Growing down at Justin Trails

As we drove through the rolling hills of Western Wisconsin,  I thought about the cozy little cabin we had reserved for the next couple of days.  Justin Trails, in Sparta, Wisconsin, is known for its outdoor recreational activities but we were in the midst of a record-breaking cold-spell. Our cross-country skiis seemed destined to go unused. We bundled up as we carried stuff into our cabin. It was 25 feet away. It was -10 degrees.

The cabin was really toasty and welcoming when we walked in. I am not usually a bed & breakfast person, preferring the anonymity of a hotel. When I go away for a few days, I love the idea of holing up in a spot and reading and watching movies for hours on end. My husband is the opposite. He wants to go outside and do things.

 Inevitably, I realize that his plan is more fun (most of the time) and we end up having a great time in the woods, on the trails, sometimes getting wet and cold but then warming up inside somewhere.

 The proprieters at Justin Trails, Don and Donna, were definitely quirky. When I saw our cabin and took in the huge snow hill and the pet llamas, I decided eccentric was the best word for it.
I later learned that their property had been in the family for generations as a working farm which endeared me to it. Also, Martin Sheen had stayed in the cabins. Apparently, after Donna showed him to his cabin, another guest said, "Do you know you have a famous person staying here?!" Donna said, "Nobody told me they were famous."

The thing about staying close to home and picking a spot that has both a nice indoor and outdoor space is there is time to enjoy so much. We didn't spend a lot of time driving and once we unloaded the car, all of our free time descended on us for the next two days.

Snow tubing was a blast.

The snow was covered in a layer of ice so we went flying down the hill at about 30 miles per hour.

A huge bonus to this place was they accepted dogs. Our dog went racing around the property, running as fast as he could behind our snow tubes, wandering ahead of us on the ski trails.

To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature.  Most persons do not see the sun.  At least they have a very superficial seeing.  The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and heart of the child.  The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

We took a lot of breaks inside. I took a deep breath each time we plunged outdoors again. Returning to a toasty fire in a little cabin was all the more beautiful. 

I still wanted to read and sit around, of course. 

The beauty of this place is you're welcome to do both.

"You will find more happiness growing down than growing up."

                                                   --Author Unknown

A Visit with the Birds

As we pulled up to the feeding area at Goose Island, we watched a bird flit out of an outstretched hand in the truck in front of us. We hopped out of our car loaded up with bird food. Mike filled my dad's hand with food. A bird immediately landed in his hand and he was so startled he threw the food out of his hand. He decided to just watch Mike feed the birds.

The snow fell as birds landed all around us.

Goose Island is located in a La Crosse county park in the middle of the Upper Mississippi River Wildlife Refuge.

Whether you're walking the trails, hanging out at a campsite or canoeing around the island, the wildlife is visible everywhere. 

Red Bird

Red bird came all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

Those dun-colored darlings,

So hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds,

I know he has many children,

Not all of them bold in spirit.

Still for whatever reason-

Perhaps because the winter is so long

And the sky is so black-blue,

or perhaps because their heart narrows

As often as it opens-

I am grateful

That red bird comes all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else can do.

...Winter's gift is this, and it is my heart.

The warm and singing heart of the witch of the quiet cold.

Ariel Llewellyn, excerpt from Winter

A Walk in the Woods on Thanksgiving

Nothing about my Thanksgiving turned out as I'd planned. We made plans. Plans were broken. We made plans again. Plans were broken. Our plan became no plan. I think it was the best plan of all.

We grabbed the dog and hopped on the trail. The great thing about this particular spot is that within a few minutes you can be standing on the edge of a bluff with a mile-wide view.

Though this wasn't the first Thanksgiving I'd spent without my parents, it was one of the few and it did feel a little strange.  Though both of my grandparents are now gone, I still imagine our holiday rituals. We sat around their big dining room table with the grandfather clock chiming in front of me, my grandpa sitting to my left making little jokes, my grandma rushing things out to the table and my dad saying a simple prayer.

Our family traditions mostly revolved around food. My new family traditions with my husband and step-kiddos also revolve around food. That grandfather clock now sits in my living room offering me the chimes of my childhood.

Variety is the spice of life but routine and ritual is what grounds us. We looked out over our city with the frozen marsh below us, the rocky bluffs all around us and a train rumbled by down below.

I wondered if this hike would become a tradition and hoped it would. 

We tromped around on the cold ground, my hands went numb taking pictures, it was invigorating. 

Hamlet raced ahead and then looked back, raced ahead and then looked back.

I thought about the "Grace" photograph with the old man praying over a loaf of bread that hung over my grandparents' table. Eric Enstrom, the photographer, said he liked the photograph because "this man doesn't have much of earthly goods, but he has more than most people because he has a thankful heart." 

