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