View between seasons is clear

By Dave Churchill (Contact) | The Daily Journal

Published Friday, December 1, 2006

In the little parking lot by Maplewood Lutheran Church, the sun was shining. I debated the need for a windbreaker, and finally put it on, pushed the car door shut and walked into the state park.

The warm sun that had nearly caused me to leave my jacket behind was quickly covered by clouds, and as I adjusted the straps on my backpack and scuffed through the thick layer of leaves along the trail, a gusty wind reminded me that it was late November.

Often, on a Sunday afternoon, there will be several cars parked by the church on the south side of Maplewood State Park. It’s a convenient access point from Fergus Falls for anyone who plans a hike in the park or, in the winter, dangle a lure through the ice for panfish on one of the park’s smaller lakes.

But this week, there were no other cars, no other people to be seen. The only sounds of humans were a distant drone of an airplane, quickly fading, and perhaps — just on the edge of hearing — the putt-putt of a small motorcycle engine.

Trails that during the summer and early fall are dark tunnels, hemmed in by underbrush and over-leaning trees, become open and airy in the late fall. With no leaves to obscure the view there are surprising vistas of ponds, lakes, meadows and trails — features that are invisible during the summer and buried during the winter.

My route took me over a pair of ridges, then down to a trail junction where I continued easterly. It may be my imagination, but the trail map signs in the park look like they have been recently updated — at any rate, they seem more numerous this year.

Perhaps a mile further on, I reached my destination for the afternoon, a windbreak shelter and campsite, often in use during the summer, but empty on this November afternoon. It is perched along the trail where it runs between two lakes, and on relatively low ground out of the wind.

For awhile, it was a noisy place: The scuff of feet in leaves, zipping of jacket and backpack, as I settled down to pour a cup of tea from a small Thermos. Then the silence began.

The wind did not reach the secluded shelter and there was virtually no sound. During the summer, this intersection of lakes and land, of trails and natural habitat would have been bursting with life: Birds flitting through the branches, ducks and small water mammals cruising the shore, perhaps a deer walking down to drink.

Even during the depths of winter, there might have been more activity: The sounds of snowmobiles, at least. The snow would have held tracks of deer, fox and squirrels.

On Sunday, the thinly frozen lakes, the bare branches and gray sky, the surrounding silence, left me with an almost physical sense of waiting, of being between seasons — a rare moment of pause before winter’s winds begin to howl and snow covers the landscape. A time in between.

It was just a bit too cold to sit for long, so after a quarter of an hour, I restowed the hot water and headed back down the path, over the ridges and up into the lot where, with a western view, the falling sun was illuminating a distant patch of blue sky.

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Although it was chilly on Sunday afternoon, it was nothing compared to the change that swept over us on Tuesday evening. When we left the house for the high school band concert, temperatures were in the middle 30s. By a bit after 9 p.m., as the concert ended, the car thermometer showed temperatures in the 20s. Two hours later, they were dipping into the teens, and Wednesday morning we all woke to single digits —seven degrees on my home thermometer, but reports of three degrees at the airport.

Opperman Lake, where we live, had been open for a week or more, but despite howling winds it froze over again Tuesday night. It has been iced up and re-opened a couple times this year; it will be interesting to see if it stays solid this time.

Journal publisher Dave Churchill’s column runs on Fridays.