from dawn to dusk

The sun rises over the sandy banks of the island in the middle of the Wisconsin River.





Oh, it’ll be a warm Sunday. Very warm. And we have a long haul before us. So far, we’ve paddled barely a third of the way to Boscobel, our take out point.

Still, Ed lights up the little stove and I pause over oatmeal and a coffee. (This is the one use I have for Starbucks these days: they make a hell of a delicious instant.)

Normally, we do not hurry a morning. Here, where the sands squeak and the current ripples against the banks in the most wonderful way, it’s especially difficult to pack the boat and go. But, there’s no choice. And so by 9:30, we’re in the water, paddling.

We’re now going through the bluffy part of the river and here’s where autumn looks just as you want it to be -- touched gently by color. Not jarring, not exaggerated. Almost timid, but lovely nonetheless.










The sun stays behind us at first, then slowly moves toward the bow. I am getting one heck of a tan – on my left (south) side only.






We try to read the river, to cut back on the “getting stuck in the shallows” routine, but it’s hard. Again and again, we have to get out and push the boat to where the current is strong and the river bed is deep. Each hoist out of the boat is tough enough under any circumstances, but in this boat especially it’s a challenge. She sways, she rocks and if you tip her over six inches, she fills with water (there’s not much freeboard on this vessel).

We pause on another island for a lunch of bread, cheese and tomato, but only when my calculations tell me that it's okay, that we will get to the final point by sunset. Even so, I hurry Ed along. He tries to hury, but he cannot. A swim? Sure, there’s time for a swim. But hurry!

Yes, hurry. The enemy of a good passage here. I hurry right into the canoe, tip it six inches or so and fill her with a good base of water. We spend the next fifteen minutes bailing her out.

And we continue in our Huck Finn wannabe way. Getting a charge out of the most routine of events -- a flight of geese, a passage of a puffy cloud.


 


Past countless turtles, resting at the side, but only until we come close – then they jump off, one by one, plopping in, leaving no turtle behind.









We watch the occasional fisherperson too. I liked this one. I waved, She waved. I imagined her filling the truck with fish for the whole cold season before us.





The sun is now definitely on a steady descent.





We’re gettin’ there, but both Ed and I are putting in a lot of muscle on the final stretch. And we miss spotting some of the submerged timbers. Twice we hear the sharp scrape of underwater logs against the kayak’s (or canoe, we don’t quite know what it is...) bottom. We pause each time to check for holes. A scrape on a fiberglass boat is no big deal. On this boat – a rip is a very real possibility.

But we’re lucky. And we are at the final bridge before 6.






Ed sits back as I do the final paddle in. On the shore, a woman shouts out – you realize he’s making you do all the work! I know, I know, it’s been that way all along, I retort. But I don’t mean a word of it.





The light is deliciously golden. We pack up our boat, load the car and head back to Spring Green. Ed's car is there and we look affectionately at the two cars together -- quite likely the ugliest little cars this side of the Mississippi. He switches to his, I stay in mine, we head home.

give me a boat, that can carry two...

In my mind, rivers are like cats: they have their own personality, a strong one at that and you better not mess with it, or else. Instead – study it. Find the gentle spots. And if there aren’t any, then go with what you’ve got.

I think about this now that we’re half dragging ourselves into the farmhouse, hungry as anything, ready to plunk down and devour the takeout pizza. That Wisconsin River, the old cat, it can play tricks on you.


It was to be a two day trip – on a stretch we’ve done before: from Spring Green to Boscobel. I’d say it’s a solid two day paddle, but one that’s not going to let your heart race.if you spread it out right.

The thing is, our start was substantially delayed. We lost our way driving there. No kidding. At one point, Ed pulled me over (we took both cars) and said – we’re going to see a lot of Wisconsin. We’re way off target.

We saw a lot of Wisconsin. 122 miles worth (instead of half that).





So there was that. Additionally, when you do a paddle in a country that doesn’t adore public transportation, you have to leave a car at the take out point, then drive over together to the put in point. You need two cars, strategically placed. Tick tock, tick tock.

Then, too, putting the kayak/canoe together – that same boat that gave us such a whopping great run along the Dordogne this summer, took a while. That sassy old girl! Not easy to work with, that's for sure. That's before she lets out air in her bladders when she's had enough.

But, finally, we’re set.





I look at my watch. 2:30. We are pushing off at 2:30! Late!  Knowing full well that in October,  the sun sets at 6:25 and shadows form over the water even earlier than that.


Still, we are on the river and it is a fine river and who can worry about getting to Bascobel now.






The sun, even in the late afternoon, is toasty warm, the river is plenty challenging, what with her sandbars and downed timber, and the scenery? Gorgeous.






Still, we can't go for too long. We need to find a place to pitch a tent before the sun's gone. October doesn't give you much time to work with.






At around 6, we find a beautiful stretch of sand on a river island.  Facing the setting sun.

We unload the boat, put up just the inner mesh wall of the tent (no chance of rain, not tonight), Ed boils water for the mac and cheese supper, all this while the sun puts on the show of shows, right there before us.






