 Summer came, and summer went, and just after Labor Day, Ray and I looked at each other and said, "Hey, we forgot to take a vacation." Well, we didn't exactly forget. We just, you know, had stuff to do. So much stuff we thought, Get away? Oh, we couldn't possibly! But have you noticed? Whenever you find yourself thinking, I couldn't possibly, that's exactly when you really, really need to. So in spite of to-do lists, appointments, and other obligations, we found a stretch of blank spaces on our calendars, booked a campsite at Tahquamenon Falls State Park in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, packed up the RV, and headed north.  For six days, we hiked on wooded trails, cooked on the grill, took photos, read books, and drank Alaskan Amber by the campfire. Wait, you're saying, aren't those all things you can do at home in Newaygo?   Right you are. We can do all those things at home, and often do. The difference was, for those six days in the U.P., there was nothing else to do. No phone, no internet, no domestic duties, no book launch details to attend to. Plus, views of rushing rapids and cascading waterfalls.  As a result, we truly relaxed for the first time in months, so deeply we couldn't even remember what we'd be obsessing about if we weren't too relaxed to obsess.  Happy campers Of course, once we were back home, it took about a millisecond for realities and responsibilities to assert themselves. But somehow, even two weeks later, some of that getaway serenity has stayed with me. I'm back in to-do mode, but with a mellower mindset. And when I start to drift back into frenzy, all I have to do is look at photos from the trip to reset my calm-down button. Care to join me?  The leaves were just beginning to turn when we arrived. We watched more change every day.    A viewing platform for the Lower Falls area is just a short walk from the campground  Not all the color was on the trees  Some visitors row boats across the river to the island for an up-close look at the Lower Falls  We took the boardwalk instead and were rewarded with this view. The golden color of the water is from tannins leached from the cedar swamps that the river drains.  The North Country Trail goes right through the campground where we stayed and connects the Lower and Upper Falls.  The blue blazes are a familiar sight  Found along the trail  Campground overlook  Upper falls with ever-present mist   What the sign doesn't tell you is that there are even MORE steps once you get down to the gorge.    A little stairway humor  Upper Falls from the gorge  Patient husband waiting for photographer to take several hundred more waterfall shots   Part of the enjoyment is seeing other people enjoying themselves  Like this guy, who celebrated his 84th birthday on our getaway. Happy birthday, Ray!
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 Anne-Marie Oomen leading a writing workshop at Sleeping Bear Dunes on Lake Michigan What with summer activities and chores and the myriad details associated with the launch of my memoir Mango Rash, I confess I haven’t been doing much new writing lately. I was inspired to make an exception, though, when I received a compelling request earlier in the summer from one of my favorite Michigan authors, Anne-Marie Oomen. She was appealing to writers in her circle to join in an undertaking she called the Lake-love Letters Project. The idea was simple: write a love letter—no more than 400 words—to the Great Lakes or a specific lake. Not a huge investment of time and energy, but an important one, as Anne-Marie’s cover letter made clear.  It began: I love our waters: lakes, rivers, wetlands, little sinking ponds, remote swamps. If it’s wet, I’ll probably like it. And of course, I’m worried about all of them, as I know many of you are. I often wonder what I can do. I’m not a scientist, politician, lawyer, not even a very good journalist. I often feel inadequate, a “fish out of water” when it comes to this work. This year, a question I asked myself: how might I use my small gifts a literary artist (creative writer) to do something for our beloved waters. She went on to relate that just as she was considering how she might make a difference, she received a letter from Liz Kirkwood, director of the regional water organization For Love of Water (FLOW). The letter explained that in July, the International Joint Commission of the Great Lakes would meet in Traverse City. Liz wanted to enliven what might otherwise be a dry discussion (subject matter notwithstanding) by involving artists who are passionate about our water.  As Anne-Marie described it in her letter, She had a vision: at the final meeting with the commissioners, could we showcase our love of water in a way that would involve the arts, particularly the writers. She spoke of the arts as one heart behind all the science and legal work. I was so grateful for her rare understanding. And she offered an idea that I could run with. Could we writers and artists do something with love letters to our waters. Love letters? Yes! I usually take my time responding to requests that ask me to write, edit, or critique something. I like to consider what else is on my to-do-list and how interested I am in adding to that ever-expanding list. This time I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I found a sliver of writing time, I drafted my love letter. After a few revisions, I sent it off to Anne-Marie. Here’s what I wrote:  With friends Sarah and Cindi at Lake Carl Blackwell in Oklahoma, circa 1968 Dear Lake Michigan, You’re not like the others—the ones I grew up with. In that flat and dusty land, those pretenders to the title were mere puddles. Knowing no better, we suited up, dived in, toweled off, sat on shore with sandwiches, staring out across their dense, red-silted expanses, thinking, “Well, this is nice.”  