Author Mark Munger (Cloquet River Press)

(May 24, 2009)

Yesterday, I worked my tail off in the yard. Our lawn is huge. It takes four hours to mow, another hour to trim. I also tilled the vegetable garden, transplanted some roses (a chore on my “Honeydo” list) and did some miscellaneous stuff around our place on the banks of the Cloquet River. It’s not like I was doing this all by myself. My wife Rene’ was out in her flower gardens, pulling quack grass and working just as hard to make our place shine. So when we were done and our son and his buddies were content at play, we loaded up our old square stern aluminum canoe, fired up the Honda two horse, and went downriver in search of walleye.

The trip was delayed because Jimi Hendrix, the family dachshaund, ran franticly along the bank trying to keep pace. Rene’ solved the problem by locking him in the garage. We were home free. Not. Daisy, our very bright but slightly deranged black lab mix followed us. First, she dove in the cold waters of the river and crossed to the far side. I opened up the throttle on the motor in hopes we’d outrun her. But she hung with us, swimming back and forth across the wide river whenever she needed to cut off territory. Eventually, we came to the pool where we usually fish. And there was Daisy, a mile from home and soaking wet, waiting for us.

Daisy was entertained for the better part of an hour by a family of beaver who, not knowing her domestic upbringing, took her for a coyote. Every few minutes, the thunderous slap of a beaver tail sounded the alarm as the dog pawed and snuffled at a newly remodeled beaver lodge at the water’s edge. After a couple of hours of no fish, I loaded the meandering dog into the canoe and the three of us headed upriver. A solitary male partridge amorously drummed somewhere on a log in the depths of the maple scrub forest. Ducks took wing. A great blue heron rose slowly out of the marsh. The sun descended.

Another day on the river.

(Published April 27, 2009)

Right now, it’s 7:00am and I’m sitting in my writing room which overlooks our pasture and the Cloquet River. The image you might have in your mind is of some grand scene: frothing water; cascades of blue, black and amber undulating in the morning sun; tall majestic pines breaking up the perpetual blue of an endless sky. That’s not really what I’m seeing. I’m looking over a clover-filled patch of green that someone, nearly 100 years ago, carved out of the white pine forest that once lined the banks of the meandering path of the Cloquet. The pasture is tired. Though a neighbor cuts the hay every summer, most years it’s barely worth his while. Nature continually tries to return our pasture to forest. Little white pines, aspen and balsam pop up each spring only to be executed by the blade of the hay mow. There are no frothing rapids in front of our house. No great crash of water against rock. Only the slow ebb of tanin-stained water draining from the great swamps of the north towards Lake Superior. Theoretically, if I plopped a canoe in the river I could paddle from my home to the Atlantic Ocean. But that’s a trip this old man’s body will never make. Instead of dreaming of the impossible, I wonder at birds.

Being this far north, I rarely encounter Baltimore Orioles. This week, we had a male, brilliant as a Home Depot ad, feeding on dried fruit in our feeder outside the kitchen. He was followed by a male goldfinch, strikingly yellow against the open sky. Eastern bluebirds have also made their way back to our place and are once again nesting in the wooden houses I put out for them. The flits of blue that explode when their wings pump energetically against the cool spring air never cease to entertain.

Other signs of spring abound. Choirs of frogs and toads become audible when the winds of the afternoon still and the light begins to fade. A week or so ago, Kramer, our ancient chocolate Labrador, met up with either a cougar or a bear. The vet sent him home with antibiotics and a shaved arse. I’m pretty certain that Kramer and his running mate Daisey, our black Labrador mix, disturbed a bear feeding on a deer carcass. Kramer seems to be on the mend and I can’t help but smile as I watch his naked hind parts waddle down the driveway.

For all you folks out there in northwestern Minnesota, stop by and see me on May 30 and 31 at the Detroit Lakes Street Faire. You can buy a book, talk about the foolish bravado of old dogs, or just say hello.

Peace.

Mark