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May. 2nd, 2009 11:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanThree hikes, behind an LJ cut for your convenience, and in rather less detail than some earlier ones:
On Friday last, April 24th, Raphael and I went to Nerstrand Big Woods State Park. The drive was uneventful, except that as we turned onto 246 in the middle of Northfield, a big dragonfly flew across the road in front of us. At this time of year, it had to be a migratory green darner. We took it as a good omen.
Birds heard -- numerous. Birds seen so as to be identified: hairy or downy woodpecker, robin, chickadee. Birds seen clearly enough, one would think, but not identified: three.
Flowers seen in bloom: bloodroot, trout lily, marsh marigold, false rue anemone (just starting), cutleaf toothwort (also just starting), sharp-lobed hepatica (abundant), Dutchman's breeches (abundant), spring beauty (barely starting).
We took the Hidden Falls Trail down to the falls, where they had removed the platform over the water with the benches on it. So we went back up the other side of that loop, to find somewhere to eat our sandwiches. The hepatica on that side of the trail tend to pose prettily under trees, between roots, often near a patch of moss. They were catching the light very nicely as we ate. We went on up the hill so that I could get a bottle of Pepsi from the machine by the picnic area. I am in that uncomfortable state where my anti-hypertensives make me feel very dragged out, but my blood pressure is not consistently low enough that I can wave the numbers at my doctor and make him reduce my dosage. Caffeine counteracts the dragginess, without having noticeable effects on the blood pressure. I have to be careful not to ingest too much, but it doesn't take a lot. I was noticeably perkier after half a bottle of Pepsi, even though I don't like Pepsi.
It was a sunny day, and the trees were hardly leafed out at all, aside from some willows and a few paper birches here and there. Slope after slope of leaf litter full of trout-lily leaves rose all round us, barred by the gray trunks of trees and their shadows. The stream was so low that we took the Beaver Trail, which had almost stolen our shoes the first time we came to Nerstrand, after a very wet April. We were hoping for the huge patches of Dutchman's breeches that we'd seen on the upland part the last time we were there, but there were only trout-lily leaves, along with emerging early meadow rue or columbine or both, a lovely scattering of bloodroot, and emerging wild geraniums. Even though the trail was dry and the sunken areas on either side of Prairie Creek were dry too, the land sloping down to the lower part of the trail was full of blooming plants, and all the leaves looked fresher and greener than any others we'd seen. By this time it was late afternoon. Raphael had suggested we take the trail counterclockwise precisely so that we could see this part of it in the afternoon light, and it was beautiful.
On the way home we had a spectacular sunset. First there was a large bank of dark-gray cloud with crepuscular rays shooting downward out of it to the horizon. Then it tattered, and the sun shone through the tatters, and suddenly there were crepuscular rays shooting upwards as well as downwards, all in a rosy yellow. Raphael had never seen anything like that except in paintings, and I had never seen the upward-shooting rays anywhere.
On Saturday Eric and I borrowed David's car and went to Frontenac State Park. Google Maps wanted us to cross the river on 494 and take Highway 10 for miles eastward into Wisconsin, until we met up with Highway 63, which would then take us back and land us in Frontenac. There's a perfectly good Wisconsin highway running right along the river, and it's also quite possible to get there without going to Wisconsin at all. I didn't really divine the situation until we were driving steadily east on a smaller and smaller road, whereupon I remarked that this was crazy. Eric looked at the map and found us a river valley with a road running down it that would take us in the right direction.
The river valley was curious and delightful, a perfectly flat space between sharp hills, bathed in sunlight, full of swallows and small farms.
We got lost in Red Wing, but eventually straightened ourselves out, got to the park, and drove up to the picnic area. As we got out of the car Eric said, "Are those bald eagles?" They were, two adult and two full-grown, but less than five years old and still in their dark plumage, all four soaring and plunging and hovering over the river and the picnic tables. There were four turkey vultures, too. We looked at the view for a while and then took the path that runs along the top of the bluffs. I had told Eric that when Raphael and I came there last autumn, we'd gone down the very steep trails from the very end of the bluff where the picnic area was, and that I had gotten vertigo and had some trouble coming back up. But when we saw a different set of deceptively easy-looking pathway, all nicely switchbacked, as Eric said, we went down. The steeper part thereafter had a railing, so we went on. The vertical face of the bluff was patched with brilliant moss, Dutchman's breeches, sharp-lobed hepatica, and the leaves of wild geranium, as well as several emerging plants that we didn't recognize. The steps were almost buried in oak leaves. Below the railed stairway were more and steeper steps. I had to stop to overcome dizziness, and Eric eventually said that he was getting dizzy just sitting there, so we climbed back up. I did a certain number of the wonkier steps on my hands and knees.
