In the Bleak Midwinter

In the Bleak Midwinter

I love the holiday season, but this year it has thrown some 

of my better habits off-course. There was a period of denial 

after Thanksgiving, then the cold weather arrived, now 

Christmas is imminent.

I would like to blame my not getting out much with my camera 

recently on all of the holiday build-up, and I guess there is a 

grain of truth in that. By last Thursday, however, I started to feel 

cranky, and realized the reason was that I desperately needed to 

get back outdoors.

The next morning I headed to work early, but with my camera on 

the passenger seat. I took a detour toward the upper Kinnickinnic 

River. The temperature was in the very cold range. I paused for a 

while at the Quarry Road crossing and found this ethereal moment 

unfolding.

~ Hal

Confluence

Confluence

This time of year, I always hear them before I see them. In the 

late afternoon when I'm working in the yard I hear their unmistakable 

honking. I look up at my patch of sky, hoping their flight path will 

bring them low over our house. Every now and then it does.

Lately I've been getting reacquainted with Kinnickinnic State Park. 

When we first moved to River Falls I used to go there to watch the 

sunrise before my morning commute. A couple of days ago I had 

some time after work and decided to pay a visit.

I got to the park after the sun had set. The river (which only a few 

months ago was crawling with boats) was perfectly still. As I walked 

the shoreline where the Kinnickinnic and St. Croix meet, I heard 

these geese behind me. I managed to turn around just in time to witness 

their formation flying downstream over the St. Croix River valley.

~ Hal

November

November

I've lived in the upper midwest now for 18 years and I can honestly 

say that I am only beginning to learn the meaning of November 

around here. I got an inkling a while back, when Maggie explained 

to me that brown is not just brown. Each variety of grass transforms 

with its own signature hue. When the grey skies and rain come, the 

grasses begin to glow.

The bright leaves of autumn have dropped; only a few varieties of 

oak are left with color. Their rusty brown leaves had the patience to 

hold out for a more subtle moment to sing. The sun, low on the 

horizon, knits the harvest and hills together.

~ Hal

Skylight

Skylight

This past week I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic after 

all of the rain and low clouds we've been getting. The dark, 

damp, early mornings with no starlight or moonlight whatsoever 

are difficult to wake up to.

On Saturday a fresh wind blew in and the sky came alive. While 

running errands just past the edge of town, I kept my eye on these 

open holes in the clouds. When they drifted overhead, a large 

patch of sun would follow. I chased one down and pulled the car 

over to catch this moment.

~ Hal

Back Home

Back Home

Work took me up to Duluth for a couple of days this week, and 

the feeling of "winter coming in" was pervasive. On Thursday 

afternoon, a group of us ran in a 5k race along the boardwalk. 

Running into a very stiff Lake Superior headwind, we watched 

the waves smash against the rocky shore, and dodged the spray 

as best we could.

When I got back home, 40 degrees and the promise of a little sun 

seemed like perfect weather. After working in the yard most of 

Saturday, my evening run was very mellow. I brought my camera 

along and stopped to check out this crab apple tree for a few minutes.

~ Hal

Autumn Breezes

Autumn Breezes

Things dried up nicely this weekend, it was a good time to 

get fall chores done. With the sun out, the trees really started 

to hit their peak.

On Sunday my dog Stella and I went walking in the woods 

again. The thing I noticed most was the sound of the wind in 

the tree-tops. The breezes were pretty strong and the leaf 

action up high made a wonderful sound.

I remembered this spot on the hill where the tallest aspens grow. 

I was thinking it would be cool to look up at them and listen for 

a few minutes from the relative calm of the forest floor. Once I 

got there, this was the view that caught my eye.

~ Hal

Fall

Fall

This weekend we were back up north, helping Maggie's folks close 

up the cabin for winter.

Sitting at the breakfast table and looking out the window toward the 

lake, we were reminded that "fall" is a verb. The trees were making 

quick business of shedding their leaves - whole stems of black ash 

were coming down in clumps.

The maples at least had the decency to let go of their leaves one at a 

time (albeit in rapid succession). They flitted in circles, catching an 

occasional updraft, but never really questioning their final resting place.

~ Hal