Bridge to the Enchanted Forest

April 22, 2018

            Our half-mile long driveway crosses Hay Creek, a flowage that drains a large bog area replete with a number of beaver dams and small ponds. The creek has begun to flow on this Earth Day, but the four side-by-side culverts under our driveway are still frozen. Melt-water, not to be hindered, pours across the top of the icy surface of the road on its relentless journey to Hudson Bay.  When returning home from work, we dare go no further and simply park the car on the far side, slip on a pair of boots and wade across. This seems like a small inconvenience that does not occur every year, but a walking bridge might be a helpful addition.

            An upcoming wedding activated the planning gene in our family’s mother/daughter team. Nearly two years ago, these two suggested that the old, plywood-decked dock would not be acceptable for a lakeside ceremony planned for the following summer. Talk transitioned to action when an approaching late autumn snow storm inspired us to move the old dock away from the lake, up a narrow, winding trail, and closer to a potential bridge site on the creek. Five hours later and with a number of chain-sawed trees, we almost beat the snow. We tipped the bridge on its back, removed the wheels and for the winter months, it rested, feet in the air like a hibernating bear. Come spring, we moved the soon-to-become bridge into place above the Hay Creek waterway and with jacks, pry bars, long ropes, and a pulley fastened to a far-side tree, we pulled the wood and metal beast into place, tipped it over—we had a bridge.

            The bridge spans forty feet to the far bank. A metal chair placed in the middle of the structure is a unique perch to observe the happenings within this northern Minnesota niche.  Looking down into the water, a circle of charred sticks from a winter campfire stare up from the grip of ice, submerged now under the eight inches of spring flow. Just downstream, but still out of sight under the ice, I remember a stretch of creek bottom made of one-inch pebbles cemented in hard clay/gravel matrix. This conglomerate is a glacial puzzle amidst the sand and clay that bottoms the length of the creek. The water winds in tight half circles through a lush, now brown, cover of swamp grass toward a beaver dam located approximately 300 yards away. Small clumps of willow along with silver, barkless trees poke up along the route. The ash and elm trees, most now bare of branches, some with holes bored by pileated woodpeckers, reach more than thirty feet above the flood plain. From my bridge view, I watch six deer walk single file on the opposite side of the creek and as they disappear from sight, I know their trail will pass directly under my deer stand.

            We call those dense and dark woods beyond the end of the bridge, “the Enchanted Forest.”  This area is not a fairy tale, a theme park, nor do medieval folk characters inhabit it. This ridge along the far side of Hay Creek is an old growth forest, at least old since the last forest fire swept the area in the early 1900’s. Scattered between large poplar, birch, and spruce trees are old snags of burned pine trees. A few of these relics are shoulder high, but most have broken over, their prostrate lengths covered with layers of moss and mushrooms. A few resilient pine knots, twisted, weathered, and ridged into three-dimensional Rorschach tests, poke out of the decades of leaves and needles that cushion the soil below. Strings of pale-green moss hang from the branches of the spruce that grow thick and impenetrable as a hedge wall. It is dark and spooky to walk along deer trails that wind through blow-downs. 

            Pause at the north edge of the old growth forest and look up. A ladder of 2×4’s nailed between two trees reaches up to a deer stand. This small platform is camouflaged with spruce boughs and commands a view of a clearing bordered on the right by Hay Creek. This latest version of a tree stand is actually my third build here—the first two, felled or snapped off by high summer winds. More than a few deer have been harvested in this area. Is there a more exciting time of anticipation than hearing quiet footsteps cautiously approaching your hidden position? A 10-point buck? A black bear? A hunter’s mind has no limits for the unseen. Most puzzling was an otter rustling through the leaves as it traveled cross-country toward the creek.

            An old barbed-wire fence line, rusty and twisted, hides in the grass and brush along the creek and probably marked a boundary of a long-ago field or pasture, some pioneer’s lost dream that we can only guess about. On the north end of the clearing, a place we call Waldon’s Pond, provides a shelter blind approximately 15 feet above the water—a perfect place to watch and listen to the wildlife.  A couple of large granite boulders dropped by the last glacier provide adequate seating. An empty beaver house settles in front of the dam; the residents were often trapped, but have now moved on, having emptied the surrounding pantry of the poplar trees utilized as food. Minnows can sometimes be seen at the base of the breached dam; a wood duck nest is nailed to a birch tree on the far bank and we expect pairs of Canada geese, mallards, and green herons to nest once the ice clears.

            My intentions today were to just sit in the chair on the middle of the bridge with no worries, just soak up some sunshine and listen to the sounds of nature. I have never been good at the meditation thing, at closing out the surrounding world and concentrating on my inner self. There are always distractions. The wind, a birdcall, and a chainsaw from across the lake invade my space. I have learned to find peace and solitude by simply accepting and enjoying the world around me. And so it was today. The creek gurgled under my feet. The wind was gentle across the grass, a few crows make busy in the distance, a pair of geese created a disturbance far greater than would be expected from just two birds, a woodpecker hammered at a nearby tree. My eyes were closed with nary a thought of Earth Day and all the problems of the world.

            An unfamiliar sound floated from the direction of the Enchanted Forest. It was like broken glass, but with a more metallic ring, maybe like tinfoil or cellophane being crumpled in your hand. It only lasted for a few seconds and seemed not to originate from a single point. I was instantly alert. In a few minutes it happened again, but from up the valley on the opposite side of the creek. My eyes were now open, my senses on edge. Time lost all meaning and it was similar to hearing the leaves rustling while sitting in the deer stand. This brief vibration had no point of origin, no pattern and was a mystery until it came from near the end of the bridge. A section of frozen snow broke away from the bank. The overflow water from the creek was undercutting and then lifting the frozen slabs along the bank. The sound came when two slabs rubbed past each other. Now I could actually see other sections of snow moving in rhythm with the water. Mystery solved. There were no celebrating elves in the Enchanted Forest. It was simply the power of the sun working its magic on Earth Day, 2018.