Adeventure #5: Part 2 Camping in Chippewa

Chippewa National Forest covers over 600,000 acres of land and water.  The United States has 154 National Forests covering 188,336,179 acres of our country.  If anything makes America a great country, it is this.


It’s a bit of a haul to get up north.  I live in Minneapolis and the campground was four hours away.  Well, it was supposed to be anyhow.  Readers who are not from Minnesota need to understand there is this Great Human Migration that happens here on weekends in the summer, and especially on holidays.  It is called “Goin’ up North”.  Goin’ up North means that every single Minnesotan from the southern and central parts of the state are literally going up north, all at the same time on a Friday.  Four hours? HAH!

(this is an internet stock photo-I did not take this pic, but this is what the GHM looks like)

So not only was I surrounded in traffic full of vehicles hauling boats, four wheelers, canoes, kayaks, campers and water ski’s, but there were also large areas of construction that slowed me down to snail speed. 

I think I would’ve really enjoyed the drive if I hadn’t been staring at the ass of a giant boat for two hours…

So.  Stupid me should’ve left at three in the morning, and I did not. 

Five and a half hours (or was it six?) later I finally pulled into the campground. After a long, beautiful winding dirt road drive into Chippewa Forest I finally came up on the campsite.  The old pines towered and the emerald maples glittered in the setting sun.  I set up my tent (my brand new one!), and I set up my sleeping bag (also new!).  I set my can of sour cream and onion Pringles next to my pillow for later, and I was ready to start the party.

Little did I know the party was going to be: fishing on a boat at night.  As soon as I was set up Maddy asks, “You ready to go?”  And I said, “Uh, go where?”  She replied, “We’re going out on the boat.  We’re fishing tonight.”

I had no idea that was the plan!  How exciting!  How do you fish at night, I wondered?  And was I going to freeze my ass off?  The answer to the latter is yes.  Yes, I was going to freeze my ass off. 

I wasn’t completely stupid, I DID pack warm clothes.  I know how cold it gets at night when you go camping in a northern state.  I even had two jackets in my car too.  But did I bring one of those jackets on the boat?  No.  Why?  Because I was stupid.  I thought my sweatshirt layer would be enough. 

Anyway. 

Now if you’ve read all of my previous posts you’ll remember, Reader that one of my fishing goals is to catch a walleye.  I’ve caught my Northern, but I’ve never been walleye fishing before so I have had no idea how to go about it. 

This is my 18" Northern...before I knew how to hold bigger fish properly...

Dan (senior), Wendy, Maddy, Dan (jr) and the whole gang promised me I would for sure catch my first walleye on this camping trip.  I was super stoked. 

So Maddy and I were appointed to Justin’s boat as the rest of the crew was already out on the lake in their boats.  I should explain this, and name names, so you all know what the hell is going on and can picture this properly: ah hem. So there were three boats.  1) Dan (everyone affectionately calls him Senior) and Wendy’s boat.  2) Brandon’s boat accompanied by Brandon himself, Dan (jr) and Josh.  3) Justin’s boat: Justin, Maddy and me.  So. Now that you have that in order…

Justin, the captain of our ship, took us out onto Lake Winnie (Winniebigoshish) to a low depth sweet spot where the rest of the crew was fishing. 

So how do you fish at night?  With bobbers that light up.  It was one of the prettiest sites I’ve ever seen.  The sun set in fiery golden hues and the water darkened except for the bobbing glowing lanterns on the waves.  It was magical for me. 

Very much regret not getting a picture of glowing bobbers...You'll just have to use your imagination...

I quite unfortunately did not catch my first walleye that night, but I had a wonderful time none the less of course.  The night got cold.  Wendy very kindly gave me a jacket from her boat which saved me from chatting my teeth right out of my skull. We packed up the gear and headed back to shore. 

This I will say (admit rather) that I never really realized how much responsibility there is in being a captain of a boat. 

