Spending time in wild places and learning about their inhabitants are among the shared interests that brought my wife, Anna, and me together. I tend toward fauna; she, flora. But we like to play both sides—and we’re 10-year-olds when it comes to registering firsts.  

“Saw the first robin of the season,” Anna exclaims.

“First wood anemone,” I counter. 
“First jack-in-the-pulpit…”

“I heard a red-winged blackbird this morning.”

And so it goes. 

One of our most memorable firsts occurred on Lake Superior’s North Shore, which ranks high in the pantheon of places we like to visit. Over the years we’ve seen moose, deer, wolves, and countless wildflowers that Anna has spotted, identified, and cataloged. 
In late May 2021, we were hiking with friends on a 5½-mile section of the Superior Hiking Trail near Schroeder. The trail skirted a bog, where Anna found calla lilies, the ubiquitous bluebead lily, and bog laurel. We were also on the lookout for the pitcher plant and sundew, insectivorous plants that we’d learned were common in northern Minnesota bogs. We searched for both species but found neither. 

Enchanted by the possibility of finding meat-eating plants, Anna later consulted Phyllis Root’s book Searching for Minnesota’s Native Wildflowers. According to Root, “Butterwort, found in rocky cracks and crevices along Lake Superior’s North Shore, has shiny-looking leaves covered with sticky droplets. When an unsuspecting insect lands on the leaf, it sticks fast. The leaf slowly curls around the insect and absorbs it. One of Minnesota’s arctic relics, this is the rarest insect-eating plant in the state.” 
We quickly realized that the ancient, craggy basalt shoreline in front of our rented cabin was prime habitat for butterwort. We walked the shoreline, treading carefully, eyes down, searching for lime green leaves. But we found nothing remotely resembling the rare arctic relic. 

Then, on a drive from our rental to Grand Marais, a trip we’d made countless times over the years, we noticed a sign we’d never seen before that read Butterwort Cliffs. You can’t make up coincidences like that. We pulled over to investigate. Butterwort Cliffs is a state scientific and natural area, but we found it was temporarily closed due to its status as a sanctuary for nesting herring gulls and peregrine falcons.

Frustrated, we continued to Grand Marais. On the way, Anna visited the Minnesota Wildflowers website, which told us, “Butterwort is one of Minnesota’s 15 carnivorous plants that capture insects for nourishment. … P. vulgaris is a circumboreal species restricted to cold, rocky cliffs and boulders found at higher elevations, and along the northern stretches of Lake Superior’s shoreline. … According to the DNR, it was listed as a species of special concern in 1984 due to its limited available habitat, at risk from development and trampling from recreational activities along the North Shore.”

Comments posted by fellow plant sleuths described where they’d found the rare plant. In 2013, one sleuth declared, “I photographed and identified a small group of this species growing in a rocky area on the Lake Superior coast, near the Grand Marais breakwater.” 
Again, you cannot make up a coincidence like that. We headed to the breakwater. 

The day was cold and blustery. Traversing the jagged outcrops required focus and attention. Occasionally we paused to look out over the slate gray waters. The waves made foamy peaks before crashing against the shore. If the vista didn’t make us feel alive, the wind chill certainly did. 

Finally, we noticed small clefts in the basalt where soil and plants had gathered and found purchase. There were several of these across the breakwater. We moved carefully, each in our own direction, searching among the clefts. 
We were cold and growing colder. 

We were ready to call off the search and retreat to our car when I stumbled onto a small, remote, virtually invisible crevice. There, hidden among some tough grasses and other small plants, was a colony of butterwort. 

I yelled. Anna knew by the tone of my voice I’d found the arctic relic. First. 

But she was excited for me anyway, and we spent some time admiring the small colony. 

Later, returning along the breakwater, Anna glimpsed a golden flash in a clump of alder. “Evening grosbeak!” she called out. The first of the season. 
 

Two summers ago, after George Floyd was murdered by Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin, the need to be “in community” with my fellow people of color felt deep. Knowing that being in nature and being with people who looked like me were necessary and healing, I coordinated several outdoor outings for Black people, Indigenous people, and people of color (BIPOC).

Our first event was a hike at Crosby Farm Regional Park, one of my favorite parks in St. Paul. Seeing and learning from folks who looked like me, and knowing we could have open and honest conversations, allowed me to breathe differently. My nervous system settled down and my heart opened. I wasn’t on the defensive anymore. I didn’t feel out of place or unwanted. I felt safe and much more at home than usual. 

