Beavers On the Ice Age Trail

I find it almost impossible to venture into the backwoods around here without finding something that leaves me in wonder. Admittedly, I am easily entertained. I love the sound a puffball mushroom makes when it hits the back leg of my brother Crow. I gives a hollow pop and then burst and covers his limb with thousands of black spores. The round mushrooms are appropriately light so they won't "really" hurt yet firm, making an easy to launch missile.

Today's point of wonder was the beaver. We initially dropped into Sieverson Lake to the north of here first noting how low the water had become, probably from the five years of light drought, even though this year it is rumored that we are nearly 10 inches low in rain fall. That in itself was a touch unnerving with all the talk of climate change going around. Not a good pattern. On the lakes edge we found that the industrious beavers had cut some impressive trenches up the shore line toward the old waters edge where the trees were. The trenches were a couple of feet deep. Where they ended there was a well worn path heading toward the timber on the side of the rather steep incline of the kettle moraine lake.

On leaving the lake, we walked back up the trail which was also the path of the beaver. Almost one hundred yards from the waters edge we found the reason the beaver's forest venture. Among all the Maples, beeches, and oaks there were a few cottonwoods. The beavers apparently only like the poplar species. With the lake being so low there was nothing growing on waters edge and they had no choice but commit to the steep climb, which for a fatty, rather cumbersome beaver must have required pitons and ropes not to mention the extended exposure to coyotes. No doubt this was quit an effort.

We also noted that they would always cut the trees on the west side, so apparently the west wind would do the final work on the trees. All and all, it seemed a hard living, one that may have just been made harder by the changing climate. How long can they continue to haul cottonwood branches 100 yards down a steep incline? A thing of wonder.

Revolution Watch

Now and then I run across graphs and printed material that pretain to my Revolution Watch. Some are outright shockers. This one is of oil production in the super large Cantarell oil field in Mexico. As most folks know Mexico was our second largest supplier of crude oil up until a few years ago, with Canada being #1. This particular field in Mexico was a powerhouse but it has been declining at double digit rates of late. Mexico has already told the USA that in 5 years or less it will not be able to provide us with ANY oil. They are using more of their own and the wells are playing out. http://www.biodiversecity.com/Cantarell-decline0.png

This compounds issues for them as well as their revenues for oil, one of their biggest sources, will also decline. In addition, monies being send south by the 20 or so milllion nationals living here has also declined. Tourism is down but drug sales have held but the Thunderdome activity on the border is growing (more died in one year there than Americans have been killed in the total Iraq war!).

Problem for us being we will have less access to oil and Mexico may become unstable (some states appear to have been seen as failed states) which may increase the human migration activities.

Wisconsin Backwater

Like two juveniles with time on our hands, Dennis and I decided we had to go fishing. Even more like two grinning, mud stained kids we headed down a small, rather unknown creek that emptied into the Wisconsin River 5 miles above the laid-back, quiet community referred to as The Dells. We had spotted the stream on a map and double checked it out on Goggle Earth to see if we could see big Bass laying in there like so much cord wood. While the true fish count could not be established, the spot looked untouched, or at least inaccessible to anyone but overly ambitious youngsters or delusional adults.

Qualified, we departed in the canoe only to find that 2 inches of water will not float a boat. Still undeterred, we mounted our attack that involved trudging the bent canoe over inappropriately fallen logs, nettle covered shoreline and algae infested swamps. After the first fifty yards it became obvious we were going were few had gone and as a result the waiting fish would be ours in great numbers. Around the first hidden bend some three dozen Wood ducks scattered from their hidden dinner tables, some looking back at us as if we were a couple of Australiopithecenes, or maybe the real Piltdown men, coming to hunt them with throwing nets and bola-bolas. In looking at each other we may have noticed the similarities ourselves as the swamp and clinging vegetation was beginning to take a heavy toll on our normally well kept appearance.

As we carefully slid into the hidden pond we had seen in the satellite photo, more ducks broke from the impressive stands of wild rice. A pair of Sandhills Cranes yacked at us for our intrusion into their comfortable grazing ground. The great body of water in which we had hoped to lure massive bass appeared as a shallow weed-filled sea almost impenetrable to normal fishers. But like anyone inflicted with terminal fish fever, we stepped up to the plate willing to get hit by the first fast ball simply to get to first base just moments later.


The strained journey across the forbodding pond reminded Dennis of the African Queen episode where Bogart pushed the ratty old boat, the Queen, through the leach filled, reeking, swamp all for the glory and the admiration of Hepburn. He noted, of course, my failure to measure up to the beautiful distraught damsel. He was without cause other than the distant hope, a glimmer of hope that just maybe he would catch one fish. He cared not one lick for me other than without my help he would never leave this place and he would be nothing more than a headline in the State Journal about some elderly gentleman found half consumed by turtles with bones cleaned up by one of the eagles we had seen giving us the eye.