First, you can’t drink.  You’re sober cabbing it the whole time.  And while the rest of your crew is sipping whisky and balling it like rock stars, that’s got to be a little hard not to join in…

Second, you obviously have to know HOW to drive the damn thing.  Hence having a license. 

Besides just steering it and controlling the speed you need to know other things too.  You need to know how to use a depth finder, how to drift in windy conditions, navigate it across a plain of water where there are obviously no roads...  ‘Drive it back to shore in the dark without getting lost for example.  Or, how to bail out water in case it capsizes is another good one. (Ah hem…) 

There’s a lot to boats that I did not know, and this trip taught me a lot.  And I have a whole new respect for boat owners.  I did not grow up with boats.  My dad would rent a motorized row boat on our vacations, and there was the one summer we borrowed a fishing boat from a family friend.  But that was it. 

So, Justin drove us back to shore in the dark and we headed back to a nice warm campfire.  I was hungry so I had some of Wendy’s leftover kabobs.  They were fantastic and tasted like home.  Back in New York we have our own sort of “kabobs” called “spiedies” (pronounced “spee-dees).  Spiedies are hunks of beef, chicken, sausage or lamb marinated in a spiedie sauce for twenty four hours or longer, speared on kabob sticks and barbequed with sweet peppers and onions. 

You can eat it like a kabob or put the meat and veggies on a long roll for a sandwich.  Add some melted provolone and you've entered sandwich heaven.

The spiedie sandwich is a staple at the New York State Fair and the smell of marinated meat and pepper and onions takes me back there every time I smell it cooking.  Or this time, taste it. 

I don’t remember staying up that late Friday night.  I had a few drinks by the fire and that’s….honestly all I remember.  I know I slept well though.  My new sleeping bag and new tent were quite cozy and perfect. 

I woke to the early sounds of forest life.... 

You would think this is a nice thing, but truth be told I’m quite irritable when awoken by angry birds and even angrier squirrels.  Whatever the hell they’re all fighting over between 5am and 7am is a mystery to me, but it is sometimes so annoying that it’ll put me into a right rage.  The worst is that one asshole in the tree branch right above your tent that repeats the same exact single note every two seconds for thirty minutes straight. “RAWK” two seconds later: “RAWK” two seconds later: “RAWK”.  And then there will be a five second delay and you think he finally shut the hell up and you start to relax and doze off again, and then: “RAWK”.  It’s maddening.  They eventually calm down and the sounds become more peaceful, and sometimes I manage to fall back to a sort of sleep.  So.  I don’t get much sleep camping… As much as I love it, this is the only thing I have to whine about it. Maybe it’s because of my sensory sensitivity, I have no idea.  I have no idea if anybody else hates the squawking assholes in the morning or not, but darn it all I do.

So Saturday was a big day.  I have a lot to share, and a million pictures to go with my stories.  So stay tuned for part 3! 

Adventure #5: Part 1 Camping in Chippewa

When we were kids my brothers and I used to attempt to camp out in the backyard during the summer.  I say “attempt” because more often than not we either got scared by the lumber yard noises, the dark spooky-at-night trees that lined the boundary line between the neighborhood and the lumber yard, or something as stupid as ghosts coming to get us. 
Or we got cold.  And dreamed about our warm beds just inside the house…

We did manage to stay a few nights all the way through morning, though.  Either way, we would set up the tent with our sleeping bags at sundown.  It became tradition to buy cans of sour cream and onion Pringles and bags of Doritos with our allowances and enjoye the rare, special occasion that we were allowed to have soda and chips at bedtime.  We packed board games and cards and set them in their proper corner of the tent for later.  We brought out the flashlights and we were ready to have our camping adventure.  I’ll never forget the smell of the tent canvas, the feel of the hard ground and the shadows from the flashlights.  Nothing says childhood more than camping.  Any child who didn’t grow up camping has my complete and utter sympathy.  I don’t care if camping is your thing or not, if you never experienced sleeping outside at least once as a kid you were deprived.