I felt grateful that we were heading  home to a warm house with a turkey in the oven and our grandfather clock chiming away in the corner.

For each new morning with its light.

For rest and shelter of the night,

For health and food,

For love and friends,

For everything Thy goodness sends.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson-'Thanksgiving'

Camping Under the Bluffs

Where the Tremepealea River meets the Mississippi River. That's where we pitched our tent. Perrot State Park has over 1,270 acres of ecosystems, wetlands, woodlands and river bank views. I stared at the three stuffed owls on display as the park attendant discussed the park rules. She stopped to take a phone call from a hunter with a lot of detailed questions about hunting squirrels in the park. One of the rangers came in. I remembered how much I like state parks. Yes, they can be loud. The campsites are sometimes too close together. When you find a beautiful state park like Perrot, though, there is so much to love. There is a ranger station with helpful people, plentiful wood, riverside camping spots and hiking trails full of scenic views.

We snuck in a quick beer at The Trempealeau Hotel on our way to the campsite.

I beat Mike at PIG.

And we zoomed into Perrot to head out on a hike.

Pelicans!

We hiked 500 feet up to Brady's Bluff for some of the most spectacular views of the Wisconsin Driftess area.

We set up our campsite. Mostly Mike set up our campsite while I sat around.We rested. We poured wine and listened to the radio. We talked. I kept adding layers as the temperatures dropped.

After a lot of rustic camping, Perrot State Park was a welcome reprieve. The colors surrounded us on all sides with the last breath of Fall.

I recently listened to a reverend describe how he struggles with Fall because it spells the quick passage of time. Most autumn poems are foreboding, bemoaning the upcoming winter season. The crisp air, warm colors, tasty apples and falling leaves make for such a great season. Even the coming winter doesn't make me sad as it means fires in the fireplace, cuddling under soft blankets, a quieter atmosphere. February is another story, of course. After wading through a lot of very depressing poems about Fall, I happened upon John Updike's happy, simple poem about the season:

September

The breezes taste

Of apple peel.

The air is full

Of smells to feel-

Ripe fruit, old footballs,

Burning brush,

New books, erasers,

Chalk, and such.

The bee, his hive,

Well-honeyed rum,

And mother cuts

Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean

With suds, the days

Are polished with

A morning haze.

--John Updkike

Paddling around Fountain City

There are thirty-three river towns located along the Wisconsin Great River Road.  I have paddled by these towns, driven through these towns, stayed overnight in these towns, gone on day trips to these towns, camped by these towns and frequented the restaurants & bars in these towns. I love all of them.  Fountain City is one of my favorite though. The town is so narrow there is just enough room to drive through the passageway between the river on one side and towering bluffs on the other. We were paddling out to a sandbar for the weekend with friends.

Now I have to admit something. I don't love camping. I didn't grow up camping. I didn't grow up with a large love of nature. I didn't dislike it.  It just wasn't a big part of my childhood.  Over time, I've learned to love the great outdoors though. Hiking & biking and short paddling trips have really grown on me. I always feel better after a blast of fresh air and the smell of dirt and evergreen. 

And sand.

We paddled up to our sandbar and made ourselves at home.

Time to check out the digs.

We sat in the sun and talked. We swam. Mike cooked. We ate a great meal. As Cathy and I kept sipping away at our wine, we asked for more "just to wash the rest of this food down." Yes, more please.  Just to wash down these snacks.

We watched the sun drop.

I choose to listen to the river for a while, thinking river thoughts, 

before joining the night and the stars.

--Edward Abbey

So night descended. And the sky turned orange. A barge rumbled by.

 Then the sky turned black. The moon shone and the stars sparkled and gave us so much light.

A paddlewheel glided by, illuminated by the yellow glow of twinkling lights, reflecting off the quiet river in front of us. We watched in awe.

and then morning came.

One of the things I like best about camping on the river is watching the river wake up. The sun quietly rises, the birds begin making noise, fishing boats slowly start motoring by.

If I'm lucky my husband rises before me and I wake up to the smell of camp coffee. If not, I scramble up & grab my camera to capture the whole scene. The river is still the wild west in some ways, particularly at night. Most out of season weekend nights are fine but the party boats are a large part of the scene.  So loud music and the sounds of partying break the reverie and remind me of the public nature of a river or a campsite. It's all of ours. We don't get to pick our neighbors. 

But the morning belongs to the birds and the fishermen.  And sometimes to the photographers.

He's a river rat. I just follow him.

We packed the kayaks. We paddled back to civilization. We zoomed back home. And we dumped sand out of our shirts, our shoes and our bags. We live in a river town and we take a little bit of the river home with us each time.