Tuesday, September 25, 2007

13. Rocking Hard, Riding Free

(21 June)
The next day, I struck camp and headed back to my Spot at the Lost Forty. I sat for about five hours, drawing into my hardground-covered plate with a sewing-needle stylus. I finished the picture, recording everything I could see within that rectangle of composition. When I left, I ran into the researchers in the parking loop, and I asked the bearded one to explain it all to me again. He most generously did so, and I bade him farewell.

As this was my final departure, I made sure to pay a visit to Wirt Cemetery. Down a narrow dirt road it lay, a humble clearing surrounded by trees. Ancient, time-softened grave stones sat between polished modern ones. I drove slowly around the loop and looked at names, as cemetery visitors invariably do. Another minivan was doing the same opposite me, and I strove to drive respectfully, lest they were relatives of the interred. With my window rolled down, I could hear gravel crunching beneath me until I returned to the highway. My thrifted Wirt sweatshirt holds so much more meaning now. I have slept beneath its trees, and I have seen its ancestors.

At 5:30 I met Jean-Paul back at his place in Rapids, where he and his friend were cooking up a meal. They had beers waiting! After supper, we went riding. Jean-Paul led us on some amazing bike trails nearby. I got to do something only possible in the country: riding on the highway! * I thrilled to ride on Hwy 2, where I had driven so many times over the past few days.

We rode up into the hills, and through secret neighborhoods between old-growth pines. It felt so good to ride after sitting in the woods and car all day! I rocked hard, up and down hills of exquisite beauty and immaculate pavement. I saw what appeared to be a piece of lingerie hanging from a street sign. Upon closer examination, the piece was little more than a lacy string. A thong! My imagination reeled at the thought of a wild North Woods night.

We stopped at a place marked Pit Lake. Up a gravel hill and down another was a lake in a former quarry pit, swarming with teenagers. The scene was very Winslow Homer. Jean-Paul's friend said that only a few years ago, there were no signs or proper roads like there were now. Jean-Paul took off his shoes and socks and jumped in, still in his cycling jersey and shorts. It wasn't hot enough for me to swim. The sun setting behind the rocky cliffs reflected intensely off the rippling water.

On the way home, behind a giant white pine in someone's yard, the neon red ball of sun glinted the final light of the year's longest day.

*(FYI: The Minnesota Dept. of Transportation offers a free map showing all the MN highways with six-foot wide paved shoulders, color-coded for traffic density!)

Monday, September 17, 2007

12. Sasquatch & the Quest for Fire

(20 June)
Now I had a full day to spend at the Lost Forty. I was going to camp somewhere nearby, work all the next day, and meet Jean-Paul back in Rapids that evening. On my way out of town, I stopped at the camping store Jean-Paul had recommended: Glen's Army/Navy, where I bought an enameled cooking pot and bowl, dark blue with white speckles.

I forgot to take Hwy 38 up, to experience it from the other direction, and I was on 46 again. I planned to go claim my campsite before going to the Lost Forty, but something made me reconsider. I'd figure it out later. Since it was Wednesday, I was confident there would be campsites available, even if I didn't claim one until evening.

I found The Spot, framed my compostion on paper, and then blocked it all out on the plate, which was covered with hardground. I left with plenty of time to encamp before dark. Tomorrow would be the longest day of the year-- the summer solstice-- and I wouldn't have even remembered that if my friend Sarah hadn't texted me, "Happy first day of summer!" which I received in the virgin pine forest! I usually celebrate the solstice, but since I hadn't had a job all June, I never had any idea what day it was.

On my way to the van, I greeted a bearded man standing with some equipment by the white pine with the green rope. I asked if he was doing research. He explained that he was part of a group from Bemidji State, the tents were theirs, but only two of the twelve cars from the day before had been theirs. They were researching why trees increase in girth with age, but max out at certain heights. It is commonly thought that this is because trees can draw water up from the soil only so high. This research had never been carried out on white pines before, so these guys were up 120 feet gathering data. He said the strong winds of the past few days made the tree really sway, but that it felt pleasant, and it kept the mosquitoes away. Mosquitoes do attack that high.

I asked about camping in an SNA, and he said that because this one is within a National Forest, there are fewer restrictions than if it were managed exclusively by the Minnesota DNR. I told him all about my grant project, and he seemed really excited and smiled.

Back at the van, I looked at the state highway map, because I knew the closest campground (a private one on Dolores Lake) was probably aimed more at RVs, meaning all the sites would be right next to each other in a clearing. Not my idea of camping. Aha! The map showed, quite nearby, a red tent symbol: a State Forest campground! Those are my favorite places to camp. Unlike at State Parks, in a State Forest you're allowed to gather firewood, and if the campground's full, you're allowed to camp anywhere, as long as you practice Leave No Trace.

