Boston may be Strong, but Cambridge is Fit

Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

I meandered over to Cambridge, Mass., last weekend for a national science writers convention (believe it or not, there are such gatherings). My hotel was on the Charles River, with Cambridge on one side and Boston on the other.

Cambridge 2015 008Boston University, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Harvard all have boathouses and yacht clubs on the Charles. I awoke every morning to instructions yelled from coaches to rowers, and to the sight of sleek single and multiple sculls skimming the water. (How’s that for alliteration? Couldn’t help it.)

Cambridge 2015 023I was able to take a long walk by the river. Besides the rowers and sailboaters, what impressed me on my stroll was the shear volume of runners, bikers, and walkers. And every one of them was wearing spandex no matter if they were short, tall, wide, narrow, young or old. I, however, did not get the spandex memo, so trod along in my jeans and canvas jacket.

Morning, noon, and night the asphalt trail along with river was crowded with exercisers. Although Boston is known for its post-marathon bombing emotional strength (Boston Strong!), Cambridge will be forever burned into my mind for the fitness of the people I saw during my walk and from my hotel window.

If you ever travel to Cambridge, don’t be like me. Get the memo. Pack your spandex.

Cambridge 2015 028

My Politically Correct Pin

Fish 002
Perhaps you own something that’s so politically and socially correct, it’s almost funny. My thing is a multi-colored fish pin (pictured here) that I bought in New Orleans many years ago, when Hurricane Katrina was only a gleam in the weatherman’s eye.

I can’t remember what store I bought it in, but I do remember it was made from recycled Mardi Gras gowns and television set wire by homeless, disabled (and probably starving) artists. Now, since Katrina, I can only imagine what kinds of politically and socially correct trinkets must be for sale in New Orleans.

Since I work for a water-related organization, I have opportunities to wear my pin sometimes, and to expound upon its virtues when asked. But mostly, I just like how it looks. The whole correctness thing is just a side benefit. Do you have a similar thing?

Bobcat Fog

Fog

Buddy and I went for a walk along the lake in the fog this evening. I love fog. It’s so . . . atmospheric. Makes you feel enveloped, safe in a wall of mist, moving mysterious through the world. Of course, Lake Superior was gray, too – water and sky indistinguishable, quiet.

As a fog-lover, I live in the right place. The dynamics of the lake and the hillside in Duluth make for a larger than usual number of foggy days.

During my walk, I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem about fog – how it comes in on little cat feet. He wrote that about Chicago – seeing fog in the harbor. But cat feet just don’t cut it for Duluth. Our far north fog is less domesticated, a bit more dangerous. If I were to write a haiku about fog in Duluth, I would describe the fog as coming in on bobcat feet.

Another Dating Horror Story: The Johnny Carson Show Suit

“Johnny Carson Tonight Show 1965” by NBC Television. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

My most recent post, a dating horror story, received a lot of views, and comments from my Facebook friends. I decided to stay on this topic for one more post just for kicks –not because I am perfect. I’m sure I’ve had my share of dating gaffes, although I can’t recall any. Probably because I have blocked them out of my mind to maintain my shaky self-confidence. (Smile.)

This dating story happened many years ago when I was in college. Johnny Carson was the King of Late Night Television and Stephen Hawking had just published “A Brief History of Time.” You may not think these things are related, but they are — at least in the mind of my college student date.

Our first dinner was winding down and my date told me he had read Stephen Hawking’s book. It inspired him to develop his own theory of time, which he assured me was even better than Hawking’s. In fact, it was so good that my date was sure he would be invited as a guest on the Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. He even knew what suit he would wear on the show – a brown one, I believe.

Of course, the dear boy was just trying to impress me. (I don’t think he was even a science major.) However, bravado is one thing, and grandiose delusions are another. We did not go on another date.

As far as I know, nobody else has bested Mr. Hawking’s theory of time. But it was nice that my date knew just what to wear if he ever became famous. We should all be so prepared!