It was a hard pull and briefly we thought it might actually be possible that we could not go forward and we could not go back. The pond scum had swallowed us, and done it in concert with the massive Snapping Turtles we had been seeing.


Inches at a time we fought our way through to open water knowing there was no return except over land, a land were we could hear the distant sound of banjo music and see toothless, grinning rubes. Desperately and thankfully, we moved into the shallow open stream but no sooner did we pause to collect out composure when out of the aquatic vegitation appeared a giant Snapper whose jaws could crush our old limbs like match sticks. We reeled to the right not wanting to confront the prehistoric monster. He semmed so at home.

Talk about primitive. I mean we were thinking we were primitive,(remember the paleo man thing). The 35 lb turtle had moss and algae covering its back and the looked million years old. After collecting our composer, we stopped and chatted with the turtle, relating our great crossing---for which he appeared to have little interest. He slipped his old nose above the surface possibly to test our human odor. He looked at us knowing full well he had ancestors that looked just like him on this planet before there was a single human. We excepted that and watched him swim off as we stood fishless. (To be edited and continued)

Reflecting on the Arctic #3

The flight over the Brooks range was an event all by itself, particularly when I consider that it was in a 1953 Dehavilland Beaver. The only other small airplane I have ever been in was a Stearman biplane made in the 30s. I had to wear a leather helmet and cool goggles because the two cockpits were open to the wind. It had the exact same engine as the Beaver, a Pratt Whitney 350 super charged radial beauty.


The first day we departed but much to my displeasure the pilot, after an hour out, could not seem to find a slot between the rather foreboding clouds and the imposing Brooks Range that would allow us to slip over the divide into the Canning Basin. I found myself getting a little concerned as he would tip the air craft to the side and then cant his head sideways trying to see through the clouds looking for that one opening. Then it started to snow and about the same time some guy in a grounded plane told him the conditions were getting dicey, oh, he said icy as well. At the last moment he feathered the wing tabs with primitive dials above the windshield, pushed the old craft up against the steep slope to our right and then banked the plane hard to turn around in the canyon that I though it was no more than a half mile wide.



We obviously had to head back but the following morning the skies opened up and it was off to the mountains again but this time the Gods gave us a beautiful trough right over the big hills. Below us we could see the Dall Sheep scratching out a living mining for a very meager few blades of grass. The mountains stretched for miles in every direction, big peaks, snow and almost no humans. But here and there in some of the distant valleys we could see the camps of hunters and maybe a sign of some human activity, but damn little.

The Dehavilland is rather an incredible craft and while in some ways it is primitive compared to a 747, it does feel very strong. The wings never flap in the wind like the big jets. It is solid, light and gives off the aura of genuine durability. No plastic stuff. I could open the window with a little slide much like is found on a '53 VW bug. If one looks close at the above picture you can see the prop and if you listen closely you can hear the radial engine hammering away. Not a real quiet engine, I must say.


It was all pure pleasure, a credit to man's ingenuity and not something that we can all understand. It was a genuine machine that imitated a bird. We did see a flock of geese just as we passed over the range. The were above us and absolutely thousands of feet in the air heading south. Flight, what an adventure. (To be edited)

Revoluton Watch

The other day Time Magazine had the included cover. What caught my eye was the title that said the jobs may never come back. I see this as a direct indication that the standard of living will be dropping as real jobs just go away never to return. Everybody will be in the service industry. Rather a situation were one individual will service another you in turn is serving another. No manufacturing of any real volume. Life changes. Revolution?

Another more frightening event was the march in Washington of all the white middle aged folks who feel they are being left out. They may be. People on the lower socio-economic end are going to feel the pain first. It is the same group that Hitler was able to rev up in the '30s. They get real angry and have to blame someone for there American dream looking like a nightmare--at least according to Beck. Obviously, most are not even slightly aware that a more socialized system might benefit them. They don't want the government to provide health care even though they can not afford the private offering. This is a group to watch. They could turn into brick throwers and shooters real easy with the cryptofascist on the radio driving them onward.

Garden Entertainment

I really love to garden. What could be more enjoyable than producing a good part of ones food, right here next to the house. Tons of tomatoes, peppers of interesting temperament, corn of many colors and potatoes in significant tonnage. For the most part it is a quiet reward, a feeling of knowing that we just might be able to feed ourselves, maybe not much beyond the level of a starving Irishman of 1830 but still the rutabagas and other root crops could carry us if the blight and the English do not interfere---or Glen Beck and the Brown Shirts.

We have been rewarded this year with a proud garden and the freezer full of venison, caribou, local fish and chickens. It is like our lives are complete and we are sustainable.

But the garden has other benefits that sometimes go unnoticed. While the quiet rewards are comforting, we need entertainment if not intellectual stimulus, an up-lifting experience to move us to new levels of life's pleasure. That is where unusual, dynamic produce comes in.