I took off and headed there. It was right by Wirt, and turned out to be a National Forest campground: Noma Lake. The campground lay between Noma Lake and Clear Lake, the latter preferred for fishing, I would later learn. Three other campsites were occupied, and the one I was compelled to choose was right next to one of them, where there were a couple of pickups parked. From my site, I could not see the other through the brush and trees.

After pitching my tent, I had to go about gathering firewood. I needed it for cooking, and I had a little over three hours to find some before sunset. The campground appeared to be too heavily trafficked for there to be much wood lying around, so I set out to buy some.

Minnesota has recently enacted new regulations prohibiting campers from bringing in their own firewood. This is intended to prevent invasive species, such as the emerald ash borer from destroying our parks. According to the DNR, "To date, EAB has killed more than 20 million ash trees and infested over 40,000 square miles in Michigan, Ohio, Illinois, and parts of Canada." Now we must gather our wood on site, if allowed, or buy it from an authorized dealer. Although this restriction will inconvenience many campers, I admire the DNR's foresight.

I drove to a resort I had passed, just outside the campground, on Clear Lake. A little sign also designated this as the local fire warden station. Seemed like a logical place to buy firewood. Inside the lodge was a vacant bar, lots of taxidermy, and a woman sitting with her back to me, facing a computer screen. She didn't even turn around to look at me as I entered, so I examined a stuffed beaver and bobcat, thinking she'd greet me any second. When no acknowledgment came (was this a place of business?), I greeted her.

She didn't know if they sold firewood. "I'll have to go ask my husband." So we went outside to the boathouse, where he and two boys were managing a tank of live bait. He said they are no longer authorized to sell firewood, because of the new regulations. Strangely, he didn't know where I could buy any, nor did he know what roads to take to the nearest stores. His wife offered to call a couple places for me, so she and I returned to the lodge.

While she looked up numbers and called, I looked around at the wooden walls. Right next to a deer head was another piece of taxidermy, with two human-like eyes staring back at me through a furry face! The sasquatch! I told the woman I'd be right back, and I grabbed my camera from the car to covertly document this discovery.



No response on the phone. It was 6:00 pm. Maybe everything was closed. The husband had given me vague directions to Bigfork, so I headed there in the van. On the way, I passed one of the many tamarack bogs of the North Country. Most of them are filled with standing, dead tamaracks; in this one, they were all cut down. I decided that if I didn't find any wood for sale, I'd stop back here and load up. I continued on toward Bigfork, drooling as I passed fenced-in farms with massive piles of cut logs.

I drove for a really long time. Bigfork was worthlessly far away. Being used to distances of blocks or a handful of miles between destinations in the city, matters of minutes on a bike, I was already becoming accustomed to the spread-out proximity of things in the country. But this was ridiculous. To make matters worse, the roadsigns leading to Bigfork had troublesome gaps in continuity.

When I finally arrived, the general store was closed, so I went into the live bait & auto repair shop. A man and woman stood in the back room with the bait tanks, while the proprietor scooped something out. When he walked by, holding a clear bag full of water and minnows, he did not acknowledge me at all. I had to assertively inquire about firewood. He stopped and looked up toward me with demented, Peter Lorre-like eyes. His back was somewhat hunched, and the bottom half of his face was completely gray with dirt. (Or was it a strange stubble?) From one tear duct grew a quarter-inch long piece of skin.

"You might try the general store," he said, "but I don't think it's open."

Thanks.

Was I suddenly in a David Lynch film?

I drove over the dinging hoses, three buildings down, to the only other open business in town: the gas station. An old fisherman in overalls and a straw hat sat against the wall outside and spat into the road. This couldn't be real.

There was no wood at the gas station either, so I headed back toward Noma Lake. The sun still shone golden, just above the treetops. My mission was to fill the van with tamarack. That lonely highway had no shoulder to speak of, but when I arrived at the bog, I was able to turn around and park halfway off the road. I worked quickly, somewhat worried about drawing attention from the nearest farm, which was just barely in sight. There were no property signs at the bog, and only one vehicle passed me while I gleaned: a motorcycle, whose rider stared at me with his hand shading his eyes as he passed.

I loaded the van with logs and sticks, and with each armload I learned better how to walk in a bog. Don't step through or between the reeds; step on them, so that they bend down in front of you, and you can walk on them like a mat. I was not worried about the firewood transportation rule, conservationally speaking, because I was still in the Chippewa National Forest.