I say “more at home than usual” because in my 37 years in Minnesota, I have often felt unwelcome, unseen, and excluded from the outdoors—including in my own neighborhood, where 85 percent of the residents self-identify as white. My neighbors rarely acknowledge me, let alone say hello or engage in conversation. My house doesn’t feel like home, in large part because I am invisible here. When I’m not invisible, it is because people are concerned or confused about what I’m doing here, in their neighborhood, in their space.

I don’t look like my neighbors, or most people in Minnesota for that matter. I was born in India and came to Minnesota as an infant, adopted by a single white woman. We camped as a family most summers when I was little, and I spent a lot of time in nature on my own or with friends, back when it was assumed you’d be outside for most of the day, returning only when the streetlights came on in the evenings. Whether fishing with my grandfather or biking to the river with a couple of boys I went to elementary school with, I felt more connected when I was outdoors—though I might not have been able to connect those dots or articulate that feeling as a young person.

I carried my love of the outdoors into my career. As an environmental and outdoor education coordinator for St. Paul Parks and Recreation, my focus is on connecting BIPOC communities to nature in meaningful, accessible, sustainable, and empowering ways. Early on at my job, I was concerned that I was setting folks up to fail. 

“I’m taking folks into the outdoors, knowing that in the future, when they are alone or with a small group of their family or peers, they will likely face discrimination, anger, microaggressions, and more when they are out in nature,” I told department leadership. I felt torn, because I knew how good being outdoors was for people’s well-being. Yet I also knew that folks like me often weren’t welcomed or wanted in the outdoors. 

I still feel conflicted, but I keep going thanks to experiences like that hike at Crosby Farm. Since then, I’ve coordinated more than 50 BIPOC-specific outings. We’ve kayaked on Pickerel and Loeb lakes, carved wooden spoons at Hidden Falls Regional Park, skied, snowboarded, and ice fished at Como Regional Park, planted trees at Lilydale Regional Park, and so much more. 

Some particularly memorable outings were bonfires along the Mississippi River in April 2021, when time stagnated as the country followed the Derek Chauvin trial. We didn’t have any sign-in sheets or outcomes to track at those bonfires. There were no registration or funder requirements to follow. Rather, folks came and left when they wanted and found their own pace and rhythm. It was momentary relief from the stress and pressure many of us were feeling both internally and externally. We ate, laughed, vented, brainstormed, listened, and soaked up strength and resilience from one another and from the Mississippi River just a few feet away from us.

As a person of color in Minnesota who has often felt unwelcome and unwanted, I have finally found my place here—with 
BIPOC individuals in the outdoors. 
 

In 2007, my predecessor, Kathleen Weflen, and MCV art director Lynn Phelps dreamed up the idea for a year-end edition that offered a break from the relentless news cycle, with stories that honored Minnesota’s outdoors. 

“How do you read the lands and waters where you find yourself?” Weflen wrote in the Volunteer’s inaugural Sense of Place issue, laying out the mission of the written and visual essays that followed. “How do you get your bearings, take measure of natural features, learn to care for a place and its natural resources?” 

These questions continue to shape our November–December issue. But as inspiring as I find this latest installment, there were times during its production when I questioned whether its optimistic outlook struck the right tone coming off another difficult year. Shouldn’t we be covering last summer’s devastating drought and wildfires, I wondered? Or analyzing the effects of the pandemic on natural resources work?  

But Weflen was right: We all need a break sometimes. Lucky for you, our latest Sense of Place issue provides plenty of reasons to pause and meditate on the state’s natural wonders. In “Moments in Between," writer Bill Klein embraces slow hunting days by trading the chase for quiet observations of the world around him.   

Other stories find the profound in the mundane. In “The Road More Traveled," Henry Whitehead tunes into the outside world during his daily commute. Richard Hamilton Smith’s photo essay “The Changing View” features multiple images of the same view, captured over a series of years and seasons. Shown together, the photos remind the viewer to take nothing in nature for granted. Identity is a recurring theme in these pages. Articles such as “Natural Connection," "Now Streaming" and “Paddle Home” offer distinct examples of Minnesotans who have built their lives around the outdoors. 

Rounding out the issue are stories that border on the fantastical. Sophia Lauber recounts a magical wilderness skating session in “Lure of the Wild Ice." Minnesota’s rarest carnivorous plant takes center stage in “Searching for Butterwort.” In “Semi-Abstract,” photographer Gary Alan Nelson abandons his traditional style for highly processed, almost otherworldly nature photos. And capping things off is poet Larry Schug’s haunting cold-weather reflection “Winter Solstice.”

Many thanks to the talented writers, illustrators, and photographers who contributed to our 15th annual Sense of Place issue. And HUGE thanks to you, our readers, for continuing to fund this vital publication, now in its 81st year. Happy winter.