Now, we didn’t just camp in my backyard.  If you’ve read some of my other posts you’ll know that I grew up camping with my family.  We had an annual tradition of camping with a few other families we were close with from church. 

I'm the curly haired one sitting next to my best friend, Tiff (barrettes in her hair)

When I was really little we camped with all the families every year at Watkins Glen State Park.  This magical place filled with gorges and waterfalls is only a few miles away from one of my childhood friends in whom I am still friends with, and a few years ago when I was there for a visit we went and trekked the trails.   For those of you who have never been to New York and first think of New York City when the state is mentioned to you, you may not know how beautiful and wild New York is. 

I hadn’t seen this place since I was a child and the ghosts of the memories haunted me when I saw the swimming hole we used to catch minnows in.  It’s funny how that is.

As I got older we camped with our church friends at a few different places.  My favorite place, that I can’t remember the name of, was where I caught my first rainbow trout.  I think I was nine or ten years old.  It was a whopping 11 inches.  Or at least I think… There was some debate between me and my brother.  I was certain Dad measured it at 11, but my brother insisted it was 10.  Either way, it was a baby trout and I loved it to death.  Well, literally.  We put it in a bucket to eat later, but when a raging storm came that night we had to pack up and head home… leaving my dead trout behind. 

There was a contra dancing team that came to the campground that night too, and we square danced with everyone in one of the pavilions.  I remember it being one of the most enjoyable nights of my childhood.  I don’t care what you think of square dancing, it is bleeping awesome.  And if I ever get married, or pretend to get married and throw a party, we’re doin’ square dancin’. 

This is a stock photo. I do not know these people. But they look like they're having as much fun as I did.

We not only camped with church families, but we also went on a lot of trips as a family.  We camped near Niagra Falls when I was super little, but I only remember bits and pieces of it.  I remember we had to borrow a My Little Pony sleeping bag for me from a friend and we slept in a rented camper.  I remember we found bits of Bible scripture in the campfire: someone before us burned a Bible.  I remember only a little of Darien Lake, the big amusement park in upstate that we went to on this camping trip.  This is me and my two older brothers at Darien. 

And I barely remember the falls…  I never saw Niagra Falls again.  The only thing I remember is seeing the spot they filmed Superman saving that stupid kid falling off the rail. 

The real Superman: Christopher Reeves. 

The most memorable camping trip I ever had was up on the Canadian border.  We camped in Wellesley Island State Park in The Thousand Islands.  If you’re not familiar with The Thousand Islands, it’s an area on the border of Ontario and New York where over eighteen hundred islands fill the St. Lawrence River and part of the northeast of Lake Ontario.   It’s a spectacular place filled with ancient history where the evidence of human life goes back seven thousand years. 

Part of its magic is the historical sites.  We visited one of the castles in the islands, Boldt Castle on Heart Island.  This mansion was made from the passion of a man (George C. Boldt) who loved his wife so much he decided to build a castle for her. Quite tragically she died before it was done being built. http://www.boldtcastle.com/visitorinfo/ 

I remember walking through it and not understanding why it was so special.  Like I said it wasn’t completed so it was very white and empty inside.  The only thing I found amusing about it was pointing out all the hidden hearts in the stone and stairwells.  He filled the mansion with hearts.  He either loved his wife into obsession, or was trying to make up for a very large mistake… Either way, it’s a really cool story.  And I wish I had appreciated walking through it a little more. 

So you’re probably wondering, “Thousand Islands?  Like the dressing?”  Yeah. Like the dressing.  The dressing is named after the place indeed. You can thank Sophie LaLonde for Thousand Island salad dressing.  http://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2016/09/05/491992134/thousand-islands-two-tales-who-really-invented-that-dressing

This trip was memorable for a lot of reasons.  Not only because of the nature walks and Boldt Castle and the history and the fishing, but to start off my adventure I cracked my tailbone for the first time (I say first because I later got into horses...). I cracked it within ten minutes of getting to the campsite.  It had been raining and the rocks by the water were extremely slippery.  My mother warned us. 