After returning to camp, I built a fire, boiled water and cooked potatoes, heated chili in the can, ate them together in a bowl, washed my dishes, and it was still dusk. In the distance, I heard loons calling.

A biker emerged from the woods. My neighbor. His name was Bud, and he just stopped by to say hey. We chatted a bit. He said he was camping alone, but I couldn't help referring to "you guys" because I swear I saw multiple vehicles in his site (and throughout the night I heard him speaking). Bud had been playing classic rock radio, and before he came over, I was gearing up to go inquire if he'd be listening to the radio very late. So, I asked him, and he said, "No, I'll turn it down after a while." I told him I didn't really mind the music, but the commercials are what I go camping to get away from. He seemed like a decent fellow.

After he left, I went down to the shore of Clear Lake to catch the sunset. The scene was gorgeous. I instantly wished I had remembered my camera, but I was witnessing the final moments of sunset, so if I had left again, I would have missed it. After the colors faded into twilight, I returned to camp, built up the fire, and had tea.

Bud did turn the radio down after a while, but I could still hear it, and he kept listening until at least 1:00 am, when I fell asleep. However, I must say I actually preferred his music to the primal fear.

11. Duluth: Coastal Paradise

I picked up Jean-Paul at 3:00 pm at work, twenty miles out of Rapids. I arrived in his minivan, loaded with stuff he was temporarily storing at his parents' house in Duluth before he moved down to the Cities. We added his bike (mine was in there too), and headed out for Duluth, which takes an hour. Again I was treated to Jean-Paul's rhythms. We had tea in Floodwood.

We entered Duluth from a different way than I ever had before, into an old neighborhood which suddenly made me realize that Duluth is much more than Superior Street. A café sign: "A & Dubs"! We stopped at a bike shop so Jean-Paul could pick up a chain whip he had ordered. We perused the "If the Shoe Fits" shelf of free cycling shoes. Nothing for me, but Jean-Paul found a couple pairs, and kept one. We gazed enraptured at 1970s and '80s cycling posters, one for the Tour of Minnesota! Jean-Paul had also heard from a friend that this bike shop ran an underground lending library of cycling videos. When Jean-Paul asked, sure to mention his friend's name, the clerk thought for a few seconds, and then said, "Well, I don't think we have any left." Rats. "Nobody returned 'em." Assholes.

We drove downtown for dinner at Hacienda Del Sol. We sat on the back patio, one of my favorites anywhere. I had forgotten my ID in Minneapolis, which had caused minor problems already, so we had to play it cool when ordering our beer. Thankfully it worked; she didn't card us. (This should not be a mark against Hacienda Del Sol; I attribute it to our cunning. Also, we look over twenty-seven for sure.) Pacifico!

Jean-Paul's parents' house is in a modern development, and overlooks a bay of Lake Superior. He waved to the neighbors as we pulled in the driveway. The house is full of art, very eclectic. Native arts, 1970s posters, woven things. Plus a lot of pseudo-ethnic, early 90s, "funky" art: Teal/black/gold, purple/black/gold, you know (shudder). They have a player-piano and a black refrigerator!

As I lounged in a kingly leather recliner, Jean-Paul put a roll in the player-piano, and began singing along: "Both Sides Now!" His wide-eyed, projecting enthusiasm, as if at a recital, and his boyish vocal cracking at the high parts, made the performance hilarious and touching. It shall remain one of my most cherished memories.

Next he played "Hava Nagila." A great pre-ride song.

Jean-Paul said that the Munger Trail, which runs from Duluth to Hinckley, may be the nicest bike trail he's ever ridden, and after riding it myself, I'd have to agree. At sixty-three miles, it is also the longest paved bike trail in the world. His parents live about two blocks from it, and we rode only as far as Jay Cooke State Park before racing the twilight home. The trail is on a former railroad grade, so in places it cuts through rock, leaving dark cliffs on both sides, with little trees and moss growing from the jagged crevices. It was so beautiful, to the point of sublimity, that it looked fake. Picture postcard perfect. For being a railroad grade, there were some massive, albeit gradual, climbs. I didn't think trains could go up and down hills.

Before we got to Jay Cooke, Jean-Paul bade us stop atop a hill where the trail runs along a high ridge with steep slopes descending either side. It's an SNA down there, Hemlock Ravine, and visitors aren't allowed because it's easily eroded. It is the very western edge of the hemlock's range. Mystical views of forbidden forest.

