Quarry Qualms

Greg Fleming Photo

There was once a time in my life when I loved the idea of The Quarry. Surely, its lava outcroppings beckoned to any off-course bird; its mossy boulder-covered walls must harbor vagrants. There also was a period in my life when I devoted too much time to imagining what my first good Asian find on St. Paul would be. I would even pore over Rare Birds of North America before I went to bed, hoping my dreams of Terek Sandpipers and Mugimaki Flycatchers would manifest themselves to reality. 

I now have entered a new phase in life. Now, I kind of despise the quarry, so much that I dream about it and wake up pissed. Additionally, I no longer wonder what my first vagrant find will be, instead wondering how long one can eat PB&J without becoming entirely delusional. These changes of outlook are connected; their nexus follows. 

Van #4 crept through the hamlet of St. Paul, its occupants scouring every roof for finches, every puddle for greenshanks. We all were on edge, sucking up any movement outside the van, straining to find vagrants from the previous day's storm that had driven even the most stalwart birder inside.

My phone whistled, increasing the tension in my gang of already-eager vagrant junkies.
"What's Cory got?"

The other tour leaders were scrutinizing the island too that morning. An incoming text could mean a breakneck ride over washboard gravel roads--or, it could just be Scott telling me about how the calm, sunny morning was perfect napping weather.

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just finding out if anyone was doing Quarry this morning, because I want to."

The suspense in Van #4 ebbed, and conversation resumed as we rattled out of town, dust cloud trailing behind. We had about an hour to kill before lunch--enough time, I thought, to work the quarry bowl and the two-track winding up to the lava fields. Even when it's not birdy, there's always solid scenery accompanied by a soundtrack of displaying Snow Buntings.

We bounced through Upper Cut. I tuned my eyes to the rocky hillside, filtered the chatter in the van. Tufted Flycatchers, splits and lumps...you know, birder things.

"I asked Scott how things were different with a female guide. He said the house smells a lot better."

I laughed and tried to think of something witty, which isn't easy to do when you work outside for like 14 hours a day.

Fortunately, some movement out my window caught my eye, saving me. It was small, brown, skulky--Asian by appearance and behavior.
"Get out of the van NOW and GET ON THAT BIRD." 
Heeding my own advice, I got it in my binoculars for a split second as it dodged rocks near the top of the hill. Even olive-brown back, short-tailed, small, thrush-like. I knew it was good.

On St. Paul, when you have good birds, even if you don't know what they are yet, you immediately get the word out to other groups, so protocol dictated I call Scott and Cory. It's Murphy's Law that places with the best birds have the worst cell signal.

"Hey Scott, I got on this small thrush-like bird running around in Upper Cut."
"You're breaking up."

Yep.

"In the upper cut of the..."
My phone stopped crackling and started beeping; the call had been dropped.

Cool. I had effectively lost the bird and infused terror over missing a rarity into the other guides.

Many stories could end here. This one, however, does not.

Matt Victoria photo

24 hours later, I was curled in the fetal position on A-dorm's couch. 
"I should ban you from ever birding in the quarry again," Scott warned. 

The mystery thrush, when relocated by our resident Sherpa, Brad, ended up being a female Siberian Rubythroat--a good bird. Good and infuriating, because it lurked in the rocks near the top of the ridge, requiring all able-bodied birders to stumble through the boulders on the hill, while those more accepting of their physical shortcomings waited anxiously beneath. 

I was an able-bodied birder. By some miracle, I still am an able-bodied birder. Getting up the ridge to Rubythroat land meant you had to balance precariously on boulders that in turn balanced precariously on the hillside. Deceptive patches of moss and lichen gave way to caverns that probably went all the way to China. After falling down several, I wondered if the rubythroat had made the same mistake and inadvertently ended up back home. 

Greg Fleming Photo

While I scrambled, I had two dominant thoughts: how much of my body I would sacrifice in order to protect my optics; the futility (idiocy?) of trying to find a small brown bird when every third step was potentially life-threatening. Note that most of us engaged in this undertaking clad in St. Paul's designated footwear--rubber boots. I have since deduced that it's generally a poor idea to engage in mountain goat activities when you're wearing rubber boots. 

Don't be deceived by my griping. I love St. Paul, I love rare birds, and there's a good chance I'll be tempted into the quarry again tomorrow.