When my dad gets a vision of a wilderness adventure in his head, he can’t shake it. He has been obsessed with one particular idea ever since he began winter camping 17 years ago—skating the lakes of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

Skateable wild ice occurs only when freezing temperatures are unaccompanied by snowfall and high winds, making it a rare and short-lived occurrence. 

In December 2020, when we began to hear rumors of lakes with perfect black ice, my dad immediately sent emails to outfitters and lodges along the Gunflint Trail. He compulsively checked webcams of lakes and monitored news from up north, and when he came across a video of people playing hockey on pristine ice on Seagull Lake, he couldn’t wait any longer.

We contacted family friends who wanted to join us, packed for a three-night trip, and left before sunrise the next day.
When we arrived at Seagull Lake, snow was falling and a light layer already covered the lake. We had missed the perfect black ice by a day, but the dream wasn’t completely out of reach; the ice was smooth and still skateable.

Pulling sleds of gear, we set off down the lake to find a campsite. Narrow channels between islands had frozen earlier than deeper parts of the lake. They had become encrusted with a few inches of snow and slowed our progress. We encountered open water at a chokepoint in the lake where a strong current kept it from freezing over. My morale dropped when we were forced to turn around and follow a different route. Maybe only part of the lake was good for skating. Maybe we had driven all this way for nothing.

But then the lake opened up to a large bay alongside Three Mile Island, and any rough spots disappeared. My dad whooped with joy as we gained momentum, taking large strides toward red pines on a rocky point where we would set up camp.

This was my first winter camping trip in years; the skating had won me over. I had gone once when I was much younger, but the discomfort of the cold had convinced me to stick to summer adventures. My dad has been taking me and my siblings on BWCA trips for as long as I can remember, and I spent a summer guiding canoe trips through YMCA Camp Menogyn, so the north woods feel like home to me.

Often, as I led campers on their first trips to the BWCA, I thought about what it’s like to see this place for the first time. I am blessed to have spent so much time in the BWCA, but familiarity changes how one sees a place. I am still stunned by its beauty but not with the awe of a first-time visitor.

This trip gave me a taste of that experience. Winter showed me a different side of the BWCA and allowed me to explore a familiar place from a new perspective.

The Boundary Waters is certainly harsher in the winter, but it also presents beauties of its own. The first night offered one of the most impressive night skies I have ever seen. An impossible number of stars hung above us in the hazy white clouds of the Milky Way as we basked in the warmth of the fire.

The next morning, we woke up to tiny crystals of frost coating every branch and blade and needle on the trees and bushes around us. Big snowflakes fell that day as we explored, turning everything shades of white. The snow muted all sound, making the environment seem gentler. Wolves howled at night, and we found scat and tracks on the ice.

The world seemed too frozen for any creatures to survive, so I was amazed at every tiny red squirrel or chickadee I spotted, although they are creatures I would barely notice during the summer.

Each day, we laced up our skates with stiff fingers and took to the ice, exhilarated by the feeling of speeding down the lake. Excluding the occasional dogsled, skating was faster than any mode of transportation I had ever experienced in the BWCA—it put cross-country skiing and snowshoeing to shame. We glided across the ice, covering a mile in just minutes. It gave us a new freedom to explore, but it also required us to be cautious as areas of the lake remained unfrozen. We avoided any open water or thin ice by skating down shorelines and remaining in bays of the lake.

About five inches thick in most places we were skating, the lake ice was constantly cracking. The noise reverberated across the lake all day and night.

The first time I heard it, I told everyone to stop moving and listen. “Is that the ice?” I asked incredulously. “It sounds like a pod of whales.” Our family friends live on a lake and were less surprised by it. “It’s the ice talking,” one of them said.

It groaned and pinged and boomed the entire trip. Ice does this as it expands or contracts with temperature changes. While it is harmless, I got a rush of adrenaline every time a crack echoed right beneath my feet.

On our last full day, the wind picked up, pushing snow into drifts across the lake. A maze of clear ice wound through the drifts, leaving just a glimpse of what the entire lake had looked like days before. The large cracks we’d listened to the whole trip were now visible jagged lines. Near the shore, we could see through the dark ice filled with tiny air bubbles to the rocks below.

Bundled up without an inch of skin showing, I wanted to keep moving to stay warm. I picked up a hockey stick and passed a puck with my dad in a large area of relatively snowless ice next to the palisades. I reached out and touched a smooth rock face that I had visited just months ago in the summer. It felt strange to see it from such a high vantage point instead of looking up at it from a canoe.

As the sun set, the patches of clear ice reflected the orange glow of the sky. My dad spent every last moment of sunlight on the unblemished ice, his skates leaving crisp marks behind him.