Back at the top, we saw a bird the size of a crow flying along below, above the tops of some willows that had leafed out; but the binoculars revealed that it was another turkey vulture. I felt less wimpy about refusing to climb any further down whatever exactly the distance was to Lake Pepin. We also saw some black-and-white birds that turned out to be eastern white pelicans in their breeding plumage. We heard woodpeckers drumming in turn, and saw them, rather confusingly through a tangle of vines and dead branches. I really don't know what they were, but they had the tweed-waistcoat sort of markings on their backs.
It was an overcast day and got dark early. Driving back down towards the park office, we saw four or five deer, bounding across the road or sensibly leaping away from it. We walked a little way into the prairie, seeing several sparrows on the path, but then left, still awed by the eagles.
On Tuesday, April 27, Raphael and I went to Crowe-Hassan Park Reserve
Raphael's notes showed that we had been there in late March nine or ten years ago, but I didn't remember anything about it. It's in hilly country by central-Minnesota standards, a mix of oak forest and rolling prairie, with both bare golden hills and meadows scattered with juniper and willow. The map shows three lakes, and Raphael said that that was one reason we had not returned, since we were very much focussed on dragonflies at the time. But there was much more water than that about. We also saw low-lying areas that had obviously been wet earlier on, so perhaps the lakes on the map are the only permanent ones. We saw so many green darners that I stopped counting them; more than fifteen, anyway.
The only ephemeral that seems to live there is bloodroot, but there were huge stretches of it under the oak trees, much more than I've ever seen before. Crowe-Hassan has wild geranium the way Eloise Butler or Nerstrand have trout-lily leaves, and we saw a lot of other emerging late-spring wildflowers as well. But for now, there was only the bloodroot and a very occasional purple violet.
We ate our sandwiches at a picnic table in the sunny middle of the bare woods, not a feat that will be possible in a few months, or even a few weeks. We heard waterfowl. I got, through the binoculars, some confused glimpses of two largeish woodpeckers that, honestly, looked more like black-backed woodpeckers than anything else, but almost certainly were not.
At some point I saw a yellow-rumped warbler, but our main encounter with wildlife on the woodland walk was with a distressed man whose dog had run off. When we got back to the parking area, we rested a little and decided to set off again to go to Prairie Lake. We met quite a few people on horseback on this trek. All of them struck up some kind of conversation, and one of the last set we met actually said, "If you talk, our horses will know you're people." Eric and I had once received a similar exhortation at Wild River State Park. I do not understand the horse-brain.
Prairie Lake was spectacular. The main body of the lake was on our left, and there were two trumpeter swans standing on the shore, one with head under wing, the other on watch, though not enough so to bother with us. The guardian swan lifted its foot at one point to scratch itself, and Raphael exclaimed (quietly) at the size of it. "It's like an oar!" "Well," I said, "It is an oar." To our right was a group of blue-winged teal, two females and two males in their breeding plumage. There were some random mallards as well.
We turned off our main trail to walk along the lake shore, and discovered a series of small, lumpy, steep, and at the time nondescript hills, adorned with signs saying, "Prairie Remnant. No dogs or horses." We thought we had better come back. There were a lot of birds on the edge of the lake, mostly red-winged blackbirds and chickadees. The blackbirds gave us a lot of trouble because their markings seemed wrong, but consultation with Sibley showed that they were juveniles in their first year.
Our way back lay through the restored, mostly treeless prairie. Part of it had been burned over. It was all shades of gold and gray and brown, with a few green rosettes coming up. The sky seemed very large and the sun very golden.
We got turned around a bit on the way home -- the directions provided by the park district will get you there all right, but they are not much use, in a maze of county roads, all alike, in getting you out. But we think we'll go back.