The descent back to Duluth was exciting. I had to be alert for deer that would bolt across the trail, and sometimes pause! Ahead of me, I would see a cloud of gnats, and then close my lips tight as I flew through them. Lenses protected my eyes.

Back at the homestead, Jean-Paul was passing out. We raided the cupboards for food, and by the time I satiated my inner furnace, Jean-Paul was done in the hot tub and headed for bed. I brought herbal tea downstairs and enjoyed a long soak in the bubbling, hot jets. It was real nice. Imagine how nice in the winter!

Saturday, September 15, 2007

10. The Lost Forty

(19 June)
The next day, the plan was for me to use Jean-Paul's van again, and to meet him at work when he got off at 3:00, then drive to Duluth to his parents' place (who were out of town), go to a bike shop, ride the Munger Trail, eat dinner, and sit in the hot tub.

Passing the radio station the night before had reminded Jean-Paul to tell me about a show on Tuesday mornings called Phenology, and I told him to turn it on in the morning when he left for work. The show was pretty interesting. The host reported his varied observations from around the area: berries, wild irises, and other flora and fauna. He mentioned "June berries," which I'd never heard of.

This time I found the Lost Forty, which is in the Chippewa National Forest. The drive up is pleasant. Hwy 2 ("The Great Northern Route"), Hwy 46 (the "Avenue of Pines"), and then a few miles down a gravel road. Hwy 46 leads through the Chippewa, and somewhere in the middle of it I stopped to relieve myself at a rest area. I parked right next to a big Forest Service sign facing west, marking the Laurentian Continental Divide. There was a vertical line down the middle of the sign. On the right, precipitation flows south to the Gulf of Mexico; on the left it flows north to Hudson Bay. How epic!



There was nothing gradual about this transition, judging by the stark geometry of the sign, and yet there was no physical ridge or rift on the ground to betray it. I took a photo and considered texting my friend in Kalispell, Montana. That morning I had been paging through Jean-Paul's atlas, and looked at Kalispell, which is also on a continental divide, the east-west one. I felt awed by this spot, with an invisible ridge that commands a continent! How was this specific spot identified? Could this precision be believed? Why wasn't this posted on the highway? I was lucky I had to stop when I did.

Sitting in the outhouse, I heard tires on the gravel outside, and soon a knock and a voice, asking if I was busy in there. I said yeah, and then he drove away.

At the Lost Forty, I was surprised to see about ten cars (and two tents) in the parking area, on a Tuesday! The tents were strange because, officially, you can't camp in an SNA, although my friend Trout had told me that no one would notice if you did, because people hardly ever visit them. That certainly didn't seem to be the case here. The road sign said "Lost 40 Loop," and it seemed to be referring to the whole road, so I drove past the parking circle to see what was ahead. I had my window rolled down. A pickup passed from the other direction, and puddle water splashed into my window, all over my face and arm, and into my ear! I was mad, but I eventually had to laugh. The road became narrow, and led only to private properties, so I stopped at a grassy little water access. Across the lake I saw a large otter chewing. I urinated, turned the van around, and headed back to the Lost Forty. "Lost 40 Loop" just meant the parking area.

The Lost Forty Scientific & Natural Area, in Itasca County, takes about an hour to walk through slowly. The trail takes you to all the grandest trees. Occasional interpretive signs line the route, the good kind, that point to specific trees or other features in front of you. Indeed, this red and white pine forest remnant was exactly what I had been looking for: this acreage had never been logged. Thank Chaos for oversights.

That day I explored. I only had until 1:00 pm, when I would have to head back to Rapids, prepare to go to Duluth overnight, and then leave at 2:40 to go pick up Jean-Paul at work at 3:00. Not enough time to etch, but hopefully I'd find "The Spot," in case of which I carried my backpack with all the necessary gear. I saw a green rope snaking all the way up one of the bigger white pines, and I guessed why some of the cars in the loop were there: research? I was eager to find out, and maybe I'd get a chance to ask how they got to camp here.

I soon set out on a game trail toward a tamarack swamp, following the sound of birds and watching out for moose and cougars, for which I quickly grabbed a cudgel. I saw a warbling vireo down there, and the mossy area had beautiful colors (wet green and rust red), but it was too buggy to be The Spot. The trail led right to a muddy swamp creek, and the only logs spanning it were soggy, so I headed back up to the main trail.

I heard some unfamiliar bird calls, but their bodies eluded my eyes. I next left the main trail to follow one leading to Moose Creek. An ominous name. I held my cudgel ready and periodically jangled my keys or shouted as I cautiously stepped down the narrow path with tall, dense brush on either side. I emerged into the open sunlight of a wetlands the size of a lake. I stood on the bank, the stream completely walled by reeds as it quickly curved out of sight. A moose could come out of nowhere around here. I absorbed my surroundings, letting the sun into my skin, and breathing in the quickening winds. Then, I left with haste, shouting to make my presence known.