We Only Shoot the Things We Love

A male wood duck. Image credit: “Brautente 2008-03-21 065” by BS Thurner Hof – Own work. Licensed under GFDL via Wikimedia Commons.

Dating horror stories – so miserable at the time but so fun to reminisce about after the dust has settled. And so fun to read. Here’s my contribution.

I met a man and, after a few weeks, visited his house for the first time. His place as well-cared for and impressive – until I got to the den. The walls were covered with taxidermied ducks. Now, I’m okay with hunting. I realize that meat needs to come from somewhere, and that hunting is sort of a dying art. But I soon discovered my date was hunting for a whole ‘nother reason.

His reason came to light when I couldn’t help but comment on the wood duck he had among his collection. Now, male wood ducks are like the Mr. Universe of the duck world. As you can see from the photo, they’re beautiful. They’re also rather rare in these parts. They nest in large holes in trees on the water. They don’t hurt anybody. And as faithful readers of my blog know, I have a thing for birds.

I made some sort of comment like – “Oh, and you’ve got a wood duck. They’re so beautiful….”

“That’s why I shot it,” he said.

Immediately, an irrational part of my woman dater’s brain thought: If this is what he does to things he finds beautiful, what will he do to things he loves? Heat-seeking missiles, maybe bombs? It reminded me of a quote from the poem by Oscar Wilde (“The Ballad of Reading Gaol”), “For each man kills the thing he loves…”

Of course, I know that there’s a big difference between killing a duck and killing a human, but try telling that to my primitive brain.

That relationship didn’t go very far.

My Good Deed for the Day/Week/Month

The ring-necked pheasant I transported last week. Photo courtesy of Wildwoods Rehabilitation Center.

The ring-necked pheasant I transported last week. Photo courtesy of Wildwoods Rehabilitation Center.


When I was growing up, my mom used to encourage us to look for helpful things to do for others or the community. Sometimes it was picking up trash along a roadside, sometimes it was giving directions to lost tourists. Opportunities to help are all around, and she wanted us to be aware and take action when we could.

Last week my opportunity came when a local wildlife rehabilitation center was looking for someone to transport a female ring-necked pheasant to its “forever home” a couple of hours away. I just happened to be going that direction, so I volunteered to have an avian passenger along for the ride.

The pheasant was found by someone’s dog. She had wounds on her side and her foot was clenched into a ball and not usable. The center fixed her up with two weeks of wound care and an orthotic to open up her foot. They suspect she was being used to train a retrieving dog. Pheasants are an introduced species and are not commonly found in this area.

A farm sanctuary that specializes in domesticated birds and deer offered to take her, so that’s where I came in. I picked her up in a carrier from the center and put her in the back seat. She must have liked listening to my book on CD because I didn’t hear even one literal peep from her the whole trip. I met the farm people at a highway exit gas station and we made the transfer.

Yay – good deed done. My mom would be proud. Sometimes opportunities for these deeds are few and far between, but keep your eyes open and you might be surprised by how many come to your attention.

Meet the Wanderers

While on Stockton Island in the Apostles Islands National Lakeshore recently, I and my traveling companion met a family who’s been travelling the country for the past two years. They’re part of a larger group of people who have decided to live by wandering. These folks, the Currens, homeschool their children and live in an Airstream trailer.

National Parks are one of their favorite educational tools. Their kids have 75 junior ranger badges from their travels. We met them at an evening ranger talk about black bears. Follow this link for an account of their Stockton Island trip and to learn more about how they pull off their lifestyle.

After the Apostle Islands, the Currens travelled to my hometown of Duluth. Now they are on the North Shore of Lake Superior. What an adventure!

“H is for Hawk” Book Review: The Value of Animals Apart from Us

A northern goshawk. Image by Norbert Kenntner.

A northern goshawk. Image by Norbert Kenntner.


I gave this memoir five out of five stars on Goodreads not because I agreed with everything in it but because I found it thought provoking and well written. It’s the story of Helen Macdonald, an Englishwoman who is dealing with the death of her father.