And I tried to be careful, but I stepped on one giant, soft slab of a boulder and… down I came.  The pain I felt scared the crap out of me.  It knocked the wind clean out of me.  I’ll never forget how much it hurt and I’ll never forget how much pain I was in the entire camping trip.  I remember playing ping pong with my little brother in the campground game barn and bending over to pick up the ping pong ball on the floor and wanting to scream in agony. 

So. Besides that.

Fishing was great.  I never caught anything big.  But I caught at least a hundred pan fish, no exaggeration.  Every time I dropped a line I was pulling something in.  And they were decent sized.  Ten inch perch, not bad.  Um...Eight inch... Seven? Still. 

My dad caught a decent sized largemouth that we thought was the coolest thing on the whole planet.  It was a good time.

My pants are rockin'

Something we thought was very exotic about the place was the black squirrel.  We had never seen black squirrels and they were everywhere.  And they got real close to you, naturally, begging for food…  There is a picture in existence somewhere of me sitting in my way rad child lawn chair with a black squirrel almost right at my feet.  I don’t know where that picture is so here’s one of me in that  same chair sitting like a thug next to my little brother.  You’re welcome.

That's my Thousand Island souvenir T-shirt that I practically wore every single day of my childhood career. 

The last time we camped as a family I think I was twelve.  A few years later we moved and never camped again. 

I camped a few times in my adult life.  My brother and I camped for a night in Pennsylvania to see a Dave Matthews concert.  I went camping with my friend Barb and her family a few years ago.  That was the first time I had gone fishing since I lived in Pennsylvania.  And it was the first time I had caught a fish since I lived in New York.  And they happened to be a couple of ten to twelve inch trout. 

Can you tell I'm excited?

We were in Lanesboro, Minnesota. It’s a gorgeous part of the state if you ever get to go, and they have a fabulous little town with cute shops and things to do.  They even have a telephone booth.  Just like the one Superman changes in.

I also went camping with my dear friend Emily a few years ago.  It was just her and I, tenting it pretty rustic.  We had water from a pump at our site, but that was about the only luxury.  We cooked all of our meals over our campfire and even though it was a ton of work, the food was amazing. 

We used leftover bacon to make BLT’s for breakfast and it was literally the best breakfast I’ve ever had. 

You may notice this is NOT BLTs, but our dinner the night before...but it captures how we feasted

We also walked some beautiful trails.  Got lost.  But found our way back before it got dark. 

                                                                     I love camping.

Age 33

Age 8

Now in my old blog "Hating Minnesota", Chippewa National Forest was actually on my list of Twelve Places but I never got the chance to camp there.  And thanks to a couple of real fine people I not only got the chance to camp there, but I also got the chance to be filled up with a childhood nostalgia that was pure goodness for my soul.  I got to fish in ways I’ve never fished before, caught fish I’ve never caught before, laugh with friends and sleep in the woods. 

Stay tuned for part two!  My first time fishing at night in a boat….

Fall Downtown

I always smell it coming.  The earth changes in autumn.  It’s not just the smell of the decaying leaves, but the dirt smells like it’s dying too.  The cool winds bring the smell of a melancholy farewell to summer.  It is a season for deep souls to wake up.  It wakes mine up, every year.  

Some people head north to see the fall colors.  But I think my favorite fall colors to see are in the city. I love the gathering leaves on the sidewalks. I love to see the ivy on the old stone buildings turning ruby red.

I love the fall jackets and the city folk who wear them.  I like the colored trees in the parks and in front of the Minnesota Art Institute.

My favorite though, are the fallen leaves on the sidewalks and streets. I love when the early setting sun hits them just right and I love to watch them come to life in a cool wind. 

I love tucking my blowing hair behind my ear as the fallen downtown leaves float around me.
 

Every season has its nostalgia but there’s something about autumn that feels transporting.  Sure snow can remind me of my childhood, and so can watermelon in the summer.  But fall does something very different and more profound.  Every time I rake the leaves for the kiddos I nanny for and smell that magical smell of dead leaves, I feel transported. When I stand out in the autumn air all memories of my life start to feel like strange good dreams, pieces of something that does not exist anymore but somehow stay with me.  