My next stop on the trail was a small clearing on a hill overlooking the wetlands. The wind blew hard, making the big trees sway, and the sun shone in a blue sky with bright summer clouds racing eastward. I pulled out my mini folding camp chair to sit and eat a PB&J in the mosquito-proof wind. I was drawn less to such epic vistas than to little groves in which to etch. I looked for a spot with both a red and a white pine in the scene. I walked around and around each massive white pine I came to. They are truly beasts, as far as Minnesota trees go.

I didn't settle anywhere until it was time to leave. I left my cudgel against a tree at the trailhead, and I counted twelve cars in the parking loop as I left. As soon as I did, a line of five Suburbans drove in! Jean-Paul had said he'd never seen anyone else there in the eight times he'd visited. And it was a Tuesday!

Jean-Paul had recommended returning to Grand Rapids via Hwy 38, which he proclaimed to be the prettiest drive in the state. I didn't need much coaxing to obey. Heading that way, near the Lost Forty, I passed the township of Wirt, whose name was emblazoned on my second-hand, sky blue sweatshirt with deer on it back home. Previously, I had had no idea where this place was. The mythical Wirt has no shops, no population number on the sign, and a sign from only one direction. I was intrigued to see a sign for Wirt Cemetery Road, pointing into the woods. I'd try to check it out next time.

Highway 38 is a rollercoaster through the Chippewa National Forest. Absolutely gorgeous and fun. I stopped to urinate, and again stumbled upon the Laurentian Divide. They don't announce the significance of these wayside rests.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

9. Grand Rapids: Mystery & Magic

(18 June)
The next morning, Jean-Paul rode his bike to work, twenty miles away. I used his car to try and find the Lost Forty, but I stayed on Hwy 2 too long and ended up in Cass Lake. Whoops! Jean-Paul and I hadn't arranged anything with his house keys, so I had to make sure I was there when he got home.

That evening we walked to Cole's hardware store to get keys cut. "They say Cole's have it!" said Jean-Paul, and I thought nothing of it until we arrived. On the store's façade, right next to the Hardware Hank sign, in big red letters it said: THEY SAY "COLE'S HAVE IT" (sic). Good thing they put it in quotes; that grammar is shady!

Jean-Paul went next door to the liquor store while I went into Cole's. Immediately upon entering, a cute young female cashier shone me with prolonged, smiling eye contact. She wasn't busy, so I foolishly went to her for help. I don't think she had ever cut keys before. I waited around for at least twenty minutes, admiring a cartoonishly large crescent wrench that looked exactly like a regular one, but over two feet long and at least five pounds. Jean-Paul found me holding the massive cudgel. He had two six-packs: Grain Belt and Molson Canadian. I paid in change, and we walked home, down sunny gravel alleys, past sheds and rusty axels.

One of the keys the girl cut did not work.

At twilight, with beers in hand, Jean-Paul took me on a walk toward the Mississippi, past the KAXE radio station and its big, white bandshell. He led me across a highway, and through a gate into a large, wooded veterans' memorial park. It was mystical and dark under the huge pines where we were not supposed to be at night. The park was so big that standing in the middle of it, we were out of sight of any road. We came upon a playground, and I began playing, likely inspired by Jean-Paul's comedic and theatrical nature. My mind instinctively switched into kid-mode, and I played with refreshing sincerity. Lasers, spaceship controls, and alien landscapes were all completely visible and tangible to me, as in childhood. To a child, everything they can imagine actually exists right in front of them! The chemical balance in my body was perfect for those minutes, to allow me to bypass my society-induced blockages.

Magic/Play/Child-mind.

From there, Jean-Paul led me to the top of a hill in the park. Its path, pine scent, and buddy-guide reminded me of my times in San Francisco's Buena Vista Park. I was still in a magic zone. The top of the hill was clear and mowed, save for four giant pines. My body danced around them in the moonlight, acknowledging the four directions and the dark woods beyond.

On the way back to Jean-Paul's on a road parallel to the tracks, we passed one business that was still open: a laundromat, lit from within and vacant. It seemed right out of the 1950s. I was intrigued, and I entered the building while Jean-Paul sat outside. At the rear was an ancient pop machine. From the Lost-and-Found I took a pink washcloth. It reminded me of my grandparents' house.