Taming the Tiger Beer: Prelude

Sabah, Malaysian Borneo, March 2015

If you asked me a year ago where Spring Break 2015 would take me, I doubt I would've come up with anything exotic. If I've learned anything about life though, it's that mine is defined by its beautiful unpredictability. (To put things into perspective, I write this a few feet from the Bering Sea watching a bunch of Aleut kids engaged in serious nerf gun warfare.)

It was a string of remarkable events that led to my sojourn to Borneo this month. Subsequent posts will elucidate the island's wonders and our shenanigans (and hopefully tantalize you to the point of letting me guide you and your friends there next fall!). This post, however, will serve as a primer, setting the stage and introducing the key players of the next chapters.

It was a long night in the midst of a long winter; Katie (one of my nearest and dearest travel and mischief partners) had come over to my house for dinner and drinks. (My aptitude for cooking and her aptitude for eating are quite compatible.) While I cooked pasta and white sauce, Katie mixed tequila and grapefruit juice.

I feel that tequila is probably behind the, uhh, conception of many things, some of them less-benign than spontaneous spring break travel. After some serious work on the bottle, our own creative juices began to flow.
"Al, I'm so tired of being cold."
"Me too! Let's go somewhere warm for spring break."
"We totally should! Where do you want to go?"
"I miss Asia. What about Borneo?"
"Let's go to BORNEO!"

Borneo is a locale ever-intriguing. It's portrayed as a jungle-carpeted region overflowing with unique flora and fauna, alluring to anyone desiring eco-adventure. When I lived in Palawan, I was not far from the ferry to Borneo. My employers quickly squelched that dream though; the Sulu Sea has pirates and they were concerned I might classify as desirable cargo. When I returned to the States though, I didn't give up the dream--in life, you just have to be too determined to be defeated. It is at this point that the third key player enters the story.

Michael was a 2014 victim of my Kirtland's Warbler tours. If I wrote a factual book about our partnership, it probably would be a bestseller--in the fiction section. Michael has a unique problem: he has copious amounts of money, yet minimal time to think about its best allocation for adventures. I have the opposite problem, although it's not unique: minimal money, and copious time for planning adventures I can't afford. It's one of my favorite procrastination activities. For about the last year, I've been Michael's trip planner. One of the perks of this job is that sometimes, he takes me with him.

"Do you think Michael wants to go to Borneo?"
"Duh probably. Let me text him."

Indeed, Michael thought that paying for the three of us to spend two weeks in Borneo was a great use of his money. So did we.

So, on Friday March 13th, Katie and I (and later JP--Katie's boyfriend, with benefits and Gunnar, who Katie, JP, and I share as a boyfriend without benefits) headed to New York. Katie and I would fly to Kota Kinabalu by way of Hong Kong the next day.

#UCOC, NYC

This night was noteworthy in its own regard, and involved skipping down city streets, annoying cab drivers, and seriously considering using our hotel pool for the purpose of giving fly-fishing lessons. However, even that is far less interesting than the adventures that were soon to befall us in Borneo, so the next post will jump right into those. Stay tuned!

Blue-eared Kingfisher, March 2015, Lower Kinabatangan 

Oh, CANADA!

