelizers).  The geologist, who looks at a landscape and imagines (and theorizes) what succession of natural forces created it.  The New Ager, who splices an eclectic contemporary belief out of ribbons of ancient and world-wide faiths.  The nonbeliever standing in awe and wonder at the forces of nature and the deep tradition of humans who have walked upon the earth.
          Awe and wonder.  That’s the spirituality that links all of these.  Just how was this world—no, this particular hilltop on which I stand—shaped?  What is the nature of nature? Who are our forebears who stood on this plot of land and perhaps died here, and what does it mean that I can almost feel their story in the rocks and trees and bog?
           The rest is dogma: polytheism, monotheism, atheism. You go your way and I’ll go mine.
           Perhaps it’s best to remember the etymological roots of three words related to spirituality: 1) Regardless of how the word is commonly used today, “agnostic” originally meant “not knowing.”  May we all remain a little agnostic within our beliefs, so that we don’t lose our sense of awe and wonder due to our unfailing certainty. Saying this is nothing more (or less) radical than what the Christian mystics have told us all along.  2) “Religion” etymologically means to “bind together again.” Let this be a bonding that unites us rather than enslaves us or others.  “Religion” is also related to the word “ligament,” which allows movement even as it binds bone to bone.  And 3) speaking of bone, the word “sacred” is linked to the word “sacrum,” the bone at the base of the spinal cord.  The sacred arises amid the earthy physicality of the earth.  If you don’t also seek the sacred in the earth you will find only its shadow in the heavens.
 
           Just prior to Christianization, the Irish Celts developed their own version of the Roman alphabet, called Ogham, in response to their interaction with the Romans entrenched in Britain (the Romans never attempted to enter Ireland, but traded with the Irish).  Each letter of the Ogham alphabet was named for a particular tree: A was called Ailm, or Fir; B, Beithe, or Birch; C, Coll, or Hazel; D, Dair, or Oak.  And so forth, with Alder, Hawthorn, Yew, Ash, and Willow standing as names for Ogham alphabet letters.
          Christianization of the Celts soon followed, and the Ogham alphabet remained in use for yet a few centuries.  “In the beginning was the Word,” the Christian evangelists surely told the Irish Celts, “and the Word was God.” 
          But for the ancient Celts, the alphabet was the trees. 

​Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
-- Seamus Heaney, “Bogland”
 
            A shovel slicing into the bog is luscious to hear and feel, like biting into an overripe pear.   A shovel-slice into the bog that strikes a buried stone, however, end-caps with a muted ‘thunk.’
            The ‘thunk’ is both heard and felt, travelling up the shovel’s spine and disseminating through the bog itself.  Ears, hands, and feet all register this first strike upon a Bronze-Age stone wall fence buried beneath the Achill Island bog.  Each turn of the spade exposes a section of wall to daylight for the first time in 3000 years.
 
            Achill Island quickly called out to me during my two-month stay in western Ireland.  Located in the thinly-populated westerly reaches of County Mayo, the island—accessible by bridge across the narrow Achill Sound—offers stunning Atlantic cliff-face views, a landscape with a layered, ancient past, and bog, plenty of bog.
            My first Achill hike was at the Minaun Cliffs on the southwest flank of the island overlooking the long, sandy Keel Strand with surfboarders braving the icy Atlantic waves.  Up through a cut in the lower cliff face, through the bog and among the scattered sheep, we ascended to the Coffin Trail, along which islanders in the more remote villages in earlier centuries carried their dead to the Catholic cemetery seven miles away, occasionally resting the caskets on leachtai, or stone cairns, still present on the landscape.  Not so the dead unbaptized infants, banned in earlier times from consecrated ground and buried in unmarked graves on the lower reaches of the cliff.  Today a memorial at the site offers belated recognition of their presence.
            The Deserted Village digs another layer into the past.  Eighty stone cottage ruins stretch out over a mile in one- or two-lane rows.  Their roofs gone, many of their walls tumbled in, the cottages offer no explanation for their en mass abandonment. Perhaps many of the inhabitants died off in the Famine and the survivors emigrated in the following decades.  Flowing down from the cottages are furrowed rows, the remains of the residents’ potato lazy beds, un-tilled since the mid-1800s and now reverting to bog.  Perhaps a landlord evicted everyone, with plans for the land that never materialized.  No actual records remain to tell the story, just the stone walls.
            Stones and other artifacts, that is.  An archaeological study of three cottage sites suggests happier times as well.  Shards of cheap but colorful imported dinnerware—plates and saucers and tea cups—suggest some gaiety to everyday life as well as contact with the outside world. The sheer number of cottages suggests an active and lively village.  And the small size of the one- or two-room cabins offered a cozy warmth against winter rain squalls. 
            Achill Island and all of Ireland once enjoyed a warmer, dryer climate.  About 4000 years ago the region underwent a climate change, leading to today’s cool, wet weather. Neolitihic farming practices had already felled much of Ireland’s forests, and the combination of climate change and deforestation led to the widespread formation of bog—reeds and sedges and mosses that could survive in the wet landscape and which acidified the soil and water so that other plants could not re-establish.  Bog plants layer upon their prior years’ partial decay, and in doing so literally swallowed up the stone remnants of ancient people’s lives after they moved to more hospitable grounds.  Bog covers 87% of the modern Achill landscape.
           
            Today I am tagging along with the Achill Archaeology Field School as we attempt to unearth part of that ancient layer from the bog.
            Field Director Stuart Rathbone is explaining to the students and me why he thinks there may be a 3000-year-old stone wall buried beneath the bog where we stood.  To the right as we face up the mountainside lies a Neolithic court tomb dating to 3500 B.C., its support stones collapsed but its capstone clearly intact.  About 80 meters to the left sits the stone foundations of Bronze Age huts, the dwelling places of ordinary folks from 1000 B.C.  In between, Stuart reads the landscape.  A slight leveling of the mountain slope runs in a straight line between the two sites, with the slope resuming below the line.  Clumps of grasses amid the prevailing bog mosses likewise run along this line.  “Stones beneath the bog can change the chemical composition,” Stuart says, resulting in vegetation differences.
            So we haul our equipment up the mountainside and stake out a rectangle for digging.
If we find something, we’ll prove Stuart’s hypothesis.  If all we find is bog, then Stuart’s prediction is false.
            We commence digging.  The two younger students work uphill from me, struggling to breach the tangled surface of the bog with their shovels.
            With a sharp step onto the edge of the shovel I slice down into the bog.  After a few more slices and twists with the shovel, the first wet, matted layer of bog works free, and I carry the black prism to the spoil mat.  Then a second matted chunk.
            The next slice ends in a dull ‘thunk.’  Stuart brightens, but realizes it could be a random buried stone.  Till the next ‘thunk,’ and the next and the next.
            Soon I have unearthed a three-foot section of wall hidden away beneath two feet of bog. 
            Later, Stuart instructs me to begin cleaning off the buried stone wall, sweeping and removing bits of bog to expose the stonework to the sun.
            Bog and glittery flakes of schist stone are under my fingernails.  Cleaning the site, I scrape my knuckles on stones that have gone untouched for 3000 years.
 
             We are about to call it a day in the late afternoon.  In one tiny rectangle hidden away on the mountainside, the bog has offered up a small slice of the Achill story, layered upon and swallowed by successive years’ growth of bog, and sunning itself for the first time in 3000 years.
            Other lives have passed over this ground before, lives replete with tragedy and joy.  As for me, I am grinning ear to ear, kneeling in the bog as if it were a sandbox, scraping the years off the stones and nursing them back among the living.