To help her get through her grief, Macdonald decides to train one of the most difficult of hawks: the goshawk. She names hers Mabel. She contrasts her experience with that of Terence White, author of the childhood classic, “Sword in the Stone,” and an avid falconer who wrote about his experience in “The Goshawk.” I listened to the audio version of the CD, read by the author in her classic British accent.

So many things to say. Where to begin? To start, it’s ironic that Macdonald chose to deal with death by training an avian killing machine. It’s kind of like dealing with a job loss by helping other people get fired from their jobs over and over again. But this technique worked for Macdonald, who wanted solace by forming an attachment to an animal, and by coming closer to the wild.

However, by the middle of the book, I found myself thinking how unfair it was to burden the bird with the owner’s grief and mental health issues – both for Macdonald’s and White’s goshawks. I mean, they are birds, not people. They are separate beings, but both authors are so caught up in themselves they don’t see this. It’s a lesson I learned years ago from living in the wilderness, and something I suspect most people, who are used to having animals around as pets or for food, don’t have an opportunity to realize.

Macdonald’s attitude of animals being defined in the world by the meanings given to them by humans came to light in a section where she attended an art exhibit about California condors. She says, “I think about what wild animals are in our imaginations and how they are disappearing, not just from the wild but from people’s everyday lives – replaced by images of themselves in print and on screen. The rarer they get, the fewer meanings animals can have. Eventually, rarity is all they are made of. The condor is an icon of extinction . . . How can you love something, how can you fight to protect it if all it means is loss?”

My argument is you fight for endangered animals because they have value apart from us. It’s perhaps the ultimate hubris to think the world revolves around us and our meanings. Most wild animals don’t need us to survive. In fact, they would probably do much better if humans were out of the picture. And why did the condor nearly go extinct in the first place? From human actions (poaching lead poisoning, etc.) It seem so unfair for humans to cause these problems and then to complain that thinking about these animals is depressing. What’s really depressing is what we do to some animals.

Toward the end of the book Macdonald finally realizes that people are more fitting agents for emotional support than animals. While animals provide great solace, they are no substitute for a pair of human arms around you. And she realizes that animals have intrinsic value apart from humans.

She writes, “Of all the lessons I’ve learned in my months with Mabel this is the greatest of all: that there is a world of things out there – rocks and trees, stones and grass, all the things that crawl and run and fly – they are all things in themselves. We make them sensible to us by giving them meanings that shore up our own views of the world.”

Right on. She says she learned with Mabel how to “feel more human once you have known, even in your imagination, what it is like to be not.” She could have ended the book there and I would have been happy but she continued on with White’s story, which at times, overshadowed her own. I could have done without much of the detail of his story and the book would have been stronger for it. I also found myself getting tired near the end from hearing mini dramas about how she was always losing her hawk. But I still gave it five stars, so it these things must not have bothered me too much!

One thing I thought was funny was how, once Macdonald started using antidepressants, she described the hawk as looking much happier, too. I think this was when she was still caught up in the hawk being an extension of herself.

And I was happy to see that Macdonald delved into the “conversation of death” described in Barry Lopez’s book, “Of Wolves and Men.” This is an exchange that happens between wolves and their prey that either triggers a chase or diffuses the hunt. If you’ve read my novel “Eye of the Wolf,” you know that I delved into it, too.

As I was thinking about writing this review, I came across a quote from Henry Beston (“The Outermost House”) that sums up my philosophy and what I think Macdonald was trying to say with her memoir well:

“We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals…. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

Agree? Disagree? Am I some psycho loony? (Smirk.)

Gale-Force Winds and Gear Thieves – A Trip to the Apostle Islands

Julian Bay on Stockton Island in the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore.

Julian Bay on Stockton Island in the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore.

I recently meandered to the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore in Lake Superior. The Apostles are a group of islands scattered off the end of the Bayfield Peninsula in Wisconsin. Unlike the name would suggest, there are more than twelve.

