Intangible (Fall 2020)

IN TANG I B LE A VOI C E FO R WILD NESS AND WOND E R

FA LL 2020 Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute NORTHLAND COLLEGE

OUR MISSION The Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute prepares people to meet the challenges of the future with intellectual and artistic creativity by promoting and protecting experiences of wildness and wonder.

To realize its mission, the Institute hosts LoonWatch, the Timber Wolf Alliance, the Sigurd Olson Nature Writing Awards, and numerous events for young people and adults.

LOONWATCH Loonwatch protects common loons and their aquatic habitats through education, monitoring, and research.

TIMBER WOLF ALLIANCE With a particular focus on Wisconsin and Michigan, the Timber Wolf Alliance uses science-based information to promote human coexistence with wolves and an ecologically-functional wolf population in areas of suitable habitat.

SIGURD OLSON NATURE WRITING AWARDS Established in 1991, the Sigurd Olson Nature Writing Awards honor the literary legacy of Sigurd Olson by recognizing and encouraging contemporary writers who capture the spirit of the human relationship with the natural world and who promote awareness, preservation, appreciation, or restoration of the natural world for future generations.

YOUTH AND ADULT PROGRAMS To promote experiences of wildness and wonder for young people and adults, the Institute offers annual internships, camps, clinics, lectures, conferences, retreats, and outings.

©2020 S igu rd O l so n Env i ro nme nt al Ins t it ute 7 1 5-6 82-1 223 so e i @ no r t h l a nd .e d u no r t h l a nd.e du /so e i

Awa re n e s s a n d a n O pe n Min d Sigurd Olson believed that it is only when we come to listen, when we are aware and still, that we see and hear.

For this, our second issue of Intangible, we invited three authors to share what they have heard in moments of quiet contemplation. Two of our authors heard the voice of Sig, resonating across time. And the third heard the words of Emily Dickinson, entangled with rushing water and American dippers.

They also heard the drone of a generator, the sober, climatic predictions of scientists, lonely insecurities, and calls to save the world. Their stories confirm that what we often hear is the dissonance of competing, strident voices. They remind us, sadly, that the common ground we found fifty years ago—our collective affirmation of civil rights, our shared vision for places like the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore— seems elusive.

But Olson also believed that when we really listen, with awareness and an open mind, that we recapture a sense of wonder and that we learn “from rocks and trees and all the life that is found there, truths that can encompass all.”

Perhaps it is no surprise then that the reflections of our writers culminate with the sound of “water shaking down from alder leaves” and with affirmations that we belong, that we are together on this beloved, troubled earth, and that we can still laugh with joy.

What do you hear when you allow yourself to listen?

A LA N B REW | E X ECU T IVE D IRECTOR

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SEEKING SIGURD The mushrooms of September were out in force, making

gumption to fight local opposition to establishing the

the forest floor look like a web of tiny villages. These

Boundary Waters as a wilderness. In 1977, he was hung

eggs with gills rose through the wetness and cool fog of

in effigy by his Ely neighbors.

morning.

I’m from the desert, a different kind of writer. I clock

I was staying in a yurt not far from Sigurd Olson’s cabin.

flash floods and ancient ruins in wild, echoing canyons.

On the walk over, I thought about what the naturalist-

The water I look for drips out of rock; sometimes you

writer might have seen in these woods. There were

only get a kiss, lips dampened. Olson was born in

seed heads and flags of moss to attend to, breezes that

Chicago and turned to the wilderness. I was born in the

required note, observations about larches and how they

sprawl of Phoenix, and did the same. He ran an outfitting

sway and draw circles in the sky.

business, and I guided on the big desert rivers—the

Olson called this place Listening Point, on the eastern shore of a northern Minnesota lake, and the point of rock he befriended still listens. Rimmed in woods, its arms and bays disappear around corners. Its edges are metamorphic and slick with Pleistocene polish. I

Colorado, Gunnison, Yampa, Green. He helped draft the 1964 Wilderness Act when he was 66 years old. I am 52 and came north to see what my predecessor saw, an American writer whose shoulders most nature writers now stand on.

stood where Olson stood, seeing what he saw, a writer

I brought a few of Olson’s books, and when rain came

like me but with roots in this lake country and enough

in the afternoon, I retreated to the yurt and sat at its

BY C RA IG C HILDS

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Who has ti me to read abo u t th e hardn es s o f ash trees that grow i n swamps, o r the eyes o f a man si tti n g al o n e befo re hi s f i re when i t feel s l i ke the wo r l d i s o n f i re?

eating table with Listening Point, his second book, published in 1958. I opened to chapter seven, “The Sound of Rain.” “Last night in my tent I listened to the rain,” he wrote. “At first it came down gently, then in a steady drumming downpour and I lay there wondering when I would begin to feel the first rivulets creeping beneath my sleeping bag.”

