Out for a Sunday morning walk, I headed for nearby Wirth Park and saw a white-bearded man sitting on a lawn chair reading a book. His chair overlooked a copse of oak trees and white pines. A nice spot, I thought, as I passed him, heading for the copse. I wondered what book he was reading, then my mind drifted to other things as it often does.
Fortunately I came out of my reverie to notice that I was walking in the midst of a rafter of wild turkeys. They kept their distance, maybe 25 feet, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by my presence. I was tempted to stop but I knew that would actually would alarm them. I just slowed my pace a little and enjoyed the moment of peaceful coexistence. My hunter's instinct intruded with the thought that if I'd had a weapon, even a slingshot, I could be roasting wild turkey on the Weber that night. Though I suspect if I had been hunting, the turkeys would have sensed it and been more wary.
Theodore Wirth Park, Minneapolis' largest, has many miles of official trails and many more miles of unofficial ones. During the 2020 pandemic summer of solitude, I took the opportunity to explore them thoroughly. On these walks, I bring with me a water-bottle carrier with a pouch for my phone and other odds and ends, plus a pair of binoculars, just in case there's some bird watching to be done. It's been a luxury to live so close to the park and over the years I've seen a considerable variety of animals -- coyotes, foxes, snapping turtles, bald eagles, harrier hawks, coopers hawks, falcons, blue herons, green herons, egrets, orioles, goldfinches, wood ducks, starlings, chickadees, pileated woodpeckers, downy woodpeckers, killdeer, nuthatches and others.
The park runs along Bassett Creek, a stream that originates from Medicine Lake out in the western suburbs and flows through downtown Minneapolis and into the Mississippi River. Unlike the more famous Minnehaha Creek, most of Bassett Creek is invisible, flowing under the infrastructures of modern civilization. But in Wirth Park, its meanderings are visible as it passes through wooded hills and marshes.
The creek narrows as it passes under the bridge and forms a short set of rapids. This is a favorite lingering spot for hikers and bikers. For a while, on a concrete abutment, there was a kind of shrine composed of candles and various bric-a-brac. Among the items was a note stuffed into a mason jar. One day I pulled it out and read it.
The note was a vague but sad lament of a mother who had lost a child. She had created the little shrine as a memorial. I felt the sadness, yet, for some reason, the skeptic in me doubted it was really a true story. But what does it matter? Maybe the story was true enough in the sense that it conveyed a genuine sadness that couldn't be put to words in any other way.
I think that may have been the same day I looked up and noticed an inscription etched into the concrete of the bridge -- a quote from the poet, Mary Oliver:
"Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us."
Going south, the trail moves into an area of scattered trees overlooking a marshy pool. It's a good spot for birding and I've actually chatted with a couple of bird enthusiasts who like to lurk there. A ways beyond, a side trail cuts through an area of tall grass toward a copse of scraggly trees.
In this copse I found one of my favorite places, a small clearing transformed into a kind of natural temple by who knows who. I get the impression that the person, or people, who created it and once tended it are gone now. It's basically a trail of stones leading to a circle of stones around what was once a flower bed. Wild plants intrude now but the flowers are still hanging on. A well-used fire pit outside the circle tells of youths out on nighttime adventures.
An old, decaying stump serves as an altar. Placed upon it are many doodads that I can only assume are offerings. Offerings to whom, I'm not sure. There's no references to any specific religion, so I imagine the offerings are to the spirit of the creek, who, except in the park, must feel quite neglected.
I decided to make my own offerings when I come by -- something found, usually, and nothing plastic: a colorful pebble, a rusty wheel nut, a coin, a shot glass, and so on. These things are sometimes there when I come back; sometimes they're gone. I complete the ritual by walking around the circle of stones three times. Then I'm on my way.
Walking has become a centerpiece of my life. I'm drawn to it more than, say, jogging or riding a bike, which certainly have their merits. But with walking I can do two things I enjoy very much -- thinking and seeing.
A toad on the trail. Would you notice it if you were riding or jogging? Or, if you did, would you stop to look more closely?
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