No roads or stores exist on the islands. They offer a primitive camping experience – not quite as primitive as the boundary waters, but close to it. Madeline Island, where I also travelled recently, is part of the formation, but it’s not part of the lakeshore because it’s so developed.

My friend and I had reservations to camp for four nights on Stockton Island, the largest in the park. The weather forecast couldn’t get much better – 75 degrees and sunny every day, so I Ieft my hat, gloves, and warm jacket at home even though I knew better.

Pretty nice campsite view, eh?

Pretty nice campsite view, eh?

Our first day was gorgeous – sunny and warm. Setting up a tent in such calm conditions was a novelty. I should back up and mention that although people can reserve a campsite on Stockton, they can’t reserve a specific site. Instead, after the boat drops campers off, a free-for-all sprint is required to beat others and snag your desired site.

Such athletic prowess is not required every day – just the more popular ones for travel, such as Friday. Nineteen sites are scattered along about a mile of shoreline, so the sprint (okay, perhaps it was more like a jog) can get a bit long. I don’t recommend carrying anything heavy during this process!

Another friend told me which sites had the best beaches, and of course, these were the ones farthest from the boat dock. While my camping friend stayed on the dock with our gear, I successfully staved off a woman about my age who was carrying a backpack to bag a site that offered a view and private beach. It’s dog-eat-dog in the wilderness, you know.

Brownstone quarry, Stockton Island.

Brownstone quarry, Stockton Island.

The next day was a little windy, but still sunny. We chose to hike to an abandoned brownstone quarry on the island. Once we returned to our campsite, the wind picked up to gale intensity and stayed that way until our last evening. In the ensuing days, to escape the wind we crossed the island to Julian Bay and Anderson Point. Julian Bay boasts a protected, beautiful beach, and Anderson Point features a mossy primeval forest.

Thankfully, the temperatures stayed in the 60s, so although the wind was a nuisance, it was not bone-chilling. But having a hat and warm jacket along would have made for more comfortable camping. Lesson learned? Don’t believe the weather report. As the park people like to say, “The Lake is the Boss.” It (and its weather) will do what it wants. Bring warm clothes, even in August.

Another lesson we learned was to guard your gear on the dock. We had piled ours there in anticipation of the cruise boat back to the mainland. Unbeknownst to us, several families had just arrived and were all camping together. They had a few kayaks left on the dock that they came back to move. But because their group had so many people, they weren’t sure what gear was whose, and they started to grab our packs to float them back to their campsite in their kayaks. Luckily, I happened to be watching. I ran to the end of the dock and let them know they were taking our stuff.

Anderson Point rocks, Stockton Island.

Anderson Point rocks, Stockton Island.

The same thing happened about an hour later when other members of the group made their way to the dock. This time, I was distracted. I was talking to my friend about how I had saved our stuff from being carted away. We walked back toward the dock and looked at the spot where our stuff should be. It wasn’t there!

As we approached, we ran into several people carrying our gear off the dock. Again, we explained that it was our stuff. They were appropriately sheepish and apologetic, and probably secretly thankful they didn’t have anything more to carry.

Despite the would-be gear thieves and gale-force winds, the island worked its magic. I was able to exchange my everyday worries for worries about basic survival, which was somehow refreshing. I read a book, hiked a lot, swam (well, almost) in chilly Lake Superior, breathed in the scent of pines and cedar, stretched out on the beach, attended evening ranger talks, and learned more about a new place and a new person.

Lake Superior thrill ride.

Lake Superior thrill ride.

Radio Interview About My Books

Hello — Life has been sweeping over me like a tidal wave recently, but I was still able to make time for an interview about my novels on a community radio station. Follow this link to hear my interview yesterday on KUMD’s Minnesota Reads show (and discover why I’m nervous to have my parents read my books).

I was honored to be included in the show, which airs every Thursday morning at 8:15 a.m. Tune in!