Then I met you, and I had to expand my vocabulary. I’ll admit it: you dazzled me, spangled like a rock star, necklaced with villages whose very names enchant: Empire, Pentwater, Saugatuck.  The only time I didn’t love you as much as I wanted to was on that blustery September day I ferried across your liquid skin. Your ups and downs! How they unsettled me. Betrayed, I sulked until I reached the other shore and looked back at your troubled face, your spectrum of shades.  You, too, carry burdens, I realized in that moment. And also this: I may have loved you since we first met, but I haven’t really known you. Let me know you now. Love, Nan  Just before the commission meeting, Anne-Marie reported that nearly 100 letters submitted to the project would be presented in book form to each of the commissioners. In addition, she extracted sentences from some letters and shaped them into a ten-minute script to be read as part of the presentation to the commission. “Your words made a beautiful praise song to the lakes—thank you!” she wrote to contributors. So often, writing feels like a solitary, inwardly-directed pursuit. It was gratifying to take part in this project, and it made me think about other ways I might merge my passion for writing with the issues I care about. How can you apply your talents to something you care about? FLOW’s video of the entire Traverse City meeting can be viewed here. The Lake-love Letters Project portion begins around minute 14 and continues to minute 28. FLOW and the commission also plan to post the entire collection of Lake-love Letters on their websites.
 This is what spring looked like at my house a few days ago. Not exactly picking-posies weather. But I do believe it's coming . . . eventually. Until then, let's enjoy a few reminders of what spring should look like.               What are your favorite signs of spring?
It's a busy time of year, wouldn't you agree? You've got places to go, people to see. I've got stuff to do. So instead of burdening you with blather, I'm making my holiday gift to you a visual one. Today I'm sharing some favorite photos from our trip out West last fall. But before we head West, some photo-related news: Copies of my photo book, "Nature by Nan," are now available for purchase at Hit the Road Joe Coffee Cafe in Croton. The 8x8-inch hardcover book contains 20 of my photos of local flora and fauna.  I hope to soon add copies of my second photo book, "Nature by Nan, Volume II," and to make both books available for order on this website. Stay tuned.  Now, let's head out West!  All aboard the Lake Express for the first leg of the trip, across Lake Michigan  Leaving Muskegon, headed for Milwaukee  As we made our way west, some of the scenery was quietly awe-inspiring  Some of it was downright spooky  Yet even the desolate scenes had their own kind of beauty  I developed a fascination for ramshackle structures  Some especially stunning in their decrepitude  And I kept an eye out for wildlife, like this pronghorn antelope  Fargo, North Dakota, provided the prop for our first goofy-tourist photo. The actual chipper used in the movie "Fargo" is inside the visitor center, but this replica is stationed outside for photo ops  It's always a delight to find art in unexpected places, like this mural in a parking lot in Des Moines, Washington (who knew there was a Des Moines in Washington?)  And this garage in Spokane  And this utility box in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho  Also these delightful dandelions in a Coeur d'Alene park  Lake Coeur d'Alene was dramatic on a blustery day  Not a day we cared to go flying  The views from nearby Cataldo mission were more serene  Like this restful view  The old mission bell  Is the light really different out West, or does it only seem that way? The view from this spot overlooking the Columbia River was wondrous  Another view from the same overlook  The scenery in nearby Gingko Petrified Forest State Park provided stark contrasts  The park's landscape is almost other-worldly  A ferry ride in Washington offered glimpses of Mt. Ranier  And took us to Kitsap Peninsula, where we visited Point No Point lighthouse  On the way back to Michigan, we took in this monument to wild horses, designed and created by sculptor David Govedare.  Little did we know we'd soon encounter the real thing (keep scrolling).  As long as we're on the subject of monuments, no trip of ours would be complete without visits to oversized roadside attractions. Here's the world's largest buffalo in Jamestown, North Dakota  And the world's largest sandhill crane in Steele, North Dakota  You don't have to go to New York to see the Big Apple. This one's in Edgerton, Wisconsin, which is also the home of the world's largest Culver's Restaurant (which I didn't take a picture of because it looked just like every other Culver's, except bigger).  A highlight of the trip was Theodore Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota  Roosevelt's cabin has been relocated to a site near the visitor center.  The sweeping vistas are spectacular     But for me, the critters were at least as much of the attraction  I could've spent all day watching the prairie dogs' antics (and if you ask Ray, he'll probably tell you it seemed like I did).   If you tire of watching prairie dogs, you can track down some bison  Or those feral horses I promised you      What are some of your standout memories from the past year?