And then it's gone. And there is complete quiet, except for the occasional splash of water as a fish jumps out then back in again.





Quiet. The hunters' rifles -- such a common sound in our state at this time of the year -- are still, the birds have settled down. Quiet. Ed's asleep by 8. Me, I drift in and out, checking up on the stars, the passage of the moon, listening for the next splash of a fish, then another...

where the waters flow...

7:30. Time to get going. Sun's been up for an hour already. If ever there is a fall week-end that begs for something special, something outdoorsy, something more gutsy than a walk – this is the one.

We’ll be taking the boat down the Wisconsin River. With a night on the sandbars. Back tomorrow evening.

Have a beautiful Saturday and Sunday. Full of sunny thoughts and small pleasures.

boxes

Time passes audaciously quickly when I am busy. But then on week-ends, when work slows down, time positively speeds. Beyond the speed limit, beyond what I find acceptable. It’s very odd.

Three boxes came this week: one has some hundred plus bulbs, plants and some bare-roots to put into the ground. I had the presence of mind to open it and take out the few plants that had to go in RIGHT NOW, but the rest – the bulbs – sit in the mudroom, waiting. The second box has a winter coat. I never bothered getting a winter coat when I lived in Madison – a versatile sports jacket served well for everything, from skiing to taking the bus to work. But I’m in the country. I want to ride Rosie when it’s cold. I need a coat. The box sits unopened. I haven’t the minute it would take to hang it up.

The third box has a flannel shirt for Ed – in commemoration of the around the corner anniversary/birthday (I met him on his birthday), but really because he needs one. He’ll sit in his Farm and Fleet all season jacket when he’s cold. The one shirt he has (that one, too, from Farm and Fleet where he tells me “normal people buy their clothing”) is made of scratchy wool and it is mighty uncomfortable to sit next to him when he puts it on. (It is only slightly better than the stiff jacket. Of course, he wont accept the shirt, because it is a gift and Ed does not deal well with gifts and so I anticipate that that box will remain in the mudroom for a long long time.


I leave campus today when it is still very very warm. Dry, too.






Rosie and I scoot past the lakes, taking a somewhat different route home.






There, the shadows are long, the colors are mellow. Autumnal gold, yes, that, and lemon yellow – see it?

hello, day

I am up, the sun is up, we are up together. There is a little window in the farmhouse bedroom. Through it, I can see well enough the emerging light each morning. And today, that emerging light looks like it's worth stepping out for. A pretty sunrise to start the day!






Thursday is a very long work day. Rosie waits patiently for me. She goes from being rather naked, to standing there as if showered by golden leaves.






These days are workdays, that’s for sure. But here's something unique: this is an October day when the temp hits 82. To be repeated tomorrow. You can’t ignore that. Perhaps getting up early and taking a shot of the misty skies just as the sun breaks through is one way of saying – I’m grateful. It’s going to be beautiful out there today. How splendid is that!

life is warm

On days like this, I feel I am dangerously close to Andy Rooney, as depicted in a cartoon I saw this week – in it, he comments on everything and nothing. Mostly nothing. Yeah. Exactly.

But this is the way it is: a day blooms, I venture forth. This morning, in the bright, heavenly light of a warm fall day.





I’m out early and so I take the longer route. Mostly bike trails. Warm! One of those October days you can’t really believe is an October day.





My final bike lap is on State Street. Here I am, taking a photo while careening down the middle of the bike and bus only street. (Even Rosie isn’t welcome on it.)





In the evening, I bike from the Café to the farmhouse. Past fields of corn and meadows of autumnal prairie flowers. Most are dry now. But occasionally, I’ll still be able to pick out the asters and the goldenrod.





I ask my students if they like such splendid weather on days that are super busy for them. Most say no. Me, I’m thrilled with the warmth, the brightness, the idleness of my steps as I walk from the Law School to the bike rack, or to Rosie’s stand by St Francis (it’s where I park her).

There’s winter ahead. I know that. But in this week of drying corn, drying leaves, drying grasses, I can hardly remember what winter’s like. Life is warm. Life is good.

days of October

It’s 11 p.m. There, I am forcing myself to stop work. Now... about the post. What? Has the day passed me by??

And it is such a splendid golden sunny week! I wish I didn't just get to feel the tail end of each day. Still, leaving work, I had a chance to sample that wonderful parched heat of another dry autumn day.





Rosie and I zipped over to the Café, then to the farmette. Across the road, the shadows cover the fields early. And still, on a day like today, who can groan about diminishing light! It was just so beautiful. Even as by evening, I have to wear the biker jacket. There’s a chill as you dip through the valleys. Sun or no sun, I'm definitely tasting autumn air.





Supper? Leftover cabbage soup! We just cannot get enough of it.

five... days of summer

Damn. Summer’s back. Maybe this makes you happy? Seeing all that blazing light, feeling the warm breeze, shedding layers... And me too – I loved biking to work..





...and from work to the Oasis Café ...