Jacob Norris photo Unity's dangerous proximity to Quebec was one of the biggest things compelling me to attend here. This year alone, I’ve ventured there four times: once when I was driving from Michigan; then over fall break; then in January, and now this last weekend. Each trip has given new adventures—beluga whales; northern lights; sleeping in a van in subzero weather; playing mandola to serenade a belligerently drunk man to sleep/make my escape. Sometimes I go by myself, sometimes I’ve managed to convince my Unity partners in crime to go with me. This last time, Gunnar and I decided to take our new Outing Club officer roles seriously and we organized a trip to Quebec—and, even better, the school funded it. The trip filled up immediately, and we spent the weeks leading up to the adventure getting excited for poutine and winter fun in the Laurentides Parc National des Jacques Cartier, Katie Schick photo On Friday afternoon—the day of departure—11 of Unity’s finest (plus our staff chaperone) filled our van with exuberance, anticipation, and instruments we’d plundered (with permission of said chaperone, of course) from the SAC. Our start was a bit shaky—backing the trailer in the parking lot turned into a 60+ point turn. Our hopes of a dramatic exit may have been demolished, but our journey quickly became a wealth of stories, adventures, and new experiences...  Van Band; Jacob Norris photo Music:  I love many things about Unity; one of them is the abundance of musical talent. (If you don’t believe me, let tomorrow night’s talent show knock your socks off! 8:00 at the SAC be there or be square!) Before our departure, we realized the necessity of a Van Band; immediately upon this epiphany, we dashed into the Student Center to borrow a guitar and banjo. Over the weekend, our Van Band cropped up many times. The most memorable edition was Saturday night. We’d paused at the hostel to let our poutine digest before driving out aurora chasing; naturally, an impromptu jam session was in the makings. The guys, rushing upstairs, intercepted me, rushing downstairs. We all did the sensible thing: sat down, jammed out, and marveled over the fantastic stairwell acoustics.  Stairwell Band, Jacob Norris photo Hostel: For a mere $17/night, we were able to rent a room in Quebec City. We probably spent at least that much in gas trying to find the damn place; in Unity, we don’t really have the phenomena of one-way streets, skyscrapers, and abundant pedestrians, so this was our first real cultural adjustment. We asked at least four people for directions and had the chance to lust over Mountain Equipment Co-op’s window displays from all angles as we circled the block clockwise, then counter clockwise, then somehow approached it from kitty-corner. The hostel was nice, though—notable features: the shower was big enough for Summer, Katie, & I; breakfast was clutch.  Quebec City; Connor McNulty photo Poutine: We are an exceptionally food-motivated group, and I think we talked more about poutine than anything else. Poutine should probably constitute its own food pyramid—it is a balanced meal of carbs, proteins, and fats. The best poutine we encountered came from Mo’s, an establishment clearly founded on genius, since not only do they have pulled pork and barbecue sauce poutine—they also have beer taps AT THE TABLES. Dangerous place, I’m telling you. Anyway, we ate so much poutine that we’re brainstorming writing “Poutine”, a parody of  the song “Codeine”. We’ll let you know how it goes.  Jacob Norris photo Friday’s sunset:  The beauty of the drive seems proportional to the distance from Skowhegan: the further away, the prettier your surroundings. Mountains, frozen lakes, ice-jammed rivers, general wild. The sunset Friday was breathtaking, so we pulled over next to a snowbank on 201 N to appreciate the shit out of the scene above Moosehead Lake. Appreciating the shit out of a sunset, when done right, involves van-standing and snowbank-floundering. The latter was a nice way to make the sauna-like interior of the van seem almost welcoming for like 30 seconds.               Connor McNulty photo The Border: The border crossing north of Jackman is nothing extravagant. It’s basically a shack that separates many miles of conifer, snow, and moose from many more kilometers of conifer, snow, and moose. This time, Gunnar decided our best strategy would be to blast the Canadian National Anthem as we rolled up to the little booth. The border guy was unimpressed with our taste.                 “Turn the radio down”  Once we had successfully navigated the border, we blasted the Canadian National Anthem no less than three more times.  Parc National de Jacques Cartier, Katie Shick photo

 Parc National de Jacques Cartier:

Conveniently located a mere half-hour from the inner workings of Quebec City, Parc National de Jacques Cartier is a beautiful expanse of public land in the Laurentides. The park has something for any outdoors enthusiast—skiing; snowshoeing; hiking; fishing; canoeing; camping… and, it has bathrooms. Really nice bathrooms that deserve their own special mention. Apparently, poutine wreaks havoc on the intestines, and as we drove down the river valley on the (bumpy, winding) entrance road, I think we all had the same thoughts.

“They’ve got really nice bathrooms in the visitor center.”

“They’re not going to be nice after I’ve been in there.”

 Both statements were accurate. The bathrooms were lovely: sunny, pleasant-smelling, warm, and filled with the sounds of Common Loons and American Woodcocks. All in all, it was probably the most cathartic dump I’ve ever experienced.

Connor McNulty photo

Several pounds lighter, we picked our poison—some took snowboards, others strapped on snowshoes; I joined the cross-country ski gang. We asked the park ranger for an “interesting” trail, and she happily complied. Maybe, “interesting” means something else entirely in French because this trail was “interesting” in the fact that it nearly killed us all. It was the end of the month; maybe the park had some fatality quotas to fill…

Katie Schick photo

    Although the trail was extremely challenging, it took us through the most beautiful places I’ve ever cross-country skied. We traveled through mixed forest next to the river, then up a small mountain alongside the edge of a cliff. That’s when it really got “interesting”—gravity kept tempting our skis over the cliff face, the hills were so steep we had to sidestep up, and the snow was waist-deep. It was challenging, beautiful, and I was so sore that later, I woke up in pain.

Although we pursued different winter sports, I think we all had challenging, beautiful, and physically taxing experiences at Jacques Cartier. Several people told me that day was some of the best skiing they’d ever done—this is music to any trip leader’s ears! 