On the last Wednesday of every month, I serve up a potpourri of advice, inspiration and other tidbits I've come across in recent weeks. This month -- this week, in fact -- finds us commemorating both Earth Day and Arbor Day. In the spirit of those two observances, here's a collection of quotes about nature and the planet on which we live. As a bonus, I'm including at the end of this post, some of my favorite nature shots from our recent visit to the Southwest.  Love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only home we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need -- if only we had the eyes to see. -- Edward Abbey  Find your place on the planet, dig in, and take responsibility from there. -- Gary Snyder  The Earth was small, light blue, and so touchingly alone, our home that must be defended like a holy relic. The Earth was absolutely round. I believe I never knew what the word round meant until I saw Earth from space. -- Alexey Leonov, Russian cosmonaut  The universe is composed of subjects to be communed with, not objects to be exploited. Everything has its own voice. Thunder and lightning and stars and planets, flowers, birds, animals, trees -- all of these have voices, and they constitute a community of existence that is profoundly related. -- Thomas Berry  The earth is a living thing. Mountains speak, trees sing, lakes can think, pebbles have a soul, rocks have power. -- Henry Crow Dog  When I get sick of what men do, I have only to walk a few steps in another direction to see what spiders do. Or what weather does. This sustains me very well indeed. -- E.B. White, One Man's Meat  Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature -- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter. -- Rachel Carson  Nature repairs her ravages -- but not all. The uptorn trees are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no thorough repair. -- George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss  What is the use of a house if you haven't got a tolerable planet to put it on? -- Henry David Thoreau  Loyd: "It has to do with keeping things in balance . . . It's like the spirits have made a deal with us . . . The spirits have been good enough to let us live here and use the utilities, and we're saying: . . . We appreciate the rain, we appreciate the sun, we appreciate the deer we took . . . You've gone to a lot of trouble, and we'll try to be good guests." Codi: "Like a note you'd send somebody after you stayed in their house?" Loyd: "Exactly like that. 'Thanks for letting me sleep on your couch. I took some beer out of the refrigerator, and I broke a coffee cup. Sorry. I hope it wasn't your favorite one.' " -- Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams And now, for a little more nature appreciation . . .  Saguaro National Park  As close as I care to get  Soaking up the sun at Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum  Even in a desert, the diversity of life forms amazes me  Saguaro are like sculptures  Sleepy prairie dog at Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. (Or perhaps just bored with all the tourists?)  Beauty as far as the eye can see  Early spring flowers growing among the rocks in Sabino Canyon  Sabino Canyon. It's hard to gauge the scale of the rock slabs until you see the people strolling and sunning on them.  Moment of reflection, Sabino Canyon  My best guess is pyrrhuloxia (desert cardinal)  Swirly saguaro  Sabino Canyon, a true oasis  Evening on the road between Tombstone and Sierra Vista  Spooky tree, Chiricahua National Monument  Chiricahua vista  Chiricahua  Chiricahua  Lots o' rocks  Sunset from Tombstone Sometimes the roads we travel take us back to crossroads that were pivotal in our past. Sometimes they show us the way forward. Both happened on our recent trip through the Southwest. Ray and I spent most of our time in the Tucson area, a place that has lingered, dreamlike, in a cranny of my memory for decades. Though I've made a couple of quick visits to Tucson in recent years, I hadn't spent any wandering-around time there since an unforgettable visit in my twenties.  It was 1976, and I was on a meandering road trip with my boyfriend. We'd driven from northern California to Los Angeles to visit his parents, then struck out across Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas before heading north to Oklahoma to see my family, venturing on to Kansas, and returning to California by way of Colorado. The stated purpose of the trip was to check out graduate schools in Arizona, Texas, and Kansas, but we planned the route to take in as many national parks, monuments and other nature-y points of interest as possible: Joshua Tree National Park, Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Saguaro National Park, Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, Mount Lemmon, Chiricahua National Monument, Cave Creek Canyon, White Sands National Monument, Carlsbad Caverns National Park, Big Bend National Park, Oklahoma's Great Salt Plains State Park, Rocky Mountain National Park, Dinosaur National Monument. We spent our days hiking through cactus forests, bizarre rock formations, lush oases, meadows and more, stopping to raise binoculars or crawl on the ground in search of unusual insects. The assortment of critters boggled my mind—from the javelina that trotted across our campsite to the jewel-like cuckoo wasps and furry velvet ants that flitted and scurried around us.