Pamela
On Friday last, April 24th, Raphael and I went to Nerstrand Big Woods State Park. The drive was uneventful, except that as we turned onto 246 in the middle of Northfield, a big dragonfly flew across the road in front of us. At this time of year, it had to be a migratory green darner. We took it as a good omen.
Birds heard -- numerous. Birds seen so as to be identified: hairy or downy woodpecker, robin, chickadee. Birds seen clearly enough, one would think, but not identified: three.
Flowers seen in bloom: bloodroot, trout lily, marsh marigold, false rue anemone (just starting), cutleaf toothwort (also just starting), sharp-lobed hepatica (abundant), Dutchman's breeches (abundant), spring beauty (barely starting).
We took the Hidden Falls Trail down to the falls, where they had removed the platform over the water with the benches on it. So we went back up the other side of that loop, to find somewhere to eat our sandwiches. The hepatica on that side of the trail tend to pose prettily under trees, between roots, often near a patch of moss. They were catching the light very nicely as we ate. We went on up the hill so that I could get a bottle of Pepsi from the machine by the picnic area. I am in that uncomfortable state where my anti-hypertensives make me feel very dragged out, but my blood pressure is not consistently low enough that I can wave the numbers at my doctor and make him reduce my dosage. Caffeine counteracts the dragginess, without having noticeable effects on the blood pressure. I have to be careful not to ingest too much, but it doesn't take a lot. I was noticeably perkier after half a bottle of Pepsi, even though I don't like Pepsi.
It was a sunny day, and the trees were hardly leafed out at all, aside from some willows and a few paper birches here and there. Slope after slope of leaf litter full of trout-lily leaves rose all round us, barred by the gray trunks of trees and their shadows. The stream was so low that we took the Beaver Trail, which had almost stolen our shoes the first time we came to Nerstrand, after a very wet April. We were hoping for the huge patches of Dutchman's breeches that we'd seen on the upland part the last time we were there, but there were only trout-lily leaves, along with emerging early meadow rue or columbine or both, a lovely scattering of bloodroot, and emerging wild geraniums. Even though the trail was dry and the sunken areas on either side of Prairie Creek were dry too, the land sloping down to the lower part of the trail was full of blooming plants, and all the leaves looked fresher and greener than any others we'd seen. By this time it was late afternoon. Raphael had suggested we take the trail counterclockwise precisely so that we could see this part of it in the afternoon light, and it was beautiful.
On the way home we had a spectacular sunset. First there was a large bank of dark-gray cloud with crepuscular rays shooting downward out of it to the horizon. Then it tattered, and the sun shone through the tatters, and suddenly there were crepuscular rays shooting upwards as well as downwards, all in a rosy yellow. Raphael had never seen anything like that except in paintings, and I had never seen the upward-shooting rays anywhere.
On Saturday Eric and I borrowed David's car and went to Frontenac State Park. Google Maps wanted us to cross the river on 494 and take Highway 10 for miles eastward into Wisconsin, until we met up with Highway 63, which would then take us back and land us in Frontenac. There's a perfectly good Wisconsin highway running right along the river, and it's also quite possible to get there without going to Wisconsin at all. I didn't really divine the situation until we were driving steadily east on a smaller and smaller road, whereupon I remarked that this was crazy. Eric looked at the map and found us a river valley with a road running down it that would take us in the right direction.
The river valley was curious and delightful, a perfectly flat space between sharp hills, bathed in sunlight, full of swallows and small farms.
We got lost in Red Wing, but eventually straightened ourselves out, got to the park, and drove up to the picnic area. As we got out of the car Eric said, "Are those bald eagles?" They were, two adult and two full-grown, but less than five years old and still in their dark plumage, all four soaring and plunging and hovering over the river and the picnic tables. There were four turkey vultures, too. We looked at the view for a while and then took the path that runs along the top of the bluffs. I had told Eric that when Raphael and I came there last autumn, we'd gone down the very steep trails from the very end of the bluff where the picnic area was, and that I had gotten vertigo and had some trouble coming back up. But when we saw a different set of deceptively easy-looking pathway, all nicely switchbacked, as Eric said, we went down. The steeper part thereafter had a railing, so we went on. The vertical face of the bluff was patched with brilliant moss, Dutchman's breeches, sharp-lobed hepatica, and the leaves of wild geranium, as well as several emerging plants that we didn't recognize. The steps were almost buried in oak leaves. Below the railed stairway were more and steeper steps. I had to stop to overcome dizziness, and Eric eventually said that he was getting dizzy just sitting there, so we climbed back up. I did a certain number of the wonkier steps on my hands and knees.
