Coulee creeks

We spent parts of yesterday and today exploring the coulees in the area where we're staying. Last August, this region suffered inundation from record-breaking floods. There's been lots of clean up and lots more remains to be done. Life goes on and, by appearances, so does the fishing of the creeks that drain the coulees. We saw quite a few anglers, or, at least empty vehicles in turnouts, today as we drove around.

timber coulee flood debris timber

Photo by J. Harrington

Based on the reports we had heard, and the debris height that remains, we might have expected every trout, mayfly, caddis, and scud to have ended up down in the Mississippi River along with trees and large chunks of the hillsides. Reports from Wisconsin's DNR, via the folks at The Driftless Angler, are that the decline, if any, in fish populations is slight. We're still hoping to confirm that, but we're just working out the kinks, testing some new toys and getting back into the grove called fly-fishing, not to be confused with fishing for flies. So, the Better Half and I have been practicing our casting, checking our leaders, tie-ing on flies, and waiting out breezy times, not necessarily in that order.

Timber coulee washout and timber debris

Photo by J. Harrington

Today we stopped in Viroqua and visited Driftless Angler, the Ewetopia yarn shop, and the offices of the Valley Stewardship Network, where we picked up a copy of Reading the Driftless Landscape. We're going to see if the section on developing a Land Stewardship Management Plan will help us get better organized for our efforts on our own small parcel in the St. Croix Watershed. We haven't yet seen a comparable resource from the St. Croix River Association, but then we've not yet asked them.

Have you heard enough red-winged blackbird calls to consider them cheery? We used to file their sounds of a rusty gate hinge in the same category as fingernails on a blackboard. After listening to a multitude of them for the past few days, we've reassessed that opinion. Perhaps it's the association of squeaky gates with Spring time heart warming, instead of a transition from Winter into Spring that's triggered the readjustment. The combination of blackbirds, frogs, toads and whatever else is calling, calling, calling in the fields makes cacophonous sound charming. Now, if only we can complete the transition from fishing to catching.

[NOTE: this was posted a few days after it was written. We neglected to bring the cord that would let us transfer pictures from the camera to the computer.]

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

For more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

-Mary Oliver

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