 Clowning around in the Chiricahuas We slept out in the open—no tent—where we could watch the moon and stars and hear the night creatures. (Lucky for us, it wasn't the height of monsoon season.) Enthralled with the writings of Carlos Castaneda, I saw our surroundings as steeped in mystical power. As I contemplated the future I was heading into, I was sure it would include frequent visits to these enchanted places—as a scientist studying the flora and fauna, but also as a spiritual seeker.  Somehow, life took me in other directions. Or I should say, I made decisions that took me in other directions. And though I often thought of those places and their hold on me, I never found my way back. Until last month.  On this latest trip, Ray and I trekked through some of the places that had made such an impression on me more than forty years ago: Saguaro National Park, the Desert Museum, and Chiricahua National Monument, in addition to visiting sites where neither of us had been before--Sabino Canyon and Bisbee, to name a couple. I expected to be wowed again by the landscape, with its unique array of plants and animals, and I was. What I didn't expect was the flash flood of memories and emotions that swept through me. I remembered the connection I'd once felt to the desert and how firmly I'd believed it would be an ongoing part of my life. I thought about the decisions I'd made that took me away from that vision, the places I wound up instead, and how easy it is for years to slip by while you're thinking, "Someday, I'll . . . "  My musings could have been an exercise in regret; instead I made a conscious decision to use those memories as a tool to explore my feelings about the paths I've traveled, where they've led me, and where I still want to go. (I'm not just talking about geography here, you understand.) Putting myself back in my twenty-seven-year-old mind, I asked myself what excited me about the prospects ahead. What did I value in my vision of the future? Returning to my sixty-nine-year-old mind, I asked myself how much of that excitement and those values I still possess—even though I took a different route to them—and what I might still make space for in my life.  My conclusions: At twenty-six, I prized my freedom: freedom to explore whatever captured my interest, freedom to live where I wanted, freedom to spend my days doing something rewarding. I took it as a given that my explorations would keep me close to nature. That's the part I lost for a time, when I spent long days cooped up in an office, in a big city.  Now I'm living a close-to-nature existence again—not in the desert, but in another place that teems with wildlife, wildflowers, and woods—and I have my freedom back. When I think about where I want to go next, it's out to discover more wondrous places, not just to see and photograph them (though you can bet I'll do that), but also to linger long enough to experience the mystery of these places and let my spirit connect with theirs.  Photos: Nan Pokerwinski & friends
While I'm taking a break for relaxation and recreation, I've invited some of my fellow bloggers to fill in with guest posts. This week's is from scientist and author Mark L. Winston, who blogs at The Hive. Mark's story takes place in a scientific setting, but I think you'll agree that the underlying message applies to all sorts of situations in life. Everything I Know I Learned From Hermit Crabs |
 Ready with a camera set-up (Photo by Sally Kane) |  Another eclipse-watching contraption (Photo by Sally Kane) |
Sally checks the sky (Photo by Mark Kane) Noon. I joined Mark on our shady, makeshift ground cover. We ate a snack and gulped down water. I tested out my safety glasses. The sun was a complete, round, orange ball. I ducked back in the shade. Twelve fifteen. A tiny Pac-Man bite showed in the top right section of the sphere. Someone shouted, "It’s starting!" Over the next half hour, we kept checking. The Pac-Man effect increased and the air began cooling, even though the sun cast shadows. By twelve-forty or so, standing in the sun no longer felt intolerable.