Aurora:

Later on Saturday, after another hefty Poutine dose to combat the cold, we drove back to the park because we’d caught wind that the Aurora would be active that night. Many times I’ve tried to see the Aurora, many times I’ve failed. However, tonight was the night—looking north from the visitor center gave us a splendid backdrop of mountains and unspoiled night sky; eventually, as the moon set, the Lights became more and more active. We watched them dance above the mountains until the cold became unbearable, then went back to our hostel. This definitely was one of my trip highlights.

 All in all, the trip was full of fun and learning opportunities. We’re already plotting some more epic trips for this semester’s roster, and Gunnar, Caroline, Emily and I are hoping to make Unity’s Outing Club the best that it can be. Contact any of us if you’re interested in joining; we’ll welcome you with open arms!  

This gorgeous picture compliments of Connor McNulty. 

Cryptic's Choice 2014

One of the most valuable things I learned about myself this year was that I actually don't loathe poetry. Thank you creative writing!

One of the other valuable things I learned in 2014 is that my whole being gets stagnant when I'm not trying new things and pushing myself out of my comfort zone.

So, I thought it was fitting that my last blog post of the year be my first shot at haiku. Here's 2014, more or less...critique away if you desire :)

One of many good nights in the jack pines...

Getting a dumping

Lake effect don't mess around

Stopping my going

Irking my candor

Superficiality 

Why can't you be you?

Gonna make mistakes

Frank Sinatra in the air

I did the right thing

Vomit the pain out
Phone is shorting from the tears

Thank you for the hurt

Footsteps chase my own
Is that how it worked inside?
One dead, one got life.

All in one weekend

Taught me to shift, her to steer

My dad is a saint

There's a storm coming
Kirtland's sing bombastically
Uppies wolf whistle

Sun kisses bare breasts

Paddling topless through cattails

You're welcome bitterns

I will not wear shoes
They separate from the earth
My toughening feet

A swish of the line
Ply the fly, flirt with the trout
Dance with the current

Your screens enter first
Preventing you from sensing
Life in the moment

Cherry pie and rum

Made spectacles and stories

This is 'Murica

Your words were full of
Flattery, empty promise
They cooked me a trout

Wearing a long skirt

Because last night's was too short

You have a girlfriend

Blueberry mouthfuls

Mosquitoes buzz in my ear

Stomach has regrets

That Jack Pine soundtrack
Hermit Thrush and machine gun
Nighthawks overhead

Kiss until we're numb

Standing in starry river

Wish it were different

Small fingers grasp mine
Balancing on beaverdam
Bring kids to nature!

She called diamonds trump
Daddy Longlegs fed the fire
She took it alone

More new horizons

Belugas, poutine, spruce trees

Fueling wanderlust

Lighter, pot, paddle

Gonna make swamp gas fireworks

Blazey Badger smiles

Usually we jam
Purple juice staining my walls
This time, we jellied...

Slept in Central Park

Thought we might get arrested

Stood up for our home

Walls refuse to fall

My hand between him and heart

Not ready for this

Make bread on Fridays

Then spear rats with kitchen knives

You're fun to live with 

Your money can buy
Fake tits for your trophy wife
But won't buy you abs

Streaming tears, again

Too much laughter and ginger

Overflow with love

Gray Jays on my hand

Otters sliding on the ice

Mom I hope you're proud

If my writing works
Through a documentary
Resurrect the dead

The Beckoning Tree

Most of the time, I consider my height an asset, but not this afternoon as I push my way through the clogged deer trail. I stop to untangle my hair from the briars firmly attached to my hair and realize my reluctant playing of the Absalom role. This happens pretty frequently; it is an understatement to say that feminity doesn’t come naturally to me. I spent one fall afternoon trying to flush Ammodramus sparrows by bushwhacking through a brushy field. Afterwards, midway through a date at a sushi joint—a sushi joint with bathrooms classier than any place I’ve ever lived—I discovered a substantial matt of burdock lodged in my tresses. Long legs and long hair can be advantageous, but I’m probably undeserving of them both. I impatiently reclaim my hair from the thorns. My quest may involve snarled hair, but the end result will be a detangled brain. Although the trail around me is thick with undergrowth to thwart my passage I push down the trail towards a thin place.

Albeit patience-testing, the walk is not long nor arduous, and it meanders over land that my family has revered for generations. I’m answering a tradition, one prompted by love and the desire for reflection that spurs me across field, swamp, and forest to The Beckoning Tree.