 Fall entombs comfort and gradually releases it bit by bit as the trees die around me, as the air gets colder, as the days lose their length.  I can still smell and taste my mom’s chicken soup and those soft dinner rolls on a school night.  I’d be playing with my best friend Tiffany out in the yard until it got dark, and I could smell it cooking from outside.  Dying leaves, chicken soup, dying earth.  Comfort.  I remember going to a pumpkin patch with Tiffany and her church when we were about eight or nine.  We sang church songs all the way there and all the way back.  The sky was so blue and the pumpkins so orange and I will never forget how in love with the colors I was, how comforting the contrast was, how aesthetically pleasing autumn culture was to my soul.  And then there’s the mystical part of fall, the deep dark melancholy that when it sweeps over me on a cold, overcast windy evening I can feel spirits in the air.  I can see the goodness of my childhood and also feel the bitter grief of losing it.  The trees are black in the darkening gray sky and the grass has lost its luster, all the while the red and yellow leaves on the ground show bright. 

I grew up in the suburbs, a quaint little neighborhood known as Lamont Circle.  The maples in our front yard were for climbing.  Their leaves for building.  We not only built piles to jump in but we also designed leaf mazes, a tradition that began with my older brothers.  We would play cops and robbers through the maze and to this day I can still feel the adrenaline rush of being chased by a “cop”.  We’d play until it got dark and our mothers would call out the windows to beckon us home for dinner. 

When I was still little enough for pretending I used my brothers’ hockey sticks as horses.  My best friend and I would each get one, mount it and ride away to faraway lands that are still very real in my mind.  When I smell the dying leaves and the dying earth, I remember a backyard full of magic and haunting spirits of make-believe. 

I now walk the streets of Minneapolis with the dry leaves beneath my feet signaling my senses and wakening the deepest parts of my person.  I fall into the smells, into the comfort and I fall into my memories and come alive as everything around me is dying beautifully and so colorfully and so aesthetically pleasing.  Home.  Fall is home. 

Adventure #4 Up At The Cabin

When we’re babies our parents celebrate all of our firsts up until we hit eighteen, and after that nobody seems to care anymore what your firsts are.  From the first tooth, first step, first word, first day of school to first kiss, first boyfriend/girlfriend, first dance, first heart break. 

But for some reason the celebration of firsts stops there.  As if life stops at eighteen and you don’t have any more new things to do and accomplish. 

I don’t have any interest in living this way.  My firsts are still happening, and even the simple ones are still just as exciting as taking my first step.  You never stop growing.  You are always young. 

My friend invited me up to her in-laws’ cabin back in June.  I went last year, for the first time, and it was actually the trip that inspired me to do a sequel to my Hating Minnesota blog.  Last year when I rode a four wheeler for the first time I was writing furiously in my head and wished I had actually put those thoughts on paper.  I only remember the fragments of a joke where I talk about my boobs squished up against my friend’s back on the four wheeler and didn’t give a shit because I sure as hell didn’t want to fall backwards to my death….
The joke was better in my head a year ago….
But now that it’s gone, that’s all I got.  So, fast forward to this year when I was invited again, and this time I gathered more stories than just my boobs pushed against my friend’s back so I wouldn’t fall and die. 

Actually?  There is a story from last year I have to use to preface my current adventure…

Now.  I’m not an experienced four wheeler (as I’m sure you have gathered) so I am not comfortable driving one by myself even if I was allowed to.  So Maddy (who I went ice fishing with) was the captain of my four wheeling adventures.  We always drove together.  She would let me drive, but she was behind me to give me warnings of certain paths and tell me where to go. 

When night fell they lit up a bonfire.  Not just any bon fire.  The size of a burning small city bon fire.  The ladies (Maddy and her mother in-law) decided to go night four wheeling.  I was invited, so I hopped on the back with Maddy and we were off. 