“Hockey and winter camping—does it get better than this?” he asked gleefully as he skated up to me. His enthusiasm for his dream finally fulfilled had not dimmed, even if the ice wasn’t quite as he had envisioned. We were enjoying what could be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I had gotten to see my favorite place on earth in a new light. l might never enjoy the cold, but I finally understood why winter camping fills my dad with such complete joy.

“This is heaven,” he said as he passed by me, skating away across the lake and into the sunset. 

When the fish aren't biting and the ducks are shy, I'm content to be a quiet observer.

As a hunter and angler, I’ve learned that you’re bound to have days on the water when the walleyes have lockjaw. Or mornings in the duck blind when shotgun shells are optional and your retriever gets in a nice long nap. But I rarely write off these days as total losses. Far from it. Slow hunting and fishing days can cause you to notice nature’s players doing things you would have missed if you had stayed home. Here are a few such moments from my outdoor journal.

I.
Anticipation was all that was keeping me awake on an early November duck hunt. I was hoping to find late-season mallards on a favorite slough near Morris, but ducks were few and far between. My Labrador, Doc, had succumbed to the inactivity and was sound asleep on the floor of my duck boat.

Then a brown head popped up amid my decoys. A mink. It eased effortlessly onto a shelf of ice and slinked its way onto a muskrat house. Then the mink dove into a pocket of open water, emerging seconds later with a ravaged muskrat. Leaving its prey atop the house, it raced to another muskrat house. Same result. Then a third, before the mink disappeared entirely, leaving all three muskrats behind. It appeared to be caching a few meals before the next cold front made underwater hunting impossible. 

An hour and no ducks later, a northern goshawk appeared, searching the shoreline with its familiar flap-flap-flap sail flight pattern. He pirouetted into the wind and hovered directly above me. Then a shrill ki-ki-ki call and a steep dive. At first, I thought it wanted the mink’s muskrat meals, but then I realized its target seemed to be me! I cowered with my arms over my head, peeking just in time to see its talons sink into the plastic foam of a Herter’s mallard decoy.

Doc barked. I screamed. The decoy went airborne, its anchor swinging crazily behind the goshawk. The bird flexed its primary feathers for altitude, reaching a height of about 30 feet before deciding this was not worth the effort. It dropped the decoy, sending it crashing through a patch of skim ice.

Before driving home from that late-season duck hunt, I rested against a large round bale of marsh hay on the shore of the slough. Doc and I shared the sunset and a turkey sandwich. The clouds were resplendent in end-of-day hues. Then a soft guttural growl from Doc interrupted my reverie. We peeked around the edge of the bale. A red fox approached, its puffy tail luminous in the low-angle light. I hushed my dog and watched the fox hunt toward us, stopping 50 feet away. It sat and stared at the weeds, unaware of Doc and me. After two or three minutes of statue-still patience, the fox suddenly launched itself into the air in an arching attack. Its nose and forepaws hit the ground in unison. It trotted away with a fat field mouse on its dinner menu.

I had spent the day hunting for food, as had the mink, goshawk, and fox. And though I had failed, I felt privileged to have had a front-row seat to their hunts.

II.
On a quiet June day on Lake Vermilion, a friend and I were trolling for walleyes near Ely Island. Activity was slow except for a few small perch, which we were releasing. One of these fish had evidently been hooked too deep and was floundering near the glassy surface of the lake.

My friend puckered his lips and let loose a short, high-pitched whistle. From the island, a mature bald eagle answered his call, then flew toward us and plucked the ailing perch from the water, not 20 feet from our boat. It ascended with ease and flew the fish meal back to its nest. I was in awe of the predator’s beauty and grace in flight, yet fearful of its breathtaking size and power. My friend mentioned he had called the eagle in for a free meal several times before.

III.
Another day, another duck slough, this one in Douglas County near Hoffman. Blue-winged teal were providing some action on this early-season outing, flying so low and fast they often got past me before I could react. A trio that had snuck by decided to land in the middle of the slough. I watched in amazement as they hit the water flying downwind! They bounced along the surface like pinballs, splashing to an awkward stop. Ducks, like airplanes, always land into the wind. That’s the first and only time in 50 years of watching ducks that I have witnessed pilot error in waterfowl.

IV.
I was hiding in my neighbor’s cornfield in northern Washington County, partaking in the early Canada goose hunt. The bugs were finally on the wane that chilly mid-September morning. Geese could be heard for miles through the still air, but none came near. I stuck my head through the last row of 8-foot-tall cornstalks and scanned the hayfield where my decoys stood.