                Leaving the sandy field, I step into a fine fragment of northern hardwood forest. There’s no trail anymore, so instead I let a deeper pull guide me towards my goal. Over mossy hummocks, through swaley spots threatening once-dry socks, over fallen trees—I press on. Just before I enter her presence I push through a screen of young trees, which her crown towers above.

                She’s a gnarly old sugar maple; for many years, my family has made the pilgrimage to talk with the Beckoning Tree. Her lower limbs unfurl away from the trunk, reaching out to grab you and draw you in. Her domain is always shrouded in a strange quiet that settles you. She’s ever receptive to people seeking solace and slow time.

Slow time is one of the things I miss most from the Philippines. There, it is a natural part of life. Here, you have to make a concerted effort to find it. If you’re not vigilant, it’s so easy for life to become a sanity-annihilating whirlwind of keeping up—keeping up with work, with friendships, with technology.  On every side we’re assaulted by information. Society tells us that silence is no longer crucial. The last week of the semester was sheer hell for me. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been in a classroom yet it was only yesterday that my brain stopped short-circuiting itself.

                So many people retreat to places like the Beckoning Tree in search of the same peace that I am. The spiritual capacity of nature is far from a novel idea, and it’s been exalted by many nature writers like John Muir, Thoreau, and Sam Campbell. Sam, describing his own sanctuary in Three Lakes says, “Here, silence and solitude are so profound as to be almost visible, beauty extravagantly lines the trail-sides, and the tranquility of eternity rides the breeze that sways the pines…it is my sanctuary…while I am sure that this mental state of peace, receptiveness, patience, free of hatred and vain striving, can be attained anywhere where one will honestly seek it, I know that the contemplation of natural beauty and grandeur is of tremendous aid.”

                Sam realized the need for a place—a sanctuary from the world. One representing not only retreat, but a spot where the curtain separating earth from spiritual realms ebbs, allowing you to see something of heaven itself. They’re places where it’s easier to listen to your inner voice, or the voice of God. Even though the world tries to thwart our seeking of higher things and places, nature is always inviting us to come and replace stress with the inherent silence and quietness of soul we experience from an environment conducive to thinking. It’s important that we find our thin places; one of mine is at the Beckoning Tree. Where are yours?  

Philosopher of the Forest: The Project

I’ll never be a student missionary. That’s why I spent 10 months teaching—and learning—in Palawan.

I’m never going to college. Three semesters now stand between me and graduation.

I am not going to be a writer. A bird bum, a lawyer, a logger, even—but not a writer. 

So, it should come as no surprise that here I am, in Three Lakes Wisconsin, using my Christmas Break as a sort of writing hermitage. I sit in the lobby of Deja Brews, drinking my caffeinated dues that endow both (a) wi-fi and (b) an escape from the curmudgeonly companions sharing my cabin 2 miles down the road.

Escape. Sam Campbell (1895-1962), one of the early voices of the early American conservation movement, journeyed to Three Lakes for escape too, then using the inspiration from his time here to encourage all that would listen to pursue their own nature escapes.

Sam Campbell

Encouraging conservation through invitation rather than regulation, Sam didn’t leave The Wilderness Society or the Boundary Waters in his wake. Sam’s approach to environmentalism instead employed his woodland friends to speak his message of stewardship; this strategy had an exceptional impact on his audience.

Ironically, these things setting Sam Campbell apart from other environmentalists of his era render him one of the least-remembered forces of the American conservation movement. This enigma is remarkable for a man who, in 30 years, delivered more than 10,000 lectures to a collective audience of more than 9 million, produced more than 150,000 feet of film, and published numerous books.  

Nature's Messages, Sam Campbell

One set of his books, the Living Forest Series, played a role in developing my own affinity for nature. Many nights my dad would tuck me in and read Sam’s tales as I fell asleep. The stories about adventures—and the animals and people he befriended in the process—excited me. I wanted to make my own escapades and nature friends!

Little did I know that, years later, I would be making my own nature stories. Right now, I write for TLD Productions, a video and production house in southwestern Michigan. Last May, their script writer for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary film celebrating Sam’s life and legacy, flaked. I flippantly said that I would do it; here I sit in a northern Wisconsin town working to recapture Sam’s voice for presentation to a new generation.  

Enjoying an interview turned story-telling session with Judy Lehmkuhl, June 2014

As I get deeper into the project, I realize just how much Sam gave to the world. He used his gift of writing, movie making, lecturing, his sense of humor—and most of all, his passion and love for people—to build the bridges necessary to inspire people to awaken and warm to the idea of conservation. We need Sam’s message today at least as much as we did then. Our culture’s relentless pressure to achieve and maintain the American dream compounds our isolation from nature. Sam Campbell is a man worth remembering.