Somewhere in the darkness in the middle of the gorgeous, fern floored wood we flew through a mud pit and got stuck.  I started to get nervous as we weren’t able to free ourselves.  Maddy valiantly rocked and rocked the machine, got out into the mud and pushed and shoved and worked her ass off to get it unstuck to no avail.  My nerves were rising not because I was afraid of being stuck in the mud, but because I was afraid of the conflict: bad tempers, getting into trouble…  I felt helpless so I was afraid people would gossip about how I just sat there and didn’t do anything… I was afraid of tension and people turning mean as they got stressed out about the situation.  That, is what I am used to.  I am used to stress turning people ugly and mean.  I never realized how emotionally traumatized I am by it until I meet a situation like this…

Nobody got angry.  Nobody got stressed.  Maddy’s husband came out to our little crisis in the woods, tied the four wheeler to his dirt bike and pulled us out.  And everyone thought it was a good laugh.  Nobody knows how paramount this was for me.  My anxiety vanished, like magic. 

I’m telling you, People, you have no idea how positive energy is a life saver for anxiety victims. 

The only evidence of the stuck-in-the-mud adventure...

So, fast forward again to this year’s cabin adventure….

Maddy and I met like shady business dealers at a familiar grocery store parking lot so I could follow her the rest of the way to the cabin.  The cabin is pretty desolate and can be hard to find.  It’s a fantastic, wonderful get away and I am so grateful that I have been a guest there.

The rest of the gang (Maddy’s in laws, husband, friends) weren’t going to be showing up until later that evening.  So Maddy and I had some nice friend time for a few hours and it was lovely. 

We paddled around the little pond in a canoe for a bit (me, cringing at the dark water and weeds but pushed through it like a champ). 

We went four wheeling for a while but the clouds started to darken.  Maddy drove us home before the downpour and she went full speed.  Again, I hung on for dear life resulting in some very up close and personal time. 

The rain came so we pulled out some cards.  She also pulled out some food.  One of the things she pulled out from the fridge was bear jerky. 

“This is bear?” I said, super excited to try something new.  I love animals.  But I also LOVE meat.  I can’t kill animals, but boy am I glad there’s those who can because I sure love to eat them.  So this was my first time eating bear and… It was bleeping delicious.  A little shout out to Josh who made the jerky: it was FANTASTIC. 

So Maddy and I played cards while the rain came down in the darkening, green woods outside the window.  It was a mild storm so there were lovely soft rumbles of thunder and the occasional flicker of lightning.  Maddy was a good friend and listened to a very long woeful personal story from my romance life.  I got chattier the more I drank my whiskey and coke, so… She was a very good listener.  And I’m always grateful to those who listen to me drunk dump.

As we played cards the topic of ice fishing came up.  We were talking about how fun it was going to be to go out on the ice again.  This past winter was a pretty mild one, which is rare for Minnesota, so the ice wasn’t as good as it normally is.  So I said to Maddy, “I hope this winter is a cold one.”  She looked at me.  I looked at her.  I said, “Did I seriously just say that?”  She laughed and said, “You totally did!  You’re officially a Minnesotan!”

So that happened.  Never in my life did I think those words would come out of my mouth.

Later everyone else arrived after their golf tournament, full of good spirits we shall say.  The rain stopped.  And the party got started!   

After a bonfire, fireworks and a late night feast of elk burgers (another thing I’ve never had before – elk), everyone eventually passed out in the bunks. 

The next morning I was greeted with even more divine food, a full breakfast of biscuits, gravy, farm fresh eggs and farm fresh bacon.  Their hospitality is second to none.  I’m not used to being taken care of like this, let’s just say.  They probably get sick of me making such a big deal about it, but for me it's a big deal. 

The next day was full of more first time things.  Most people take for granted these small things, traditions, you do with your friends and have been doing with your friends your whole life.  I know it was twenty years ago that we moved to Minnesota, but it has taken years to rebuild what I had in New York.  It took the first fifteen years of my life to build what I had in New York so it should be no surprise it took just as long to build that here. 