Fifty yards down the line a whitetail doe sniffed the air for danger. Then a pair of fawns exploded out of the corn and past her. The view through my binoculars was a kaleidoscope of creams and tans. When they went too far, the doe called them back. I couldn’t hear the calls, but they were visible in the deer’s frosty breath. The fawns returned to their mother’s side.

Later that same fall, I was hunting ducks near Graceville. There had been an influx of northern ducks in the area, and I was hoping to get under a few. When a nice flock of mallards circled high above, I pled with them on my call to take a closer look at my decoy rig. They showed mild interest but eventually landed far out of range. I was astonished to see a completely white duck among the others: my first albino mallard. I studied the flock through my binoculars and recalled the classic book The Ugly Duckling. But there was no shunning of the white duck by his wing mates. It seemed completely welcome even if its head wasn’t brown or green like the others.

Walking back to my truck in the waning light, I noticed a hawk jumping around in a picked bean field. I put Doc up and approached the bird to see if it was injured. As I got closer, the bird of prey tried but failed to get airborne. I could now see it was a red-tailed hawk that had caught a young woodchuck that was too much cargo for a safe takeoff. The hawk arched its shoulders and spread its wings over the rodent, mantling, in fear that I was going to steal its dinner. Edging away, I was impressed by the courage—or was it hunger?—that made the bird stand its ground.

With darkness now falling on the prairie, Doc and I headed for home. Our game bag was empty, but we had seared more of nature’s wonders into our memories. 

Years ago, Lloyd Hautajarvi saw a trout landing net his brother had made in high school shop class and thought it was neat. He put a net bag on the frame and, as an avid trout fisherman, used it for several years. Then, he says, “I decided I wanted to make a nicer one. I started working on coming up with my own designs and ideas and patterns.” 

Over time, his craft of making trout fishing nets with handles made of highly figured North American hardwood grew into a small business, and he now makes and sells the nets to anglers all over the world.

Hautajarvi had always appreciated figured wood with its unique and spectacular grain patterns. The first time he cut into ash burl—a knotty tree growth—he was “gobsmacked” at the intricate figures, geometric patterns, and whorls in the wood.

He’s been at it now for 38 years and still calls it a fun hobby, some- times losing himself in his Duluth workshop for daylong stretches in the winter. In warmer weather, he’s often out on a trout stream, landing  fish in one of his own nets. 

The COVID-shrouded summer of 2020 demanded a trip near home. My wife, Claire, and I decided to canoe from International Falls back to our home in Chisago City. The trip would span 600 miles and three of North America’s major watersheds. Our son, Dashwa, joined us. At 22 months, he had already spent 40 days in a canoe, a budding voyageur. The previous summer we’d paddled 400 miles on Manitoba’s Hayes River, finishing at York Factory, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s mecca in the fur-trade era. On this trip we would visit significant sites of the North West Company, the HBC’s competitor.

Both Claire and I started wilderness camping as young children thanks to our parents. We independently fell in love with long trips in wild places. Since we started dating we’ve spent our summer vacations together on lengthy canoe expeditions. When Dashwa arrived we wanted him to grow up feeling at home in the wilderness, just as we do. 

Days 1-11: Voyageurs and the BWCA. On July 2, a sweltering day, we set off on Rainy Lake. Our family paddled a tandem canoe and our close friend, “Grandpa” Dan, joined us in a solo. Over the next days, our paddles gently rippled the calm waters of Voyageurs National Park. The omnipresent sun baked us, and thrice daily we plunged into the lakes to cool ourselves.

We traveled quickly through the western Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, pausing at the pictographs on Lac La Croix and the Basswood River. Painted by Ojibwe people, pictographs adorn rock faces throughout canoe country. We gazed at handprints and depictions of moose and canoes.

Grandpa Dan proved indispensable for entertaining Dashwa over the first 10 days, granting Claire and me moments of peace. A favored activity was throwing rocks into the water and exclaiming, “Big splash!” At Gunflint Lodge we bid goodbye to Dan, who needed to return to work.

The next day we portaged from the Hudson Bay drainage into the Great Lakes watershed. Here the fur traders working for the North West Company, the Nor’Westers, traveling in the opposite direction, often paused for a short ceremony to baptize first-time voyageurs into the north. They sprinkled water over the newcomer’s head with a cedar bough. The new man had to promise, among other things, to never kiss another voyageur’s wife. Dashwa walked the portage unaided, and near the middle with a piece of cedar I christened him and entreated him to kiss only family members for the foreseeable future. 

