Thursday, November 20, 2008

October in the North: We Wait




The office is noisy—walkie-talkie conversations crackling up from downstairs, the whackita-whackita of Jay’s key board on an uneven keel, and, after I tried to fix the “whackita” problem, the happy couple is… mad at each other.
I sat down to write about October…the Fall…In other words, to write down something poetic—not to do an annoyed piece about how I never have any peace and quiet to write and how my life as a writer is doomed and the odds are against me and my husband needs to work less so he doesn’t feel rushed and cranky and irritable and behave like an ass!

But that’s the thing about fall vs. summer, or at least the pre-Winter stage of fall we’re in. The colors are gone and the sun is unreliable, leaving us with bare or burned-bare trees, gray skies and cold winds most days; expecting us to make our own happiness.
I think often of Emily Dickinson writing, “April is the cruelest month.” She was, I think, referring to the unattractive revealing of all things hidden so forgivingly by the snow, now exposed, muddy, ugly—and unavoidable.
But October—or, since the months feel different this far north, let’s just call it what it’s been for two weeks: November—when everything is bare and waiting to be covered, can be hard, too.

Today the sun shone through clear skies right from the very start—the promise of two days in a row of actual light. I took my journal and sat on a chilly rock down by the water with a good view from East to West. The trees were rimmed with orange light, but as I wrote, the line of color faded and so did I. Would the rocks and trees and distant chapel on the island still seem hopeful and beautiful in the blank light of day? Or would I have to conjure up the beauty and optimism myself?
Imagine my utter surprise when an orange orb caught my eye! The sun was rising above the trees! After so many days and weeks of unchanging, unforgiving solid gray clouds that lit the day with nothing but ambient light, my internal clock was actually expecting the sun to set at 8 a.m.
Now it shines yellow on the cedars, who keep their winter leaves green, and on spruce (black and white), and red and white pine. Even balsam fir is turned the color of old army blankets in this angle of light.
The Ham Lake fire—in the spring of 2007—burned so much of this area, I’m lucky to have green trees to look at. Out across the water, not far from the chapel, the dull grays and blacks and reds don’t respond much to the presence or absence of the sun. Another lake, called Pincushion, got its name because of its stark, fire-sculpted landscape. The hill that rose up from the water on one side had once been topped with swaying pines. After a fire went through, travelers arriving at the landing saw only tall, jagged tree trunks, some black, some the bare gray-white of the exposed wood standing naked of its bark, poking up out of the mound of earth and rock. The likeness gave it the name it still has today. Around here, the trees seem to be stitching up the sky, dragging it down on cloudy days when there is some substance to grab at.


It was beautiful at the beginning of October, and I feel obligated to try to remember that. I had a friend take photos me—dressed as my newest character: a tree spirit with a half-mask and on stilts—amid the intense colors. My costume of camouflage layered with near-spring green, true red, glittering flecks of purple and russetty pinks matched the display of colors exactly.
Without its summer green, the black willow by the lake was accentuated—hunched and curved over itself, the bark even blacker in the damp of fall and the leaves like sunlit yellow feathers from some mythical goose. The aspen and birch were crowned in golden coins, and the poplar dropped leaves laced with blood red at their hearts.
The rosehips (the bulbs directly behind the pale pink summer blossoms of wild roses—full of seeds and very good for you) were absolutely scarlet—vermillion—crimson. They were the first to turn, as early as August and September—first blushing pink, then orange, then like miniature sunsets, descending into an array of cranberry reds. Now they are shriveled and puckered, but in the height of the fall foliage, they were still full and round and vivid.
Low bushy plants shot up in magentas, small fuzzy caterpillar plants turned even grayer against the backdrop of their brilliant neighbors. The tall grass lining the driveway varied between green and brown, gold and ochre. The blueberry bushes were my favorite and most unexpected—set against boulders of pale cloud-gray lichen, sea foam and velvety emerald greens of moss, the purple-tinged blueberry leaves were more vivid than the rosehips.
I took careful stock of the many now-disclosed patches, next to reaching spruces, or scattered like embers in the wake of the fire between the charred black trunks of trees. If I had to pick the best thing about summer in the far north, I would not hesitate to say, “Blueberries.” They were in abundance here, growing thick after the fire as they are known to do. There is nothing else that can make you feel so wealthy and satisfied as stopping every couple yards to bend and gather a handful of the purplish blue berries and throw the whole decadent fistful into your mouth. All summer I walked, looking not up at the trees or the summer sky, but down—scanning, panning left to right and back again, like a hungry black bear, searching for more berries to eat.

The cedars all turned patchy orange this year, alarming us. We thought it was global warming, but our resident U of M forestry graduate student told us they do this every few years—the coniferous trees do in fact shed some of their needles. Even the red pines were patterned with puffs of rusty brown.
The tamaracks, growing in the low, swampy areas, turned color later and until last week were still in their prime. Before the cold came, they were indistinguishable from their spruce and balsam neighbors, but suddenly, after a drop in temperature, the drive down the winding Gunflint Trail was lined with trees covered in feathery, downy tufts, all the color of goldenrod and spaghetti squash. The sudden coloring of the tamaracks gave the forests an ethereal feel—if the evergreens could magically change color, what would happen next?
And through it all, the true evergreens held the standard—the murky, mysterious depth of dark color that all the blooming soft-leaved trees make their debut and finale against.

It’s good to remember all this, being in the “in-between” season we are now. Since moving here, I have decided four seasons are not enough to be accurate. There are at least two distinct seasons between summer and winter: the color time, the moss and spider time, the waiting time of gray clouds. Even summer has its early stage of near-spring, then the wildflower time (and the disappearance of the rich silky moss, hidden by enthusiastic grasses); there is the berry time (strawberries first, then raspberries and blueberries), there is the heat and height of the summer with hot days and sweet lethargy; there is the time of cooler nights and the quick chilling of the lake; and there is a quiet, pensive time as summer moves smoothly into Fall.
It’s the cold time now. We have a reprieve today, but we aren’t fooled. We are waiting. There has been frost on the ground and some transient snow. It will get colder. The lake will freeze at some point and become safe enough to walk across. The snow will fall and we will put on our snowshoes or skis.
But for now, we are preparing; biding our time, like everyone else. The red squirrels gather up pinecones and eat the seeds, leaving piles of red-orange shingles on stumps and rocks; the gray jays and blue jays are bolder and more aggressive. I have not seen the pine marten since spring, but not doubt he is rifling through our garbage.
The wolf packs are out—I have caught lone figures in my headlights, running on the road, and one, easily matching me in weight, crossed right by our mailbox and disappeared into the trees on the other side. The scrawny foxes of the summer are thick and richly cloaked in readiness; the moose are patchy, growing their winter coats.
We are patchy, too—scrappy-looking with feelings to match. Sometimes cheerful, making our own entertainment, then at others, grumpy—bears ready for hibernation, unhappy to be disturbed from our pre-winter sleep.

Emily, or some other observant person commented, “Death comes to us all.”
So does Winter.
But not yet.



Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux, 30/10/2008