Just a Walk

White Pine Plantation-The Other Munger Trail

I was off work on a mental health sabbatical. Those of you who follow this blog know why. ‘Nuff said. My dad and I together have a parcel of 135 acres (give or take) out in Fredenberg Township, the place my wife, our four sons, and I have called home for the past 28 years. 28 years! That’s a hell of a long time to be rooted in a place, any place, in these topsy-turvy times. Most folks move from place to place, job to job, community to community, getting their education, chasing employment, following their children or parents. Not us. Rene’ and I were both raised in Duluth and knew, when I finished law school, that Duluth was where we wanted to settle in. I really didn’t have an itch, a desire, to live out, to live in the country, until Dave Michelson (he’s gonna want royalties pretty soon since this is the second blog in a row he’s appeared!) bought some land and an old fire-trap of a trailer on Bowman Lake, an ox bow on the Cloquet River. Once I saw the soaring bald eagles, nesting osprey, the flowing black water, and felt, yes literally felt, the quiet, I was hooked. I bugged Rene’, as law school wound down, to travel back to Duluth to look at rural property. Nothing clicked. So, like many young couples, we settled: We bought a nice little house on St. Marie Street in Duluth and moved our family of three (Matt was just a year old) back home.

Thing is, I could never get the image of the Cloquet River out of my mind. Eventually, I found what I (if not Rene’) was looking for: And old Sears house, complete with a vegetable garden, a barn,  and eight acres along the banks of the Cloquet came up for sale. It took some convincing but, in 1984, expecting our second child (Dylan), we moved to Fredenberg. And we’ve been on the same tract of land ever since. During our nearly three decades in the country, I’ve managed to carve a few good trails through the woods that we use for hiking, hunting, horseback riding (we no longer have horses but our neighbors do), and cross country skiing. The photo above depicts one of those trails as it cuts through an old pasture on our property The white pines you see growing alongside the path? They’re seedlings deposited by century-old giants that survived the Great Cloquet Fire of 1918. They are not planted by man: They’re nurtured by God.

So, on my day of contemplation and rest, what I really wanted to do, since it was winter and all, was click into my Nordic-style cross country skis, let the dogs out (no need to ask “who” in this equation!), and ski our trails. But there’s little snow this year. Oh, there’s a trace: you can see that in the photos. And, desperate for the swoosh of wax on white, I’ve skied once since November. But that was short-lived: The day after I skied, it was over forty degrees and the snow cover we had turned to solid ice. I’ve learned, living out so long, that there’s great relief in being able to compromise. And so, on a fine January day not so long ago, I laced up my hiking boots, buttoned up a warm jacket, slipped gloves over my hands, and took the dogs for a walk.

We have three dogs. Matt, before he left home for good, brought a year-old-lab-husky-something-or-other mix named Daisy home from his work. She’s black most seasons, brown and black at times, and is the smartest damn dog we’ve ever owned. She’s getting close to a dozen years old at this point, a bit long in tooth for a big dog, and her hips are showing her age. But she’s always game for a romp in the trees, especially if rabbits are involved. Not grouse: She has, despite clear Labrador lineage, no interest in birds. Then there’s Jimi Hendrix, a miniature dachshund  (German for “badger dog”) who’s getting on seven years old, give or take. Jimi is about as dumb a dog as God ever created. But he is so damn cute with his double dapple coat and the way he scoots after bunnies. Finally, Chris (our number three son) rescued another Labrador,  a dog Chris named “Kramer” after the Seinfeld character of the same name because the dog is lean and lanky. Kramer came to us on approval from a veterinarian’s office in River Falls, Wisconsin, where Chris was going to school at the time. The deal was, if we liked the dog, he stayed. If not, he was going back to the vet to meet an unfortunate end. Since I’m listing Kramer as one of our three dogs, you know the end of that story!

Jimi and Daisy

The day of our walk, there wasn’t much happening in the forest. Jimi and Daisy lunged ahead over stiff snow in search of rabbits. Kramer, timid and exceedingly gun shy, his rear hips delicate and barely able to bear the weight of his rear end, ambled agreeably behind me, displaying zero interest in anything remotely close to hunting.

Kramer

It happened when we hit Old Man Farley’s Trail (don’t ask: that story would take an entire blog). Without warning, Jimi burst into his “I’m on the trail of a silly rabbit” bay. I’m not sure if all wiener dogs are high tenors or if Jimi’s pitch is due to being neutered: In any event, when he started his call, Daisy, always interested in bunnies, joined the daschund in the chase. I kept walking, knowing exactly what would happen. And it did. The yapping of the little dog grew more intense. Daisy dove deeper into the alders and birches and balsams lining the trail. And then, there it was: a bolt of white zipping across the open space of the trail cutting through  the tight woods. The snowshoe hare was fifty yards ahead of its pursuit and in no danger of apprehenshion.

We kicked up one lone roosting grouse as we descended the only hill on the trail. I wasn’t startled by the burst of energy from the fleeing partridge. And the dogs, true to form, weren’t the least bit interested in the bird. We followed the River Trail (clever name, eh?) to the banks of the Cloquet River, where, though the water was near freezing (too cold for any being possessing common sense to go for a dip) Daisy promptly plunged down the bank and sat in the black water. I stood at the top of the bank, Kramer by my side, watching the sun sink in the west, as the pink tongue of the old black dog lapped and lapped and lapped.

The Cloquet River

And then, we turned north. We followed the riverbank for a bit, still on property that my father owns, taking our sweet time to amble home. The point of this essay is this: Sure, you can spend some dough on expensive therapists after something bad or unexpected happens in your life. Seeking such help is, in fact, a good way of dealing with tragedy, a breach of privacy and safety, or loss. But there’s also this: A lot can be healed by a simple walk in the Minnesota woods with three imperfect dogs by the side of their imperfect master.

Peace.

Mark