Days 11-31: A Grand Portage, the Big Lake. Days later we exited the BWCA and began down the Pigeon River. As sundown approached, Dashwa’s mood slipped toward a tantrum. We’d seen nothing but swampy lowlands and wondered if there was a campsite before Fort Charlotte, the inland terminus of the Grand Portage. We’d settled on creating a poor site amid the shoreline grasses when a waterfall’s rumble excited our attention. We camped above Partridge Falls, a 50-foot cascade that is twice as wide as tall. The breadth creates a braided wall of translucent watery veils and opaque white curtains covering the rough bedrock beneath. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been aware of this dazzling wall of water in my home state. 

The next day we began backpacking. I’d chosen to do the trip without resupply, so we carried five heavy loads over the 8½-mile Grand Portage. Resupplying after we reached Lake Superior would have made the portages much easier, but I wanted the trip to be an expedition where we were self-contained and dependent on no one. We spent three painful days on the trail, endlessly leapfrogging the packs and canoe. The slow pace caused us to fall behind schedule. On the first day I slipped on a wet boardwalk and stubbed my big toe, hard. I gobbled ibuprofen for the remainder of our march. The toe turned bright red and both the toe and foot swelled.

One of the portage bright spots occurred daily when I met Claire while she carried Dashwa. Dashwa, arrayed in his bright orange bug shirt, rode atop Claire’s pack like a king, while his faithful servant sang his current favorite song over and over. After we’d together walked a total of 68 miles, the fort at Grand Portage was an oasis. We wandered through the Great Hall, imagining the legendary Nor’Westers who’d dined at the long table.

The next morning we headed out on Lake Superior into light but increasing winds, sealing out the wind and waves with a spray skirt. Six miles later, after a wilder ride than we wanted, we got off the water. I knocked on the door of the house where we landed and asked if we could stay in the yard until the wind and waves moderated. We ended up camping there. The next morning we paddled 30 miles to Grand Marais. I hobbled to the hospital for an X-ray and was relieved when it revealed only a severe contusion.

Lake Superior marked the end of hard portaging, a relief. But the big lake caused its own stresses. The spray skirt reduced the size of the bow compartment, and Dashwa chafed at the confinement. He also struggled with long days of paddling. We’d slipped behind my itinerary, and the rugged shoreline’s lack of public landings meant we landed only once daily on a cobblestone beach for lunch. After we’d set off paddling again, Dashwa adored dropping the cobble we’d gathered into the lake. The rocks tumbled downward, free-falling into the depths. I watched each descend, fascinated by how long I could see them in the clear water before they disappeared into darkness.

The most memorable stretch of Gitchi Gami began one evening when we found another waterfall unknown to me. A small sea arch marked the secluded bay where the Manitou River plummets into the lake. Ringed by cliffs, the alcove is accessible only from the water. From a cleft high above, the river plunges downward unimpeded. The thunder of the water reverberated on the walls and rattled our bones.

The next morning, pressed by a gentle tailwind, we rounded Shovel Point. Palisade Head towered ahead. We rigged our sail and the wind pulled us forward. As we passed Split Rock Lighthouse, we cruised over three-foot waves at five miles per hour. The vertical grandeur of the state park’s headlands captivated me. I’d recalled the lighthouse, not the promontories along the park’s coast. Seeing the North Shore from the lake gave me a new perspective on an area I thought I knew well.

Three days later, in early August, we reached the mouth of Wisconsin’s Bois Brule River and found it flowing at spring levels. We spent three grueling days walking up the lower Brule’s endless rapids at a pace of less than one mile per hour, fighting against the unseasonably high water. We waded in the river, sometimes well past our waists, to keep our hands on the canoe and its captain, who threw overboard everything that was not tied down. The cool water of the Brule soothed my injured toe, but I often stumbled over underwater rocks, causing electric pain.

On the fourth day we reached a lengthy section of steady current with no rapids, which finally allowed us to paddle. We enjoyed a late lunch at a wayside rest stop near the town of Brule. I carried Dashwa to a convenience store for ice cream and beer. After we cracked the beers I toasted our wedding anniversary. Right then a family walked by and told us Dan was at a nearby campground. We hadn’t been sure Dan would rejoin us, but they described Dan perfectly: “the nice guy who looks like Santa Claus with a canoe.”
Dashwa had frequently mentioned Grandpa Dan after he’d departed, so the reunion merited many excited toddler sentence fragments. The next day we encountered shallower rapids and more flatwater. Later that afternoon the river became increasingly choked with alder, and the following morning we spent crouched in the canoes pulling through alder tangles. Around noon we waded the last mile in a few inches of water, an incredible change from the powerful river we’d struggled up days earlier. With great relief we arrived at the portage over our second height of land.

Days 31-37: St. Croix to the Sunrise. There’s an area near Hibbing where water drains in three directions, a height of land for the trio of watersheds. From nowhere else on the continent can a paddler travel long distances downstream in three cardinal directions. We paddled a semicircle around that area and were now entering the Mississippi River basin.