When I lived in New York?  We had family and friend traditions just like most people who grow up in the same area together do.  We went camping every year with several other families who we were very close with.  We had an annual Christmas Eve party at our house every year with the same people.  

We went fishing as a family and walked the gorges in Ithaca. 








These things you take for granted until they are taken from you.  I have not had family and friend traditions like this since my life in New York.  I haven't lived any place long enough to build them.  So now that I’m experiencing these things again in my thirties?  Now that I am part of building meaningful memories again with all of my dear friends here?  The scars from that massive loss so long ago are now  healing.  That is what this blog is about: celebrating that I have finally found home again.  I have no family here anymore so I depend greatly on my roots set in with my friends.  So when I share the so-called little things in the next few paragraphs, understand how important they are to have in my life. 

So, Saturday.

Maddy’s in-laws, Wendy and Dan, grow a few crops on their property.  Sitting around the fire that morning Dan asks if I want to learn how to drive a tilling tractor and till one of the fields.  Most people don’t get excited about chores.  But then there's me.  I’ve never done it before!  So, hell yeah I want to do it!  So Maddy got out the tractor and we drove out to the crops.  There was a grassy field with a few apple trees for me to practice in before hitting the real deal. 

As I was driving around, a mama turkey spooked and flew up from her hiding place in the tall grass and flew into the woods.  I stopped the tractor and scoped out the grass looking for movement… I knew there had to be babies in there. Sure enough, the grass blades were tremoring just ever so slightly in lines heading for the woods.

Maddy had to grab her hunting dog, Lucy so she wouldn’t kill the chicks.  We waded in the overgrowth looking to make sure all the chicks headed safely to the woods.  There was a straggler who went the wrong way, so I held Lucy as Maddy ran to get it.  After she caught it we took a moment to hold the wild turkey chick. 

As many might deem this unethical in terms of breaking the rule “don’t touch wild animals”, it was hard not to…  I used to catch baby birds all the time as a child and my hard core environmentalist best friend would, rightfully so, scold me relentlessly.  I don’t think one should go looking for baby wild animals to pick up and human handle, but this was one of those circumstances that seemed justifiable.

We had to leave the field for a while in hopes the mama turkey would come back and get her babies.  So we returned about an hour or so later, this time without the dog.  The chicks were gone, so we assumed all was good and Maddy resumed in teaching me how to till a field.

I have a whole new respect for farmers.

I first thought it’d be like mowing the lawn. 
It’s not. 
Knowing when to drop the till, turning the giant thing at the right point and not missing a patch as the loop narrows…




Maddy had to do the last corners for me at one point because I was totally not turning at the right time and I was over tilling certain patches and missing others. 

The sun was high and fiery. It was nine hundred degrees outside, and all I kept thinking was, Damn… our forefathers used horses to do this.  I’m using a giant machine and I suck at it.  It’s hard work.  But hard work makes you feel super good. 








And like I said before, it gave me a whole new respect for farmers and an appreciation for those who work the amazing, blessed land that we have.  It was an awesome experience for me. 

When we returned, Maddy asked me, “So. Want to shoot guns?”

Um. YES PLEASE.

Now, I’ve shot guns before.  Pistols and rifles.  But I’ve never shot a shot gun.  And I’ve never shot at a moving target, a clay pigeon. 

I was disappointed in my own strength and the weight of the gun.  They’re, um, heavy.  And I have super wimpy elbows now ever since Lyme disease.  Just holding a grocery basket filled with stuff at the store can make me feel like someone took a hammer to my elbows.  So.  When I held the gun up for the first time I thought to myself, “Oh shit…”

Maddy taught me how to hold the gun.  My posture was ridiculous as I was leaning backward

trying to use my back as leverage instead of my arms.  But she patiently kept correcting me.  She also taught me how to load the gun, which I appreciated. I like learning.  So it was cool to load the gun myself.  So, loaded.  Locked.  Two barrels aimed.

