It didn't look like much was going to be salvageable on Wednesday or Thursday morning, and the cottage we were staying in looked like a basement sump was already discharging constantly. If there was a power outage, life would get hectic and damp very quickly.
Event: Hydrologic Outlook Alert: ...Widespread 1 to 2 Inch Rainfall May Lead to River Rises andPossible Flooding...A strong system with abundant moisture is expected to produce 1to 2 inches of rainfall across the area, mainly from late tonightthrough late Wednesday night. This rain will fall on soils thatare still moist or wet from recent rains, snowmelt, and continuedbelow-normal temperatures. This rainfall will likely saturate thesoils once again, resulting in more runoff into area streams andrivers.Many rivers and streams remain higher than normal from recentrunoff and flooding, with the Mississippi River still above floodstage at some locations. Runoff from this mid-week rainfall willlikely cause within bank rises and may produce flooding on somearea rivers and streams later in the week. The runoff mayeventually produce renewed rises along the Mississippi River latethis week into the weekend.Those living near rivers and streams should closely monitor riverlevels Wednesday into this weekend and be prepared to move tohigher ground if necessary.
Timber Coulee Cottage
Photo by J. Harrington
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We had managed to work out many of the kinks we accumulated by having not been casting a fly rod for some time. We had some fun, good meals, interesting countryside to visit and watch Spring arrive. On the drive home we took a scenic route for the Northern half and reconnoitered other possible fishing spots. A couple looked like they might be worth further explorations in the future. Some were overgrown with alders so much that a fly rod might be good for drifting a worm downstream, but not for casting or even dapping.
The snow flakes we saw late in the day confirmed our decision. (At least we were spared the 9"+ Duluth got.) We've driven a convertible with the top down through snow showers, but we haven't yet tried to cast a fly in one.
The Late Wisconsin Spring
By John Koethe
Snow melts into the earth and a gentle breezeLoosens the damp gum wrappers, the stale leavesLeft over from autumn, and the dead brown grass.The sky shakes itself out. And the invisible birdsWinter put away somewhere return, the air relaxes,People start to circulate again in twos and threes.The dominant feelings are the blue sky, and the year.—Memories of other seasons and the billowing wind;The light gradually altering from difficult to clearAs a page melts and a photograph develops in the backyard.When some men came to tear down the garage across the wayThe light was still clear, but the salt intoxicationWas already dissipating into the atmosphere of constant dayApril brings, between the isolation and the flowers.Now the clouds are lighter, the branches are frosted green,And suddenly the season that had seemed so tentative beforeBecomes immediate, so clear the heart breaks and the vibrantAir is laced with crystal wires leading back from hell.Only the distraction, and the exaggerated sense of careHere at the heart of spring—all year long these feelingsAlternately wither and bloom, while a dense abstractionHides them. But now the mental dance of solitude resumes,And life seems smaller, placed against the backgroundOf this story with the empty, moral quality of an expansiveGesture made up out of trees and clouds and air.The loneliness comes and goes, but the blue holds,Permeating the early leaves that flutter in the sunlightAs the air dances up and down the street. Some kids yell.A white dog rolls over on the grass and barks once. AndAlthough the incidents vary and the principal figures change,Once established, the essential tone and character of a seasonStays inwardly the same day after day, like a person’s.The clouds are frantic. Shadows sweep across the lawnAnd up the side of the house. A dappled sky, a mild blueWatercolor light that floats the tense particulars awayAs the distraction starts. Spring here is at first so wary,And then so spare that even the birds act like strangers,Trying out the strange air with a hesitant chirp or two,And then subsiding. But the season intensifies by degrees,Imperceptibly, while the colors deepen out of memory,The flowers bloom and the thick leaves gleam in the sunlightOf another city, in a past which has almost faded into heaven.And even though memory always gives back so much more ofWhat was there than the mind initially thought it could hold,Where will the separation and the ache between the isolatedMoments go when summer comes and turns this all into a garden?Spring here is too subdued: the air is clear with anticipation,But its real strength lies in the quiet tension of isolationAnd living patiently, without atonement or regret,In the eternity of the plain moments, the nest of care—Until suddenly, all alone, the mind is lifted upward intoLight and air and the nothingness of the sky,Held there in that vacant, circumstantial blue until,In the vehemence of a landscape where all the colors disappear,The quiet absolution of the spirit quickens into fact,And then, into death. But the wind is cool.The buds are starting to open on the trees.Somewhere up in the sky an airplane drones.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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