I tried to read the chapter without stopping, but rain on the plasticized canvas of the yurt lifted to a clamor with flash-bang lightning. It sounded like a roaring crowd, like a wave that wouldn’t stop crashing, and I put the book down open on the table.

Mostly the chapter on rain was about flowers Olson found pushing up through wet ground. He wrote of lushness and fullness. “Of a sudden, I was a boy again in the cut-over country of north Wisconsin looking for the first flowers of spring.”

I shy away from calling myself a nature writer. I want my writing to be more urgent than mushrooms and flowers. Who has time to read about the hardness of ash trees that grow in swamps, or the eyes of a man sitting alone before his fire when it feels like the world is on fire? It is not about men, or what we all hope from wilderness. If you’re going to write, it’s got to save the world. But if you ask me in private, I’ll say that I write about nature. This is how you save the world, not by saving us, but by guarding what surrounds us.

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Sunset fell into a quiet window between squalls, and I

Night settled to the glow of the woodstove, dry wood

hurried out through soaked woods, past Olson’s gray,

popping. When the rain stopped again I peeked outside

one-room cabin to his Listening Point, a tip of glacier-

the yurt door. Barefoot on the deck, I stood on drenched

smoothed rock tufted with spruce. It was not as quiet

wood in fresh moonlight. Having spent most of the day

as he would have remembered. A generator droned at

reading his words, I began to talk with Olson, telling

a vacant cabin across the cove. I went around to the

him out loud what’s happening, that the world is said

side of the point where I couldn’t hear the generator as

to be ending. Not the atom bombs of your generation,

well, retreating like a hermit crab into whatever shell of

I explain, but a destruction of the global climate,

isolation I could find. Still, I heard the distant whine of a truck on asphalt and, later, a motorcycle.

A passenger jet passed in the stratosphere. But, other sounds still took up far more space: small

birds

swooping

chittering

between

and

branches,

A l o o n cal l ed fro m t h e n ext bay over. A hau n ti n g vo i ce, n ot

and little waves gulping against a bedrock shore of Precambrian greenstone granite.

The fact that Olson’s Listening Point is remotely quiet suggests he may have done something

so methi n g I’d ever hear at ho me.

about and defended untrammeled spaces for more than himself and his kind. You can see in his writing he was bowing to what is not human, something older and wilder than ourselves.

A loon called from the next bay over. A haunting voice, not something I’d ever hear at home. Another answered, a lament to my ear, but probably not to theirs. They called to each other until their voices overlapped, rising into a high, urgent climax, then nothing. I didn’t hear them again, but I could see them far off, two dark forms

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landscapes.

Scientists

have

proof, agree on the models, use words like “uninhabitable.” I told him to be environmentally concerned these days is an act of hypocrisy. It seems you can’t breathe

without

killing

the

planet.

to keep it that way. He wrote

meeting on the water.

wholesale changes to entire

I leaned on the railing wet from rain and told him that the danger now is believing it’s all over, that it doesn’t matter anymore.

I listened. No car, no generator,

no airplane. For a moment, the only sound was water shaking down from alder leaves and larches to the shove of breezes, everything that matters.

Craig Childs writes and travels at the wild edge. Ever curious, he weaves stories of adventure and science into compelling narratives that have garnered numerous awards, including three Sigurd Olson Nature Writing Awards.

“ O ur a n ce s to rs hea rd t he ca l l o f th e fo re s t a n d t he so n g o f n ature , the son g o f th e powe r o f n at ure, a n d th ey hea rd it th ro ug h the t rees.”

2019 SONWA Winner

To Speak for the Trees

by Diana Beresford-Kroeger

PHOTOG RA PH BY B OB G ROSS

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T h ey a re a p lace apar t—cu t n ot o f the mai n l an d exac t l y, a n d n ot qu i te o f the l ake. Isl an ds a re l i ke d if fe ren t wo r l ds, each set o ff by the b lu e s pace o f deep water an d the pas sage o f t i m e . S o m e t h in g fal l s away as yo u r boat sl i ps f ro m t h e s h o re, cl ears the do ck—a heav i n es s o f s p i r it—a nd so methi n g al ights i n yo u as we ll , a h o p e fu l sen se o f adven tu re, beau ty, a n d a n t i c i pat i o n . Up ahead l i es a pl ace where h u m a n s to r i es an d n atu re’s beau ty mi x l i ke w i n d a n d waves, a pl ace o f si l en ce an d san d, fogh o r n a n d feathers. Up ahead l i es an i sl an d.