8. Culture Hidden in the Pines

Grand Rapids, MN
(Father's Day)
Jean-Paul lived above a coffee house in downtown Rapids. Within the unassumingly modern walls lay a bathroom in which all the tile and porcelain fixtures were a classy pink. From his second story windows could be seen Burger King, Pluemer's fine furniture, and the Burlington Northern-Santa Fe railroad tracks, which lay about fifty feet away. The trains didn't pass terribly often, nor late at night, luckily. When they did, the trains would blow their whistles with gusto. In preparation, whenever he heard a train approaching, Jean-Paul would don a pair of orange industrial earmuffs, like the guys on airport runways wear. He said the noise was horrible, but it didn't seem that bad to me.

Up north, I saw a lot of freight trains adorned with graffiti pieces in even the smallest towns. In these isolated places, tragically, television may be most people's only window into the broader world. (Television, not isolation, is tragic, especially for children.) But every day a train whistle blows, and an ever-changing gallery of authentic youth culture rolls through town! It amazes me that these archaic lines of communication still operate. The most authentic, raw, and potentially important visual art on earth is seen not just by city-dwellers, but by country folk thousands of miles away! God bless freight bombers!

After a meal and a nap, Jean-Paul and I went out into the dusk and mounted our bikes. He led me a few blocks away to the head of the Mesabi Trail, a beautiful, paved trail through the woods that stretches, mostly completed, forty miles eastward to Hibbing. Then it continues over forty more miles on semi-completed stretches through such notable Iron Range towns as Buhl, Eveleth, and Virginia. Right outside of Rapids we saw a giant butte of crushed red rock from the iron mines. It was surrounded by water, and sprouting all over with trees.

We only rode about nine miles out, to a town called Bovey, which Jean-Paul said was "the home of the Picture Grace." I had no idea what he was talking about, until he led me off the trail and into the old mining town, past a building on the main street with a mural on it depicting that picture my grandparents had, of the old man praying with a Bible, bowl, and bread. The mural read, "Home of the Picture Grace." That picture was made in Bovey, Minnesota!



Another question this brought up: Now that I know the picture was made in Minnesota, do people in other states, or mostly just Minnesotans have it hanging in their homes?

Jean-Paul also led me past an old church with sadly boarded-up windows. Its field stone foundation and façade were playfully irregular, its upper half was wooden, and folkishly-designed. A historical marker stood in front, yet the church was condemned, and had been privately owned for decades. Why? Its stained-glass windows deserve to be seen!

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

7. North Woods Graphic Design

Another place Jean-Paul and I stopped, this time to make water, was a 4-H camp in Mora. There stood a 22-foot tall, bright orange statue of a Swedish Dala horse.

The camp had wooden-fenced corrals and scientific garden plantings labeled with hand-painted signs: red 1800s-style letters on a white background in blue frames, with short titles like "Low pH" and "Rock." Beautiful!

I must say that the one thing that struck me most about the North Woods was the graphic design. Don't get me wrong: the ecosystems are amazing, although the true "virgin" remnants are few and far between. (So many stands of pines are planted in straight rows, which is both breathtaking and weird.) The smells, too, are worth the trip. (Erotic pine funk!) But man-made beauty pokes its head out of the woods everywhere there are roads. Signs and markers crafted in an age of craftspeople. Oh, how I love the US Forest Service and Minnesota DNR signs: dark brown-painted wood with carved-out, round-edged capital letters painted butter yellow! They are a warm blanket of my earliest memories. The National Forest signs are like this, too, but in fat cursive!

So beautiful. In addition, signs for taverns (with on/off-sale liquor), shops, and diners are old and hand-painted, many with humorous names and pictures.

If you are interested in graphic design, I urge you to make a trip up north.

6. Inconspicuous Oasis

Renting a car is prohibitively expensive for camping. And to think it was "in my budget!"

(Father's Day)
My friend Jean-Paul came down from Grand Rapids with a van-load of stuff for his future apartment. The next morning, I loaded my camping equipment, art supplies, and road bike into his van and drove with him back up to Rapids. From there, I would go on day trips and camping excursions into the coniferous forest region. I was especially looking forward to seeing the legendary Lost Forty. On the last weekend in June, my father would come up to spend his vacation time camping with me.

One pleasure of my stay with Jean-Paul was getting to know his rhythms. He makes that 200-mile drive a lot. He's got his own route to avoid the traffic lights on Hwy 65, and he knows where the driving ceases being intense and becomes pleasurable: the Aitkin County line. There we had tea.

On some highway along the way, Jean-Paul pulled over when we saw a giant softshell turtle on the shoulder. It did not move, even when we approached. Every few feet along the edge of asphalt leading up to it were little dug out holes with eggshells scattered about. She was laying eggs!