Back at the top, we saw a bird the size of a crow flying along below, above the tops of some willows that had leafed out; but the binoculars revealed that it was another turkey vulture. I felt less wimpy about refusing to climb any further down whatever exactly the distance was to Lake Pepin. We also saw some black-and-white birds that turned out to be eastern white pelicans in their breeding plumage. We heard woodpeckers drumming in turn, and saw them, rather confusingly through a tangle of vines and dead branches. I really don't know what they were, but they had the tweed-waistcoat sort of markings on their backs.
It was an overcast day and got dark early. Driving back down towards the park office, we saw four or five deer, bounding across the road or sensibly leaping away from it. We walked a little way into the prairie, seeing several sparrows on the path, but then left, still awed by the eagles.
On Tuesday, April 27, Raphael and I went to Crowe-Hassan Park Reserve
Raphael's notes showed that we had been there in late March nine or ten years ago, but I didn't remember anything about it. It's in hilly country by central-Minnesota standards, a mix of oak forest and rolling prairie, with both bare golden hills and meadows scattered with juniper and willow. The map shows three lakes, and Raphael said that that was one reason we had not returned, since we were very much focussed on dragonflies at the time. But there was much more water than that about. We also saw low-lying areas that had obviously been wet earlier on, so perhaps the lakes on the map are the only permanent ones. We saw so many green darners that I stopped counting them; more than fifteen, anyway.
The only ephemeral that seems to live there is bloodroot, but there were huge stretches of it under the oak trees, much more than I've ever seen before. Crowe-Hassan has wild geranium the way Eloise Butler or Nerstrand have trout-lily leaves, and we saw a lot of other emerging late-spring wildflowers as well. But for now, there was only the bloodroot and a very occasional purple violet.
We ate our sandwiches at a picnic table in the sunny middle of the bare woods, not a feat that will be possible in a few months, or even a few weeks. We heard waterfowl. I got, through the binoculars, some confused glimpses of two largeish woodpeckers that, honestly, looked more like black-backed woodpeckers than anything else, but almost certainly were not.
At some point I saw a yellow-rumped warbler, but our main encounter with wildlife on the woodland walk was with a distressed man whose dog had run off. When we got back to the parking area, we rested a little and decided to set off again to go to Prairie Lake. We met quite a few people on horseback on this trek. All of them struck up some kind of conversation, and one of the last set we met actually said, "If you talk, our horses will know you're people." Eric and I had once received a similar exhortation at Wild River State Park. I do not understand the horse-brain.
Prairie Lake was spectacular. The main body of the lake was on our left, and there were two trumpeter swans standing on the shore, one with head under wing, the other on watch, though not enough so to bother with us. The guardian swan lifted its foot at one point to scratch itself, and Raphael exclaimed (quietly) at the size of it. "It's like an oar!" "Well," I said, "It is an oar." To our right was a group of blue-winged teal, two females and two males in their breeding plumage. There were some random mallards as well.
We turned off our main trail to walk along the lake shore, and discovered a series of small, lumpy, steep, and at the time nondescript hills, adorned with signs saying, "Prairie Remnant. No dogs or horses." We thought we had better come back. There were a lot of birds on the edge of the lake, mostly red-winged blackbirds and chickadees. The blackbirds gave us a lot of trouble because their markings seemed wrong, but consultation with Sibley showed that they were juveniles in their first year.
Our way back lay through the restored, mostly treeless prairie. Part of it had been burned over. It was all shades of gold and gray and brown, with a few green rosettes coming up. The sky seemed very large and the sun very golden.
We got turned around a bit on the way home -- the directions provided by the park district will get you there all right, but they are not much use, in a maze of county roads, all alike, in getting you out. But we think we'll go back.
Pamela