-Jeff Rennicke

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Ce l ebrati n g Fi f ty Years In 1970, Senator Gaylord Nelson sponsored federal legislation to establish the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. In 1973, the newly formed Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute studied the impact the islands would have on Bayfield County. The Institute has remained a steady partner with the National Park Service ever since, leading research, community discussions, and the Apostle Islands School.

PHOTOG RA PHS BY JE F F RE N N IC KE

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EDEN CALLING That time I appreared on the reality show Naked and Afraid with Sigurd Olson Everyone knows your most important survival item is

Sometimes survivalists whose partners “tap” early

your partner. When my partner, a cop from Florida, left

are surprised with replacements. I imagined who

me in the Honduran jungle, naked, with nothing but a

at any moment might rustle through the brush. I’d

knife, a small fire, and a broken, infected toe, I had my

stand tall and voice my warmest welcome, wanting

work cut out.

badly to make a good impression. My wife was my

I was in Honduras for a twenty-one-day survival challenge sponsored by the show Naked and Afraid.

With the exception of a few film crew hours during the day, I was alone. I was given no food, blankets, hand warmers, or anything else.

favorite dream partner (she was on a simultaneous challenge in South Africa), but I also imagined famous outdoorspeople no longer with us—George Attla, Charles Bowden, Amelia Earhart.

What a boon a resurrected Sigurd Olson would’ve

The equatorial warmth was useful, but fifty or even sixty degrees gets chilly when you’re naked, tired, and hungry in the drenching rain. Nights were as long as days, but they felt twice as long. I heated river rocks

been to my weary spirit on day twelve! And how could Discovery resist the ratings appeal of an unlikely pair of introverted and occasionally depressive University of Wisconsin alums who make their livings with words.

and placed them along my armpits and groin, careful

I bet Sig wasn’t too cool to join me. He might’ve been

not to burn myself.

confused when I explained my transgender history,

I took catnaps. I’d usually wake every twenty minutes to feed the fire, which demanded fuel constantly. But sometimes I’d oversleep and have to coax new flames

but I like to think he would have recognized me as someone who belongs. Beyond our alma mater, we have much in common.

with my precious stash of dry tinder. Then I’d pull up

Neither Sig nor I ever needed to live close to the

on my neck hairs and pinch my arms to stay awake.

soil. As writers, we certainly could have gotten by

In the dark, listening to nothing but the loud steady rush of the Corinto River, I was often grateful I couldn’t hear fearsome jungle sounds. But having only rapids and rainstorms to stoke my imagination felt lonely. I dreamt of companions.

without chopping wood and carrying water. Yet we consistently sought places where such things were necessary. I don’t believe that wonder and hidden beauty bring us to those places, though both are fine rewards. I think instead, there’s something Sig might

BY Q U IN C E M OU N TA IN

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call “primal instinct” and I might call “literalizing the

Quince Mountain is a writer and adventurer who lives in

metaphor” that draws us to live close.

northern Wisconsin. He was the first openly transgender

What do we do with our insecurities, fears, and doubts?

The best antidote, I think, is barebones living, whether that means lifelong, deep-woods hermitude or shorterterm, Waldenesque breaks from one’s grind—throughhikes, dogsled trips, paddling expeditions, or even televised survival.

Had Sig sauntered onto my jungle beach, maybe he

survivalist on Discovery’s Naked and Afraid, and you can catch his episode (“Honduran Hell”) online. Quince and his wife Blair Braverman train their team of Alaskan huskies for mushing expeditions of all kinds, including celebrated regional races such as the John Beargrease Marathon, the Apostle Islands Sled Dog Race, and the Gunflint Mail Run.

would’ve proffered a small vessel of rum-covered blueberries and shared the wisdom he once offered a squirrel: “You belong,” he might’ve said. “You do not need to travel to find what you need.”

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W i l d M a rg i n a l i a Where to begin this story—with the bird, the book,

environmental activism by dappled forest-sun, by river-

the river, or the lake? Eventually, they all become

glisten, by tent-ceilinged headlamp. Lake Mills was the

entangled, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I’ll start

starting and ending point for rambles into the higher,

with the river.

wilder, hills, and so I passed it often.