We were relieved to reach the St. Croix, ecstatic to travel downstream. We moved south effortlessly, covering over 25 miles daily. Dashwa had become increasingly adventurous throughout the trip. In Voyageurs he had cautiously waded into the water. Now he climbed over the gunwale to dip his feet. Next he wriggled his body into the river so he was clasping the gunwale with his hands while being pulled through the water. Claire kept a light hand on his PFD. 

At Sunrise Landing we began ascending the Sunrise River and Dan caught a ride home. We moved easily upstream—the Sunrise has a much lower gradient than the Brule. On the third day we reached a bridge and began a mile-long portage along a county highway. We turned into a driveway, and Claire knocked on the landowner’s door to ask permission to use their dock. Her request precipitated a discussion among the elderly owners. The matriarch fretted, “It’s not safe for them to be on the lake with a little boy. The wind is strong and look at those whitecaps!” The patriarch jocularly replied, “Honey, they paddled from Grand Marais to Duluth; they’ll be fine on Sunrise Lake.”

Another road portage brought us to our last campsite on North Center Lake. That evening my multihued toenail fell off. Later, X-rays would reveal I had in fact broken the toe.

Day 38: Final Stretch, Familiar Sights. Minnesota is a canoeist’s paradise. The lakes and rivers are the original highways of the state, and they still bind its landscapes together. We spent only five hours driving on the roads from Chisago City to Rainy Lake to begin the trip. It took over five weeks to follow the natural waterways back to our house.

We paddled past many of the state’s most iconic locations, places we’d visited by car, and marveled at the detail and richness we saw at our slower pace. We followed the paths used by natives and travelers for centuries, and journeyed without resupply as the fur traders did. We experienced Minnesota’s landscapes and history together as a family without distractions.

In the morning on North Center Lake, we packed for the last time. We paddled through North and South Lindstrom lakes and passed into Chisago Lake. Paddling in such familiar surroundings at the end of a long wilderness expedition bordered on surreal. On all our previous expeditions we’d traveled through remote and faraway places, and certainly none of the trips had ended in our backyard.

We saw someone portaging a canoe down the stairs to our beach. Dashwa exclaimed, “Grandpa Dan!” Dan had come to welcome us home. 
 

Nearly every morning and late afternoon, I take 10 minutes out of my day to observe the familiar natural setting around me. I take stock of the wind rippling the leaves of nearby maple and hackberry trees, look for a resident red-tailed hawk, and cast a glancing eye around me for anything unfamiliar or out of the ordinary. I traverse the same route out and back each day, making patterns conspicuous, phenology accessible, and oddities frequent. This is all to say that I quite enjoy my drive to and from work.

It is easy to view nature as a beautiful, unmolested “over there” and to scorn concrete pathways as something wholly human and flawed. Add in the 2,000-pound metal box we use to maneuver through the modified landscape, and it’s no wonder so many people dread the time spent between home and work each day. While there may be truth there, I have found great pleasure in a different perspective. Hiding in plain sight, the forced repetition of a commute provides an invaluable opportunity to develop a deeper connection to your local landscape.

This starts the moment I set foot outside my front door. For half of the year, frost on the windshield is my first clue to weather. My driveway sits atop a slight hill in town, giving me a good idea of how the wind is behaving. In winter, my car’s indifference to starting lets me know what kind of cold I’m facing. When nudging my way through town, I keep one eye to the sky: My commute runs past a pair of eagles that shuttle between their nest and a well-stocked bass pond.

As I ascend Lanesboro Hill to climb out of our valley, a massive sandstone and limestone bluff face edges the road. As I climb higher, forest eventually covers the bluffs, punctuated by steep ravines carved by water. Reminders of the powerful battle between water and rock are never far away in the Driftless area, and roadcuts provide no shortage of geology to study as you pass by.
Atop the plateau now, farm fields emerge on my left (south), prairie to my right (north). The prescribed burn in different parcels of prairie here is a telltale sign of spring. Leaving the prairie in the rearview, I check the top of a telephone pole on the farm side for a local red-tailed hawk, who prefers one exact pole just above the old “Welcome to Lanesboro” sign. 

About a quarter-mile after burned prairie and hawk pole, I turn right onto another county highway. A horse field on my left, grazed down to putting-green height, plays host to several mammoth bur oak trees and a gap in barbed-wire fence that deer and other mammals are fond of shooting through. For several years, this stretch of road was the only reliable place around me where I could see red-headed woodpeckers. A pair of the brilliantly colored birds, once common in this area but disappearing due to habitat loss, were particularly fond of an old telephone pole, the kind that became warped and weathered and looked more tree than utility. I haven’t seen them in more than a year, but I still dutifully check their pole every day just in case.