“PULL!”  Nope.  “PULL!”  Nada. 

My first go was unsuccessful.  And so was my second and third. My elbows felt like glass shards were sticking in the ligaments, so I had no choice but to call it quits.  My arms were shaking, and I just couldn’t do another round. 

Time to make a drink.

As the sun began to set the gang wanted to go down to the river to hunt for crayfish.  Or as some people here in Minnesota call them “crawfish” or “craw daddies”.  Growing up in New York we called them crayfish.  When I was a kid I used to hunt for them down at “the swamp”.  It was a pond that dried up every other summer and left a field of semi-dangerous mud and plantations of white dried seaweed.  The tracks we took by the park to get to this magic place used to be actual railroad tracks.  So out in the dried up pond, stuck in the mud, were rail road ties here and there.  Along with the occasional tractor tire.  Beneath the long, wooden beams and tires and rocks and seaweed we would find crayfish in the mud.  Crayfish hunting was a huge part of my childhood.  I would spend the entire summer down at the park, the swamp, every year until I moved away. 

Now, I’ve never done crayfish hunting in a river.  It’s a little different.  I'm used to trying to grab the back of the little lobster before it shoots down into a crayfish hole in the mud. 

I wasn’t used to them shooting off into the water current.  It was super fun!  I felt like a kid again. 

As kids we caught them because it was fun to put them in a bucket of mud and watch them do funny things to each other with their claws.  They were amusing pets.  I had no idea people ate them.  At the cabin, we were catching to eat them.  Well, they were going to eat them.  I have a shellfish allergy…

Anyway.  It was nostalgic to be catching them.  Silly to some.  Important to me.

We returned with a fairly good haul, and it got to be about time to start the pig roast.  That’s right.  My first ever pig roast!  Which, I know sounds lame.  Who hasn’t ever been to a pig roast?  Well, me.  When you move around a lot and don’t make friends easily you miss out on social activities... 

This was my first pig roast.

They put two split chickens inside the split pig so all the glorious fat from the pork was soaked up in the chicken meat. As I mentioned before I’m a bona fide carnivore... 

I want to quote Scrooge McDuck, here, in Mickey’s Christmas Carol when he meets the ghost of Christmas present:
“Suc-cu-lent PIG!” he cries out as he’s reaching for a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth.

“Succulent” is practically an understatement for how delicious this meat turned out.  Juicy, fatty, scrumptious, gloriously marvelously SUCCULENT meat. 

(Don't look at the pictures if you're hungry or dieting)

Every region has their own traditional social foods.  If you’re going to a picnic or a barbeque or camp site in upstate New York you’re going to be fed Cornel chicken, salt potatoes and fresh sweetcorn on the cob by SOME BODY that’s coming to the party.

In Minnesota you are guaranteed to have a spectacular tuna salad, incredible taco dip and all kinds of wrap sandwiches. 

Tuna salad is heaven to me.  Especially when it’s on the side of juicy, fatty, scrumptious, gloriously marvelously succulent meat. 

So, needless to say: I ate well. 

On Sunday I got to have another shot at shooting a clay pigeon.  Maddy, Wendy and I took turns.

Both of them were really rooting for me to hit one, and it was nice.  Eventually, I finally did! 
The feeling was amazing seeing that clay disc blast apart!  

We celebrated as if I had just lost my virginity. 

Wendy gave me a huge hug of congratulations and I felt so… included.  It was fun to tell all my family and friends that I shot a shotgun for the first time and hit a moving target for the first time. 

The rest of the trip was full of good times, lots of laughs, campfire games, fireworks and cocktails.

I was generously invited to go camping with them all on July fourth weekend up in Chippewa National Forest, and I was so, so grateful.  Camping was such a huge part of my childhood.  It's what I remember goodness to be like.  Goodness is memorable.  This trip to the cabin was memorable.  And the people who welcomed me in have no idea how valuable that is to me. 

Well, they do now if they’re reading this…. 

Stay tuned for my adventure in Chippewa!