The Elwha River is a central life bearer within the

The rocky convergence of river-into-lake was frequented

Olympic Peninsula ecosystem in my home state of

by my favorite bird. I cherish American dippers in part

Washington. Until recently, the Elwha was held captive

for their association with beloved places—turbulent,

by Glines Canyon Dam, constructed in the 1920s. The

stone-strewn rivers and streams in mountain forests.

ecological havoc this dam wrought upon salmon

But dippers are also cute as pie. Round, slate gray, wide-

and forests and all the shared life of this unique

eyed. They are unwary of human presence—always

temperate rainforest is beyond reckoning, but there

having the advantage, after all, able to fly-leap to a stone

is no getting around an ironic truth: the lake created

surrounded by raging waters in a fraction of a second—

by Glines Canyon Dam was very pretty. Lake Mills

and so allow us to draw close. Dippers are a passerine,

came to look natural over the decades, with firs, red

and among this large order which includes everything

cedars, ferns, and mosses reaching toward its shoreline.

from chickadees to waxwings to ravens, they are the only

There evolved a lakeside trail, leading to the waters

species so extravagantly adapted to riverine existence.

of the upper Elwha, which rushed into the lake with

They are mer-birds, closing specialized nostril flaps to

abandon, unaware of the halt about to greet them.

keep from drowning when underwater, and possessing

The enchanted mountains and waters above the lake

hyper-oxygenated blood. Seeking prey (invertebrates of

were the stomping grounds of my formative years. I

any kind, damselfly nymphs, tiny fish) they throw their

backpacked the trails, carried notebooks and whittle-

entire little two-ounce bodies into the torrential rapids

pointed pencils, composed my master’s thesis on radical

and walk—walk—upon the river bottom.

BY LYA N DA LYN N HAU PT

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In six inches of this swift river I would stumble; up to

And then this happened: One of the two dippers on the

my knees I would fall; any higher I would be swept away,

river that day hopped onto a stone near the book-rock,

and my mother’s ever-present worry of finding my cold

and then onto the book-rock itself, bobbed a couple times

body against some high mountain glacial erratic just

up and down the way that dippers do. While I held my

might come to pass. So when stopping for lunch here I

breath, the bird flung herself into the water, and stood

would climb gingerly to a wide, safe boulder, and bask

on the bottom as if in a still breeze. And I saw this—the

with delight among the dippers.

dipper noticed the book. She turned to Emily Dickinson’s

Meanwhile, I was obsessively reading Emily Dickinson.

I’d carried the same volume of her poems with me everywhere since I was a high school junior, and the

poems, paused a moment, looked at the title, walked a few steps, let the torrent catch her, and emerged, glistening, on another stone nearby. I would like to say that the current had opened the

margins were filled with diarylike notes in pencil, colored pens, scribbled post-its. It had collected the ephemera of life, as books do—leaves, feathers, love letters—in its pages. I carried it to college, to Japan, to the remote tropical Pacific. And though I weighed every ounce of my food and clothes when packing for a backwoods trip, I carried, always,

While I held my breath,

poems that weighed more than

book, apprehending the poetry in a unique dipper way: Only a bird

the bird flung herself

will wonder . . . That did happen, later, in my imagination. There, the Elwha dippers and Emily’s

into the water, and

poems became fluent with one

stood on the bottom as

I thought often about the lost

and probably a bit foolishly, this volume of Emily Dickinson’s

pages and the bird stood over the

another. book for a while, less and less as time went by. But in 2014, when

if in a still breeze.

my sleeping bag.

One day at the convergence, I scrambled to my favorite lunching boulder and deployed my mini-camp: wheat thins, apple, notebook, poetry. I have no idea how it happened: The book slipped into the water and whooooshed downstream; it all went by too fast for me to do anything more than gasp. The water was green glacier-clear, and I could see the title words of the book

the Glines Canyon dam was finally dismantled after decades of committed work by Coast Salish tribes and eco-activists, it

came upon me in a rush. The freedom of the river. The words of the poet. The seeing of the dippers. The return of the salmon. And I suppose, in truth, the marginalia of my own little life. All of it mingled now and always, as we are together on this beloved, troubled earth. I laughed with joy.

where it had lodged against a stone, blurred by the ripples

Lyanda Lynn Haupt is an award-winning author,

above—so close! But the absurd thing in the moment was

naturalist, ecophilosopher, and speaker whose writing

that I had no way of getting to it. Though just eight or ten

is at the forefront of the movement to connect people

feet away, it was in a shallow outcropping protected on

with nature in their everyday lives. Haupt was awarded

all sides by a mote of deep rapids. I spent the next half

the Sigurd Olson Nature Writing Award in 2009 for her

an hour trying to pick a path to the book via other stones

book, Crow Planet: Essential Wisdom from the Urban

until finally realizing I couldn’t get it back. I returned to

Wilderness. Her newest book is Mozart’s Starling.

my lunch-boulder and cried.

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