OCTOBER 21, 2026 – Today after ferrying our granddaughter to school, I dispensed with some legal work, then shoved off for the northwoods. The balmy weather and gorgeous fall scenery along my route were in marked contrast to the political and economic discussions that filled public radio programming inside my car. After listening for over an hour about just how bad a lot of people have it in what is a “good” economy for many others—the “K-economy,” as it has been labeled—I realized that no one was forcing me to listen. I got into a slight argument with myself over this, however. Why get down about things? On the other hand, as a member of the society, don’t I have a duty to stay well-informed?
I struck a compromise: I turned off the radio but required myself to think about the information and analysis of the past hour. What did it all mean? Where did it all lead? My conclusions? Stay tuned.
Upon turning north on U.S. Highway 63 out of Turtle Lake, Wisconsin, I switched gears to my designated cabin project over the next three days: fencing in three more hemlocks that are among the 30 I’ve planted over the past several years. The reader will recall that three weeks ago, for protection against winter-browsing by the deer, I completed construction of two elaborate “cages” for the two fastest growing hemlocks. To protect the three next fastest growing hemlocks, I decided to build a proper fence around the whole group—located at the other end of the tree garden from the first two.
Just over the border, I’d stopped at the Menard’s store in St. Croix Falls to buy more materials, including another 100-foot roll of four-foot-high plastic snow fencing. While my lane of traffic was stopped for an extended period at a highway construction site, south of Cumberland, however, I thought about what the older couple who’d parked next to me at Menard’s had said about the snow fencing.
“You won’t be needin’ that anytime soon,” said the man.
“It’s for keeping the deer away from my hemlock saplings,” I said.
“Won’t the deer chew through that?” said his wife.
“They better not!” I’d said, with conviction.
At the construction site, northbound traffic was at a stop for a while. I turned my car off and Googled, “Will deer chew through plastic snow fencing?” Answer: they can and will. Time to rethink the specifications for my hemlock protection project. Conveniently, there’s a sizable free-standing True Value center just outside Cumberland. The hardware store was started decades ago by our shirt-tail relative, George Mumchulovitch, married to Lilly Hanson, daughter of Nellie, my grandmother’s cousin from Sweden. I remember meeting George when I was about seven. He’s long gone, of course, but the store clerk who assisted me knew George and his son Terry, who’d also been a part of the business.
Thanks to the clerk’s cheerful assistance, it took me all of 30 seconds to find the proper substitute for snow fencing, namely, “Deer Net.” It’s made of harder plastic and designed specifically with deer in mind, hence the name—and deer photo on the packaging. I’d previously read about it, but in my infinite wisdom, I’d thought I could fool the deer with less expensive snow fencing. Thanks to the woman at Menard’s who’d unwittingly questioned my “infinite wisdom,” I was soon shelling out $140 for 200 feet of four-foot-high “Deer Net” (to construct seven-foot-high fending). The snow fencing, of course, will be returned to Menard’s.
By 4:30, I was in the southeast corner of the tree garden, driving in the half dozen five-foot metal stakes along the perimeter around the three additional hemlocks. Once this critical step was completed, I took a break and hiked over to the old cabin of Björnholm, now closed for the season, then back to the tree garden and up to the pergola perched at the summit of the “Ray-Way” trail. Enough foliage had fallen to allow a view of the lake.
The air was completely still, in contrast to the gale force winds that had prevailed over the weekend, according to my sister Elsa and brother-in-law Chuck, who’d closed up the cabin then. “I’ve never seen the wind blow so hard in the fall,” said Elsa, “as it did all day Saturday.”
How strange, I thought, considering the calm that reigned in the garden this afternoon. I compared the moods of this neck of the woods to the variations in air movement that one can experience as a passenger in a car: Stick your head out the open window—your mouth wide open—while the car is flying down a country road at 60 miles an hour, and you’ll experience “flapping cheeks and the wind in your hair.” Open your mouth and stick your head out the open window when the car is parked in the garage, and every hair on your head will remain in place; and there will be no flapping cheeks. Similarly, I thought, nature has so many extremes, exemplified most sharply by the weather and seasons.
I could’ve made far more progress on my fencing operation today, but just as with the “cages,” I preferred to savor the process, surrounded as I was with such exquisite calm warm fall splendor. In the golden hour, I strolled along the main circle trail in the tree garden and down the lakeshore path. Every step brought a view suitable for framing—a backlit cluster of oak leaves, a towering pine with a crown turned to gold by the last sunrays of the day, the waxing moon’s reflection floating lazily in the lake water just offshore, patches of moss on stones by the path, the trees along the western shore turning into a continuous silhouette as the sun slipped, then disappeared it.
With the lake level having dropped so far in the current drought, one can now walk on dry stones where water usually stands. In the waning minutes of daylight, there I looked out across the lake, admiring the play of changing colors in sky and water. Here one is far removed from troubled waters and close to the music of the spheres—sun, earth and moon. By observing the immutable forces of nature, most powerfully represented by day yielding to night and the moon circling overhead, I find equilibrium here that eludes me in dissonant headlines.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