But there is a sadness there as well. It’s not summer. Work is pressing. And, even in the course of the day, it all ends way too quickly. The light fades, the evening comes. A chill returns. Until morning -- when, these days, or at least this week, the temptation, the happy ride, the wistful realization cycle through all over again.



In other news, I want to celebrate the lonely tomato in our yard. It wont stop, despite the threat of frost, the decreasing sunlight. It just keeps growing as if, as if... it were summer.







At the farmhouse though, I'm facing the cold months head on. An Ocean commentor mentioned cabbage soup. Mmm, cabbage soup. Our eastern European roots (Ed's and mine) are kicking in. Because it sure tasted good, five... days of summer notwithstanding.

hike

When you live in the country, it becomes less important to look for occasions to ...head out to the country. Last fall, I was eager to drive out with Ed most every week-end when the sun was out. This year, we have to nudge ourselves to move beyond the perimeters of our usual orbit.

Today, we nudged ourselves. We drove out to Governor Dodge State Park (45 minutes southwest from the farmette). There, we had in mind to do the trail (the horse trail) that skirts the edge of the entire park. It’s 15.3 miles. We thought we could do it in five hours. Easily!






Not so. The hills slowed us down and so it was 7.5 hours before we finally, FINALLY hit the home stretch (with a twenty minute pause for a pb&j lunch and a five minute snooze stop: Ed snoozed right in the middle of the trail as I took a call from a daughter).







Here’s the thing to remember: when you take a walk on a brilliant autumn day in Wisconsin, no photo is going to be as good as the real thing.






Still, here’s a sample. A little one. I’m too tired to do more for you tonight.

watching geese head south

There isn’t a lot out there that would cause me to switch from movie watching to football watching, but the hype for tonight's (UW) game has been tremendous and, well, I just want to know. Besides, the movie we had set for the evening was deeply depressing. I’m hoping that watching my enthusiastic university’s football team do well will be more upbeat.

I’m eager to stay with today’s more upbeat tone. Market. I had a great run through the downtown market. Maybe I’ve been lax in posting photos, but trust me – these are the weeks when the market is in its final weeks of glory. We’ve had several frosts already and so you’re not going to see summer staples much longer. Even as for now, there is color.






After the market, my daughter and I took off for Indian Lake. You can’t resist this on a brilliant fall day. A short drive north and you’re there.






We walked the circuit and I thought how so many of life’s struggles had been hashed over between my girls and myself on this path.





I felt better just remembering that.

On the Square again, we parted ways...



 



...and I headed home on Rosie. Home, yeah, that’s right, home. Where the nasturtium bloom and – something that I learned this year, continue to show off their loveliness if you cut them and bring them inside.

home

One hard lesson that I learned not too many years ago is this: if someone says (or does) the wrong thing, don’t you, too, say (or do) the wrong thing. You don’t get a free pass.

I remember almost twenty-five years ago having a very lovely conversation with Mrs. Jahnke. She was the principal in a Milwaukee elementary school and she said – it’s when they’re most obnoxious, that’s when they need you most. That’s an easier statement to live by when it’s about kids.

These were my evening thoughts. The day was somewhat different. And the afternoon was somewhat wonderful. Ed and I biked to the Oasis EVP coffee shop and even though the wind was still gusting (and therefore keeping a balance was interesting), the light was beautiful.





At the café, Ed helped the owners fix an Internet issue and even though it wasn’t me that helped fix a perplexing problem, still I was delighted that one of us could help.

After? Well, I had to go back into town. Rosie helped me. And it was a lovely, albeit chilly journey.





All the way to the Discovery Institute at the UW, where the spaces are beautiful and the discussion was, at the very least -- passionate.





At night, Rosie and I found our way home. The stars were out and the air was crisp. Home. BTW, what’s the definition of household? I want to know.

fair warning

Did you know this about Ed? I’ll fall asleep during a movie, or I’ll shy from kayaking down the Dordogne and so he’ll finish it (the movie, the river) alone. And, if it’ll be good, he’ll do it all over again with me, so that I can experience it. (The Answer Man, on DVD, last night.)


If you wake up in the morning to a weather alert (a mix of storms and rain and a promise of strong winds), it’s good to leave Rosie behind. She doesn’t like the wind.





The lake is rough today. I knew it would be. I made a point of walking down from my office so I could study the choppy waters.






Waves. Really.






Late in the day, I walk up and down State Street trying to find 449 State. Missed it twice. On the upside, it was kind of pretty out there, in a crazy skies sort of way.





Ed painted the trim around the door of the farmhouse today. I asked for him to do that. If only part of the farmhouse is to look pretty this winter, let it be the entrance.

I made a salad. Beans and tomatoes from the market, eggs from happy chickens, mustard from one of my summer trips across the ocean.

And speaking of trips, someone pointed me to the New York Times piece (in the travel section) on Krakow today. Made me look forward to going back all the more. Even if my annual return to Poland is not for another two months.


They say a red sun is a sailor’s fair warning. I saw it glowing early today. I considered myself warned.