The Call of the Wild

Growing up in a city, nature has always held a certain fascination for me. I realized this fact again on Sunday night and Monday morning when we had some serious rainstorms roll through the area. I didn’t realize how severe they had been until I ventured out for a walk right after the lightning stopped on Monday. There are four parks or fields where I go to hit golf balls on a rotating basis; three of them were under several feet of water, while the other looked like the Brad Pitt film, A River Runs Through It. The deepest one was in a grassy bowl officially known as the “Greenwood Detention Basin,” as if that’s where all recalcitrant waters have to go if they misbehave in school. The water  in there was at least ten feet deep with more gushing in every second. (I guess I’ll never find those golf balls I lost). It turns out that River Falls received 7.25 inches of rain in about 12 hours, while neighboring towns had over 9 inches. After lunch, Kathleen and I went down to check out the Kinnickinnic River where it runs through the center of our town. It was eerie. We walked out on the downtown bridge and the water was only a few feet from the highest point of the arched overpass. The fluid was positively roiling just beneath our feet as it rushed by. It was moving so fast that we became a bit dizzy looking over the edge at the murky brown liquid. At the Swinging Bridge a few blocks away, the scene was equally impressive. The normally calm observation point was thunderous with noise as water cascaded down the South Fork of the river before colliding violently with the main river artery as it poured over the Junction Dam, spraying mist high into the air. I think we need this sort of unexpected weather outburst on occasion to remind us what a powerful force nature can be.

I’ve never been much of a nature lover. In Chicago, the cemetery across the street from my boyhood home offered the only substantial swatches of green in our neighborhood. Between my house and the cemetery was a narrow street and a 30-feet-wide, flat area of grass that gradually rose to an embankment for the Grand Trunk RR tracks. This strip of grass, rocks, and cinders provided fields for all sports. In the spring and summer, we played baseball or softball (Chicago style, with a 16-inch ball, of course) on an elongated diamond custom-tailored to the narrow shape of the field. In the fall, we played football there. The only problem was that most of the punts changed directions in unexpected ways after hitting the power lines above us. In January, it was usually cold enough for hockey, and the fireman on our block accommodated us by rigging a firehose to the hydrant and flooding the slightly recessed field for us. By blocking off the ends of our field with dirt and waiting for it to freeze, we created a reasonable facsimile of an ice rink.

Aside from that, we also played on the rapidly disappearing vacant lots scattered around Mt. Greenwood. Kathleen is always amused by the way my family refers to those postage-stamp lots as “prairies,” a word that, for her, conjured up images of pioneers, wagon trains, and vast expanses of tall grass. Even when developers starting building homes on those lots, we saw an opportunity for childhood games. Being less than two decades removed from WWII, “playing army” was always a favorite pastime. A dirt-hill that resulted from the digging of a foundation and basement could be converted quickly by our imaginations into a Japanese stronghold somewhere in the South Pacific. The newspaper clipping above is from 1964, when an Allied victory over such an entrenchment was memorialized by an intrepid, battlefield photographer. (I want it noted for the record that I was described as “virile,” despite the fact that I later got yelled at by my mom because I was still wearing my pajama top late in the afternoon.)

None of those places, however, offered much of an opportunity to encounter wildlife. My only clear recollection of meeting dangerous animals of any sort occurred when I was about seven years old. My best friend, Johnnie Rock (also depicted above) and I were coming home from school for lunch, and we cut through someone’s backyard. While running through the yard, Johnnie tripped over a chain, that unfortunately was attached to a large German Shepherd. The dog attacked and bit off part of Johnnie’s ear, an incident that traumatized me for life. Since that day, I’ve never been a person who likes to commune with nature in any significant way.

I do, however, enjoy running or hiking on trails in the woods. In Nashville, I learned to enjoy the beauty and solitude that trail-running afforded. Running on dirt or rock trails is great fun as you use the momentum of a downhill section to carry you up the next hill, or careen around downhill curves with reckless abandon.  The Warner Parks in Nashville provided miles of isolated trails in the middle of the city. Fairly often, I would cross paths with a deer, and I once saw a timber rattler sunning itself on a trail, but I found few other animals in my sojourns through the park. River Falls, of course, is much smaller in size, but I have explored every state park trail within a ten-mile radius. Having been running or hiking on these trails through autumn, winter, spring, and now summer, I have been able to witness the dramatic changes of the seasons. Suddenly, I gained a new appreciation for the hundreds of paintings Claude Monet made of haystacks, cathedrals, or lily ponds. He would paint the same scene multiple times, at different times of the day or the year, to study the effect the altered angle of the sun had on the particular image. The paths on which I run every week or so at “The Mound,” a steep ridge near our home, have gone from leaf covered, to icy and slick, to muddy. The last time I was there, the summer foliage had grown so thick that many of the trails have narrowed from several feet across to a few inches. Running in the morning involves breaking through the many gossamer cobwebs that have been erected overnight.

Another thing I have discovered in recent months is that, in Northern Wisconsin, if you are in the woods, you stand a good chance of running into wild animals. As an addendum to that statement, I would add that, regardless of where you are, you are never far from the woods. Therefore wildlife often has the run of the place. While running, I have been startled by huge wild turkeys, I nearly stepped on a sizable snake of indeterminate species, and a few weeks ago, a deer nearly took me out as it bounded across my trail. I am currently reading a novel set in the UP (Upper Peninsula of Michigan, across the northern border of Wisconsin), and a cougar figures prominently in that story. I have discovered that, while bobcats are frequently seen in the area, their larger and more dangerous cousins, the cougar, are pretty rare. Still, there have been sightings of these predatory creatures along the Willow River near here, and some authorities believe there may be a breeding population in the state for the first time in over a century. I have become fascinated with these wildcats, and I am ever-vigilant on my hikes, hoping to catch a glimpse of one—albeit from a great distance.

A more realistic expectation of a dramatic encounter would involve black bears. The only bears I’ve ever known have been Chicago’s professional football team and the cute “Honeybear” mascot of Harpeth Hall School, where I taught for many years. According to the Department of Natural Resources, however, “Wisconsin is home to a thriving black bear population estimated at more than 24,000 bears.” I believe this is true, because one of the critters has apparently decided to call our neighborhood home. In recent days, there have been half-a-dozen sightings of a black bear on our street and elongated cul-de-sac, one just two doors down from us. There are woods and steep hills just behind our home and all around the horse-shoe-shaped cul-de-sac. This big guy has appeared from those woods in search of food and found the many bird-feeders in the area to his liking. On my last trip to “The Mound,” just a few blocks from here, I made as much noise as I could as I hiked through the thick foliage, hoping to scare away any lions, tigers, or bears that might be around. Every time a squirrel scurried through the underbrush, I pictured a bear the size of a Buick or a tawny cat that outweighed me by 20 pounds launching itself at my throat.

So if you happen to be walking through any woodsy paths around River Falls, and you hear a lot of coughing and throat-clearing, or perhaps someone rattling their car keys like Jacob Marley’s chains, don’t be alarmed. It’s just me trying to avoid a close encounter of the natural kind.