I know many are saying, "My God, they found a Jesus potato!" Yes, that would be a potato of a life time and a divine inspiration. But no, we found a divine moose potato. Anyone can plainly see this is some sort of profound representation that will bring many hours of pleasure and possibly millions on Ebay. I know it has a bit of a goiter, but hey.

It doesn't end there. It seems the garden holds other objects of entertainment. Yes, it takes a little imagination and a mind that has to much time on its neurons. Check out this Tomato. Believe me there are still more but my commitment to family values prohibits me from showing those devilish items (or the sexy ones) . Oh, I love the garden.

Reflecting on the Arctic #2

When we first arrived on the gravel bar on the Canning River I found myself just standing around rather just staring off in space. I would like to think it was not a 10 foot stare in a 20 foot room but it was a touch difficult to grasp the enormity of the place. To the south the massive Brooks Range blocked our return and to the north the river and coastal plain disappeared over the horizon. I just stared, hands held together at my waist much like I would look at a Beirstadt painting----a simple quiet respect of being in a place so few have ever seen and a place left intact.

We decided to camp at the Plunge Creek drop-off location for the night, if there was to be a night, which from a mid western point of view, it turned out there was not. In late August the sun may set but the light lingers and all is still visible. What that means is I had more time to stare.

As Craig rinsed a few dishes in the river water, my wandering eye caught the movement of a sauntering bear 125 yards off, and across the river. It was moving quickly upstream and closer to Craig.

One of the lessons we had been drilled in, was to never yell "BEAR" when there was indeed no bear. No jokes. However, being there was a bear, a grizzly at that, I had the privilege of announcing the bruin's arrival. As is the protocal, one individual is to grab the government gun and at least be prepared. Both Ian and Tara have been trained by the government to deal with poorly behaving bears. They are designated gun bearers--if you will. Others grabbed the hunting rifles and quietly watched as the bear moved up the opposing river bank looking for squirrels. I briefly recalled being called a "squirrel" in my youth.

The reason for the concern is not that some gun happy bureaucrat thinks we should be armed but because there have been a few individuals drop into the food chain in the last couple of years. Every measure is taken to avoid contact but here and there hooligan, or stressed out bears, show up and don't choose to flee. Yes, there are cracker rounds fired, maybe a rubber round but if there is an all out attack, then humans are allowed self defense. Tara also had a bear tag.

This bear, like all the ones we saw, all nine or so, sauntered around looking for food and the minute he realized he was in the company of humans ran off in haste. "Good bear" someone said, real good bear. At this stage of my life I still do not want to be in the food chain. Maybe later.

Revoluton Watch

I mentioned in my opening page that intended in watching how the Revolution was going. The last cover of Foreign Policy magazine had the pictured cover. Interesting becaused here is a conservative magazine (note the Wolfowitz article) simply stating oil production will declline. Notably, declining energy is thought to be one of the main reasons we must have a Sustainable Revolution. To this day, few individuals are coming to grips with this condition but clearly the energy situation is one of the mainstays for the change. Coming to grips with this is a good thing, a positive step.

The same magazine has an article stating there are no alternatives that can replace good old oil---not a positive development.

Reflecting on the Arctic

A couple of weeks ago I returned from the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska and couldn't help but think I had a writing opportunity. It was well into the fall up there and the country that is frequently referred to as a "wasteland" was covered with color and roaming wildlife. The photo attached was taken at Plunge Creek on the edge of the north slope of the Brooks Range. Ian, our son, is taking in the view looking south up the Canning River. This is the point where we landed in the Beaver and would embark on a journey down the river in pursuit of wild fish and caribou.

I recall spending many hours just looking at the expansive setting, imagining I was standing on the banks of the Missouri River in 1820. There is literally no signs of humans in the Refuge. Every effort has been made to retain the wildness that can literally not be found anywhere else. Ian reminded me on numerous occasions that most of the animals there probably have never seen humans. He thought maybe 20 people a year float the Canning. We landed on a gravel bar of the Canning River on a spot that on approach did not really look like it was made for an airplane of any ilk. We were left to our own devices for a period of 10 days.

One of the interesting aspects of this trip is that it is so far away from any real human outpost. What I mean is, in order to get here we had to drive 230 miles or so up the haul road, also called the Dalton highway, which is the road to the Prudhoe Bay oil fields, to a little settlement called Coldfoot. From there we took the Beaver to The Canning River, another 230 miles or so. Now mind you, this is the same distance as it is from my home in Amherst Wisconsin to Omaha Nebraska. The haul road was constructed entirely to serve the oil fields and runs parallel to the pipeline. What occurred to me is that once the oil field plays out (It started at 2 million barrels a day and is now running about 600,000/bl/d) there will be no reason for the haul road and it will close. At that point getting to the Canning will be one very big ordeal. The visitation to the Refuge will radically diminish. I felt lucky to be there. The opportunity will not be a forever thing for the average person. (To be edited and continued)