I took a photo, then turned around to see Jean-Paul streaking naked across the deserted highway! I shot from the hip, but only captured the top half of his ass as he pulled up his pants.



For being taken blindly, it's a pretty well-composed photograph. When we turned back to look at the turtle again, she was gone!

Jean-Paul took me from Jacobsen, MN on County Hwy 200 to Hwy 10, then toward Rapids a mile or two to an Aitkin County park on the Mississippi. Here there is a natural aquifer that constantly pumps out water all year round. The water smells sulfurous at first, to a city nose, but doesn't taste like it. Purity from a metal pipe growing from a gravel pad like a periscope. In the winter, Jean-Paul has to chip away ice from around the pipe to fit his culligan bottle under it. He brings his life science students here, and they study the geologic strata, layers of rock and soil deposits visible on the high, sheer slopes of the riverbank.

The mighty Mississippi is so narrow there, compared to what I'm used to seeing in the Twin Cities. But it still looks like a big river. Still flows south. I still couldn't throw a rock across it.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

5. An Ancient Forest in My Backyard

Strong gales began to blow while Peanut and I were at Nerstrand. I finished what I could of an etching, and we returned to Minneapolis a day early, aborting our cycling plans. The spot where I made my etching was a forty-five minute walk from our campsite, at the south end of the park along Prairie Creek. All the hiking trails at Nerstrand were terribly muddy. Very strange for a State Park, where the trails are either paved or gravelled. Take heed if you are planning a trip there, although the agriculturally scented waterfall is visually and aurally stunning. Nerstrand is Minnesota's largest remnant of the "Big Woods," the deciduous forest, one of the three major ecosystems of North America, the very northwest edge of which cut across our state diagonally before the European conquest. This area includes the Twin Cities.

The next day, I still had the rental car, and I used it to drive to Wood-Rill Scientific & Natural Area in Orono. I had never been there before, and it was amazing. I enjoyed it more than Nerstrand; the trails weren't muddy, and the energy was much more positive. The place is a true old-growth Big Woods remnant, with stages of forest succession that are easily viewable, as there is no undergrowth due to the dense canopy. Wood-Rill is like a forest museum: all stages of succession, and all ages of snags and blow-downs. Go there to see what Minneapolis used to look like.

When I want to make an etching of a place, the first thing I do is explore. My goal is to find The Spot. For this project, I wanted to find spots where I was glimpsing the genuine past. No trails in view, no power lines, no buckthorn. Was I seeing Minnesota how it was in its natural state? Part of finding the spot is gut feeling, mostly it is compositional.

I returned to Wood-Rill by bicycle the next day, and then one more day after that. The bike ride takes an hour and a half from Minneapolis, and is absolutely lovely. Take Glenwood to Harold, right on Winnetka to Plymouth Avenue, and take that to Hwy 169, where you pick up the Soo Line bike trail. This takes you right to Wood-Rill.

4. Already Astounding

There is a point to this story.

(Early June)
When I showed up at 8am at the car rental place, my credit card didn't go through, so the dude drove me home, with my bike, so I could pick up a utility bill. On the drive back, he asked what I do at the art college.

"You a teacher or something?"

"No, I'm a manager in the bookstore," I said, "and I'm an artist too."

After about a block, the dude says, "I've gotta ask you something. When I draw, I can't get the image in my head out onto the paper. It just comes out looking like a child drew it."

"It takes years to develop the hand-eye coordination," I said.

"Anyway, I can't draw; I'm a golfer. I don't know if you know much about golf, but a perfect game is fifty-nine points. Very few people ever get that score. But if you talk to just about anyone who has, they'll tell you, 'Oh, I missed a shot here; I could have done better there...'"

"So, is it possible ever to achieve your vision?" I offered.

"Yeah, how do you deal with that?"

"It can be a struggle, but there's a point in making something when the art takes over and it becomes a piece all its own. A lot of times the result will be better than your original vision. But you can keep trying to achieve that vision in another piece."

As we exited the van at the rental office, I concluded by responding to his comment about pro golfers, "Artists are always their own biggest critics."

I was astounded and refreshed by this ten-block conversation.

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If I'm to be anything as a painter, I've got to break through the iron wall between what I feel and what I can express. My best chance of doing it is here, where my roots are. The people I know. The earth I know.

--Vincent van Gogh (Kirk Douglas) in Lust For Life, 1956.