The Pac-Man phase (stock image)
Ready for the show (Photo by Sally Kane) By one p.m., the sun appeared as a slivered, orange crescent. One-fifteen. Like sentries on cue, several hundred people wrapped their eyes in safety glasses, bent their heads back, and stared skyward.
Slowly, the orange crescent grew into a tiny chunk, almost disappearing into total black. Just seconds before the moon totally covered the sun, creating a black orb encircled by a ghostly white ring, a brilliant, diamond-like starburst of light shot out the top right section of the sphere. The moon slid into place. A magnificent ring of rays, sparkling like white flames, encircled the black orb. The corona!
Phases of the eclipse (stock image)
"Ooh, look at that," I gasped. The crowd erupted with simultaneous clapping, cheers and whoops. I pulled off my safety glasses. We had two and a half minutes to look without them.
The light had muted to a dusky glow. "Look at the sunset all around us," Mark shouted. I turned, doing a 360. The entire horizon glowed in peach and mauve tones, outlining puffy cloud shapes. Streetlights blinked on in the distance. The air had cooled and birds stopped chirping. An eerie calm descended. Overhead, a few stars and a planet twinkled. I tilted my head back to look at the flaming white corona with my naked eyes. In that moment, all time and activity around me seemed suspended in total stillness and awe.
Mid-day sunset (Photo by Sally Kane)
Streetlights winking on in the momentary darkness (Photo by Sally Kane)
Then, slowly the diamond flashed on the left side of the black orb, and I secured my safety glasses. As the moon and sun moved away from each other, the white corona disappeared and a chunk of orange reappeared in reverse. First a sliver, then a slim crescent. Here and there, a bird chirped, like it was morning. The welcome coolness remained for a little while longer.
Later, heading north out of Kentucky, battling bumper-to-bumper traffic for five hours, with the sun radiating our heads through the car roof, despite air conditioning and guzzling mega cups of water, I barely had a brain to process this pilgrimage. Was the event sacred? Did a message lie in this event and journey?
Now, back home in Michigan, I have had time to reflect, time to ponder, and time to listen to others' stories about their experiences. I have concluded that this Total Eclipse Phenomenon could be viewed as bearing an opportunity.
The eclipse brought people together. Whether viewed as a partial or total eclipse, people gathered in small and large groups to experience it. People set aside their differences, their divisiveness, to unify in enjoyment and appreciation of this event. It offered community building and celebration. It offered opportunity for research and deeper understanding of the natural world. Most important, it offered a magnified sense of wonder about our natural world. It showed us the vital interconnections between all living things. Collectively, these dynamics made this event greater than sacred and needed medicine for our time as a nation.
With its towering forests, refreshing rivers and glittering lakes, the part of Michigan where we live might be the last place you'd expect to find patches of prairie. But find them you will, if you know where to look.
Newaygo Prairie
Setting out on our walk One fine swath, only a 15-minute drive from our house, is the Michigan Nature Association's Newaygo Prairie Nature Sanctuary. I visited the site last Saturday with a group from the River City Wild Ones native plant organization. Led by Michigan Nature Association regional stewardship organizer John Bagley, we poked around the prairie for a couple of hours, admiring such late-summer bloomers as rough blazing star (Liatris aspera), gray goldenrod (Solidago nemoralis), fern-leaf false foxglove (Aureolaria pedicularia), prairie sunflower (Helianthus petiolaris) and cylindrical blazing star (Liatris cylindracea).