After Woodpecker Field, the road drops slightly into Roadkill Alley. Two gulleys crisscross here, forming an elongated X shape, with the road running directly between them. Possums, skunks, raccoons, deer, turkeys, fox squirrels, and barn cats are frequent visitors of these wooded shelters between fields, and they often pay the price for this unfortunate confluence of corridors. Their paths are worn through the roadside thickets.
The silver lining of Roadkill Alley, however, is the opportunity to study the pecking order around curbside carcasses. By my observation, bald eagles eat first, second, and third. Once they have their fill, turkey vultures (except in winter, when they migrate south) come next, taking turns picking apart the deceased. Crows seem to take a deferential third place, lurking around the periphery for their chance at the leftovers.

The final stretch of road is my favorite: two separate pairs of American kestrels flutter to and from telephone wires, 13-lined ground squirrels line the roadsides, and the churn across the farm fields keeps me in rhythm with the local farmers. The road, aptly named Goodview Drive, is a constant immersion in the vistas of the Driftless area.

In winter, I wonder: Are those northern shrikes still in the bushes where I saw them last week? In summer, my mind drifts to the family of eastern kingbirds near my workplace parking lot, hoping I can catch them snatching bugs off the wing over the pavement.
In spring, red-wing blackbirds dot the way home, breadcrumbs to my Honda’s Hansel and Gretel, subconsciously leading me home. 

Before, during, and shortly after the fall rut, the deer in this area display a temporal consistency unparalleled in nature. If I get out of work on time, and therefore pass by their field around 4:35, they are just exiting the gully, done bedding down and ready to socialize and feed at dusk and evening. If I’m even slightly later, zooming along closer to 4:45, they creep nearer to the highway. If I make the mistake of staying until five, I don’t dare go over 25 around this bend, knowing the herd will be crossing the road.

Nature is not a place over there, merely a destination we visit on the weekend or save our vacation time to immerse ourselves in. When we restrict our view of the natural world to pristine places, we miss out on the potential to build relationships with our immediate surroundings. Roadsides, farm fields, woodlots, city streets, and the air above us all offer a chance to study natural rhythms, to practice the ancient art of phenology. 

This is not a celebration of roads and fossil fuel–spewing cars. Roads fragment habitats for plants and animals. Millions of animals die on roadsides every year, a catastrophic loss, no matter how interesting it is to study the habits of those who consume them. However, many people depend on cars and nearly all of us use roads. Leveraging this fact to better understand and care about our locale frees our mind and spirit to turn a daily negative into a positive and deepen our sense of place.

Moreover, there’s a certain kinship built with the creatures around you once you come to understand that our daily journeys aren’t so different from theirs. What are our jobs anyway if not vehicles for food, water, shelter, and some sort of primordial satisfaction?

On a recent drive home, I looked up to check the old telephone pole for the red-headed woodpecker. Before my eyes were able to settle, I saw it in flight, stunning against the azure sky, heading straight for the warped old pole. It landed just as I passed by, before I had time to slow and get a better peek. In one moment, familiarity met the unexpected, and I knew I was home. Almost. 

For the past 30 years, my photos have almost always been literal representations of what I saw on a given day in the outdoors. But a few years ago, I started creating images that were less exact and more tapped into how I felt during specific experiences. I began experimenting with my digital camera and fell into semi-abstract photography, a style that combines the naturalistic with the abstract.

The photographs in this essay can be described as semi-abstract. They were created in natural settings, but with a few added ingredients, including multiple exposures, intentional camera movements, and blending techniques—both in the camera and with photo-editing software. 

This approach allows me to transform and layer details, patterns, colors, and shapes into images that illustrate my personal interpretations of the surrounding landscape. Think of it as painting with a camera.

Near Itasca State Park is an old farm with a hill that looks down on a tiny unnamed lake. "I was always enamored of the view," says photographer Richard Hamilton Smith—so enamored that he literally bought the farm in the late 1980s. Whenever he wasn't traveling for work, he gravitated to the place, taking in the scene, which included a lone birch tree that stood out against the lake.

"I spent as much time as I could with this particular view," he says, "and I decided that I would record what was happening with the tree and around the tree, but I would always leave a portion of the tree in the photograph."

The idea became a project, and the project became a challenge, goading Smith to draw on all his photographic tools to reveal new moods and dimensions in his chosen frame of view. He eventually made hundreds of discrete images, some of which are shown on the following pages and on this issue's cover. 

"I like to make minimalistic pictures with fewer ingredients and answers," says Smith. "They're more evocative, and they allow more imagination."