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Monday, September 10, 2007

3. Spirits of the Big Woods

(Early June)
On a clear night in Nerstrand Big Woods State Park, my friend Peanut and I could see but few stars through the canopy of maple above our campsite. With every small movement a different star would appear through a different space between leaves and catch our eyes for an instant.

We walked out to the road. I kept seeing a bright flash between the leaves, but it eluded my scrutiny. As we walked down the gravel road, I held a candle that my dad had made. It burned inside a mason jar, which I held inside my wide-brimmed leather hat, to block the light from our eyes and cast it outward. In my peripheral vision, I kept seeing the momentary flash of light through the leaves.

We stood in the middle of the road, surrounded by dark woods. Stars shone above us. After standing there a few minutes, I finally saw the elusive flash for what it was: a firefly! It was not a distant star, but an insect a few feet away. What an illusion! It levitated smoothly and deliberately out of the woods at an even seven-foot height, and drew a perfectly horizontal 360° circle counter-clockwise around us. Then it floated back into the woods. I followed it with my eyes and saw: fireflies were all around us, and deep into the woods! As they glow on and off, they perfectly mimic the stars flickering through the leaves.

Imagine ancient people beholding this sight. How strange and mystical fireflies are-- little lights floating all through the woods. Indistinguishable from stars. Fairies.

2. Deciduous Observations

(1 July 2007)
Whether you live in the city or the country, there's always the hum of a refrigerator. If you're fortunate enough to find yourself in a hardwood forest away from roads, there is another source of white noise that breathes with the wind. In the old-growth maple forest, the generously-spaced trunks rise fifty feet without a branch, forming a canopy of leaves that in the wind sounds remarkably like the ocean's surf. The little sunlight that penetrates the canopy is insufficient to feed undergrowth, thus the old-growth forest is easily walkable, and dappled with ever-flickering light. The great trees often topple in a gale, breaking the canopy and letting sunlight in to nurture the seedlings, who quickly rise up to fill the gap. The dappled light of the forest is so evenly dispersed that this light flooding in with a blow-down is surprising, as is the darkness created where the leafy treetop rests on the ground. Rain, too, has trouble finding its way through the canopy. There were times when I only heard the rain and never felt it.

1. The Proposal

So, I applied for the 2007 Artist Initiative grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board with this proposal:
According to climatologists’ latest reports, global warming is reaching the “point of no return.” This means that soon even our protected parks will be rendered unrecognizable by the effects of human pollution. It is my urge in this critical time, as urban sprawl continues paving over precious ecosystems, to experience and record the ancient face of the land on which I was born. I wish to discover what Minnesota was like before the encroachment of European agriculture and industry.

The geography of Minnesota is unique to the world. The three major climate zones of North America converge here, splitting the state into three ecological regions: the eastern broadleaf forest, the northern pine forest, and the western prairie. With the Artist Initiative grant I will travel to Scientific & Natural Areas (protected land preserving rare natural features of Minnesota) in each of the three regions, and create a series of large drawings and intaglio etchings honoring the land.

I am an amateur artist, currently employed at a shop for forty hours a week. With my spare time, I draw as much as possible, trying to build a portfolio of work, with which I apply for grants, residencies, and exhibitions. These opportunities would allow me to spend more time and energy on artistic creation, which is severely crippled by the 9-to-5 lifestyle. Like most artists, my goal is to make enough with my art as to limit my need for additional jobs. I am excited to embark on the project this grant will facilitate.

Artistically, I will be practicing traditional methods of drawing, en plein air, using the simplest of tools. Yet, my pieces will be graphically striking and decidedly contemporary, drawing from such diverse influences as Vincent van Gogh, traditional Chinese painting, Julie Mehretu, and comic book art. I hope to exhibit my body of work from this project in a local gallery.

The grant will cover my living expenses for part of next spring and summer, printmaking studio fees, car rental and supplies for several expeditions, camping fees, copper plates, paper, and other supplies. Taking time off of work will allow me to focus all my energy on the project.

Completion of this project will not only strengthen my portfolio, but will also fulfill a personal vision. I want to draw pictures that affect the viewer with beauty and humor, and that are intellectually accessible to the broadest range of people. My proposal will not only aid in my artistic development, but will educate others as well, with my pictures of ancient, but still living, Minnesota. I will glimpse pieces of the past and record my observations for those who may never see such places first-hand. It is my urge to experience the native state of my home, and to share my discoveries about this land whose ghost lies beneath our streets.

The board felt that the slides of my artwork were strong, and combined with this proposal, that I deserved a grant. I would receive enough money to pay all my bills, including rent, all summer, plus I'd have enough to go on several camping excursions. I would be a full-time artist for three whole months!