 Rough blazing star |  Prairie sunflower  Gray goldenrod |
A patch of cylindrical blazing star
High overhead, nighthawks circled. Lovely to watch, but we also had to keep an eye on the ground to look out for prickly pear cactus (yes, cactus in Michigan!) and northern dewberry, also known as untie-your-shoe berry, for its habit of tangling around walkers' feet.
Watch your step!
Points of interest (ouch!)
John told us that the Michigan Nature Association purchased the 110-acre sanctuary in 1969. Prairies are considered endangered habitats in Michigan because so much open acreage was converted to farmland in the 19th and 20th centuries. But Newaygo County's hilly topography and sandy soils thwarted agriculture in some areas. Prescribed burns and removal of invasive plants, such as the noxious spotted knapweed, have helped keep the sanctuary in something close to its original state.
John shares his knowledge of Newaygo Prairie
"There's no place else in Michigan where you can find this quality of prairie," John said. "What makes it different is the diversity of plants—not only grasses but also forbs." (Forbs are herbaceous flowering plants that are not grasses.)
Enjoying the prairie's beauty and diversity
Like all MNA sanctuaries, Newaygo Prairie depends heavily on volunteer help. John is "exceptionally good at involving local people in local sanctuaries," said Patricia Pennell, a founding member of River City Wild Ones and steward of another MNA sanctuary. Conservation and community: a winning combination, if you ask me.
Patricia Pennell praises John's ability to involve local people in sanctuary stewardship
Lichens and associated plants found on the prairie walk A few more words about MNA before we venture any farther on our prairie ramble. Founded sixty-five years ago, the nonprofit organization was originally a bird-study group. But as environmental issues became a pressing concern throughout the state, MNA segued into education, converting a house trailer into a nature museum and towing it around to schools.
Newaygo Prairie is one of more than 170 Michigan Nature Association sanctuaries Before long, members realized they needed to do more, and the group began purchasing sensitive property to set aside as sanctuaries. Today, the organization maintains more than 170 sanctuaries throughout the state.
Fern-leaf false foxglove Newaygo Prairie—one of MNA's oldest sanctuaries—harbors more than a hundred plant species, as well as birds, insects and other animals that depend on those plants for food and shelter. On our walk, I saw several kinds of plants I'd not seen elsewhere, and I picked up some fascinating info-bits to stash in my natural history memory bank.
For example:
- Fern-leaf false foxglove, a bushy plant with bell-like, yellow flowers that are popular with pollinators, is semi-parasitic and needs oak trees to survive.
- Porcupine grass has a nifty way of getting its seeds into the ground. The long, bristle-like awn coils and uncoils in response to changes in moisture, drilling the seed into the ground.
- The small, white flowers of sweet everlasting (Pseudognaphalium obtusifolium), smell like maple syrup when crushed. Sweeeet, indeed!
Ranger Steve One highlight of the morning's walk was meeting "Ranger Steve" Mueller. Steve's business card describes him as "Naturalist – Photographer – Butterfly Chaser," and while that probably doesn't cover it all, it's a fair sum-up for a guy who spearheads annual butterfly counts, writes a nature column for local newspapers, operates his own nature sanctuary, and seems to know a heck of a lot about all manner of flora and fauna. I hope to visit Steve's sanctuary near Cedar Springs sometime soon. Stay tuned for that excursion.
Ranger Steve shows off a dragonfly
A beauty!
Is there a little-known nature preserve or wildlife sanctuary near you? What makes it special?
Written from the heart,
from the heart of the woods
from the heart of the woods
Read the introduction to HeartWood here.
Coming Soon!
Watch for Nan's memoir, coming October 22, 2019, from Behler Publications
Author
Nan Sanders Pokerwinski, a former journalist, writes memoir and personal essays, makes collages and likes to play outside. She lives in West Michigan with her husband, Ray.
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