               

I write this to a soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Just as the death of a musician doesn’t render their song obsolete, Sam’s message won’t fade—not if we don’t let it. His legacy will continue on in new ways, with new voices. I am honored to be one of those voices.

For more information and updates about the project, follow my blog and also visit:

www.gypsygene.blogspot.com

Follow Philosopher of the Forest on Facebook

Philosopher of the Forest homepage

Sam Campbell

Enter Writing Hermitage

Monday, 12/8/14: Unity, Maine; 8 hours at the library, 7,044 words written.
Tuesday, 12/8/14: See above, give or take a few words.
Friday, 12/12/14: Berrien Springs, Michigan to Three Lakes, Wisconsin. 7 hours driving through the Midwest's billboard community (strip clubs, casinos, pro-life messages, fireworks), three chocolate chip sourdough cookies, SERENDIPITY. 

Terry Dodge photo

Until mid-January, no more classes, no more exams, no more slipping on the icy death chute (benignly known as the Hills to Sea Trail) that I must traverse to reach campus. 

But, Christmas break is not exactly a break, either. Much needs to be accomplished, but unlike a great deal of schoolwork, the task at hand is not brainless busywork. Since May I've been sporadically working on a script with TLD Productions for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary about Sam Campbell (one of Sigurd Olson's contemporaries). The impossibility of doing this task while taking a full load of writing classes dictated that I devote my Christmas break to a Writing Hermitage of sorts... 

So, here I am in northern Wisconsin near Sam Campbell's home, in a beautiful cabin with a wood stove and a pet crow. 

Things I plan on accomplishing over break:

1. Produce a workable script. I'm a capable writer. I love challenges. I've never attempted to write  a documentary script before. I feel like I'm clinging to a crumbling cliff, ready to leap towards the water below. And I freaking LIVE for that feeling. Sure I'm intimidated, but I'm embracing it too. 

2. Handfeed Gray Jays. And maybe hear wolves howl...and maybe see aurora borealis... I can't write all day every day, and enjoying the beauty of northern Wisconsin will rejuvenate my mind. Gray Jays are one of the most charismatic birds of the northwoods, and I anticipate forging friendships based on peanut bribery this month. 

3. Destroy my hip flexors with the help of my snowshoes. I don't have a car here, which is fine; I have two legs that work just fine. For me, exercise is the most crucial step in achieving a clear head. By default I'll be sitting a lot this month, but when I don't have to be, I plan on destroying my body to restore my brain. 

4. SABBATH. I don't care what your belief system is; we all need Sabbaths. I haven't intentionally observed a Sabbath for too long; if I don't start off the month with this principle in place I know I'll be tempted to write on a rest day. 

5. Learn how to make sourdough bread. This might be bad, but I already TOTALLY have an old man crush on Warren, who I'll be sharing the cabin with. He fly fishes, makes violins, writes books, and walks 4 miles every day. He got his sourdough starter from Alaska and held it on his lap in a Dixie Cup on the flight back to Minneapolis. I can't wait to get to know him better, he's full of stories and laughs. 

6. See 8 owl species. It's a good irruption year, I'd like to find a hawk-owl here, but I'll hitchhike to the Sax-Zim if that's what it takes for Great Gray (and if I get enough work done to deserve a reward, you know...). I've already got Long-eared, Snowy, and Great Horned in the bag. 

7. Write a letter every night. I am so blessed to have a life full of amazing friends. Unfortunately, I don't often have the time to tell them this in more permanent mediums than in passing or over text message. So, if I don't use up all my words on the documentary, I hope to use this break as a long-overdue chance to drive home just how much they mean to me. I don't take you for granted, trust me. :)

8. Read some every day. You write a lot, you need to read a lot. Steve has a whole shelf full of Canoe Country anecdotes, philosophy, and lore, including some work from both Sam Campbell and Sig Olson that I've never read before. I anticipate spending most evenings in front of the wood stove, hot chocolate & Bailey's and good book in hand...

9. Have an adventure every day. I want to get a feel for Three Lakes--whether that entails shooting pool at a dive bar or exploring the XC ski trails or helping out with a Christmas Bird Count or...yeah. Possibilities are endless. 

I'll probably be posting quite a bit in this blog about the project, so stay tuned! Enjoy the holidays everyone! :)